Okay okay so I'd love to hear about Brother!
EEE! I love this one. So, Brother (Brother and the Bowman) is a historical thriller set in Ancient Persia, pre-Achaemenid dynasty. The main character, Darayan, is a prince of the Pasagardae. When a mysterious enemy disguised as the Pasagardae's allies infiltrates the kingdom and attacks, Dar and his brother, Sasan, must work together to find the mastermind amidst the chaos. No one is who they seem, and it's only a matter of time before Darayan realizes what a terrible mistake he's made, thanks to his thirst for vengeance.
Lots of court intrigue, battle strategies (which I'm looking forward to, since it's all much different to the medieval and renaissance strategies in the previous works), and some romance, too...and making the world a better place through the arts.
The ride was different from the previous day’s; the habitual song Sasan always hummed died on his lips, the perpetually cheery smile faded away. Even the forest itself seemed to be holding its breath as they searched for Rhinnish scouts. “Look,” Sasan mouthed, pointing up ahead. Dying embers glowed in a thicket up ahead, the remains of a campfire. Darayan smiled, nodding to his men. They raised their bows, training them on the sentries leaning against the oak trees. They gasped and gurgled before falling still. Arrows bristled from their throats, pinning them to the trunks. “Stay back, guard our flank,” Darayan ordered Sasan before riding forth. Darayan charged through the thicket, bow singing the song of war, of death and chaos. Many of the Rhinns were still abed at this hour; Darayan and his men subdued them with minimal injuries. When the camp fell silent, Darayan dismounted. “Search for clues,” he ordered, kneeling before a body. The Rhinn’s dull, lifeless gaze was fixed on the sky, unseeing. Darayan gently closed the man’s eyes with a shudder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured to him, “but it was either you or my people.” He turned the man’s head, brow furrowing. Rhinns were famous for their skin writing, bearing sacred tattoos to bless themselves; such ‘perpetual prayers,’ as they called them, ensured they never ceased honoring the gods. This man’s sacred wind motif started on his chin and spiraled down his neck in a black paisley— and promptly stopped, half-formed, under his necktie. That…wasn’t right. “Did he…draw that on?” Sasan asked, peering over Darayan’s shoulder. Daraya rolled his eyes, “did I not ask you to stay back? I swear, you never listen.” He ran his thumb across the black lines, frown deepening; none of them smudged. They were too dark to be henna; whatever this was, the design was in the skin, not on top of it, like eye kohl. “Perhaps the tattoo wasn’t finished,” he replied after consideration, “they use needles to make the designs, I understand. Perhaps too much work on his throat could render him speechless.” Sasan swallowed hard, hand going to his neck, “ugh! Why can’t they just wear embroidery, like normal people? So painful.”