Full Verse Review: The Light Fanatics by A_Morningstar.

Yes, it is I—former adventurer and current web literary critic. I know why you’ve come. Word travels. It always does. You wish to hear the tale of how I single-handedly slew the Baba-Newt.

Everybody does.

I hate to disappoint, but I will not be sharing that story this night. Indeed, I would sooner it were forgotten entirely. It belonged to a different life. I review novels now—novels such as The Light Fanatics, which is, despite your suspicions, the true reason you’ve been gathered here.

And no—I will not hear a single word about the Baba-Newt. Nor the so-called Revelation of the Frozen Void, nor the Treasure of the Drowned Tide King. I appreciate your enthusiasm. Truly. But we are here for literature. Kindly compose yourselves.

That’s better. Let’s move on.

I must, at this juncture, lay my cards upon the table. I am familiar with the author of this novel. Avid readers of this publication will no doubt recognise our resident Wandering Bard, who has contributed reviews of his own to Bardic Planet.

If you are familiar with A_Morningstar’s reviews, it will come as little surprise that the same careful craft analysis that makes him a strong critic is reflected in his own creative work.

I will be plain: The Light Fanatics is good. It is more than good—it is exceptional. It reads as a professional literary work that gets nearly everything right. And where one might claim it falters, they do so not from flaw—but from preference.

You might accuse me of bias. Of lacking integrity. Of selling out.

Allow me to ease your concerns.

I tried to sell out.

But no one was buying.

Until that Daddy Warbucks money rolls in, I remain—regrettably—honest.

My reviews will reflect my genuine thoughts and feelings concerning the novels I write about.

That said…

Show me enough zeros, and I will call Dragon Ball Evolution a misunderstood classic.

Very well. The purse is empty, the ink is fresh, and the tale awaits.

The Light Fanatics is a LitRPG—not by genre, but by the circumstances of its inception. It is an adaptation of a real-world tabletop RPG created by the author.

In truth, the work sits more comfortably within High Fantasy, Mystery, and Adventure—with the occasional steampunk flourish.

We find ourselves within a clockwork cosmos, upon a world turning upon rings within rings, where night and day are determined by the swing of a cosmic mirror-pendulum—reflecting the searing light of Agony by day and the pale glow of Ecstasy by night.

My fellow adventurers, I know what you are thinking: one draught too many of Ms. Sunshine’s dwarven ale, and you have seen something very similar.

It is not quite as jarring as the ocean of puppies, but it is harder to reconcile than the nightmare where everything is a tongue.

You wake beside a bearded lady, the night’s events return in full, and you quietly retire your adventuring cape before your good wife begins asking questions.

…No?

Just me, then.

If you are, indeed, actually wondering whether such a backdrop can sustain a grounded narrative, allow me to reassure you.

As much as this story is about dungeons and dragons, it is just as much about family. Legacy. Living beneath the shadow of an idealised ghost—and discovering that the shape it cast was never quite what it seemed.

The worldbuilding is intricate—yes. But for me, the character work is what really stands out.

We’ll get into all of that as we explore the…

Character & Voice:

We follow the tale of House De Vaillant—an ensemble cast led by the household’s de facto matriarch, Laila, widow to Alexios, the late Duke of Pharelle.

Together with her four children—two of whom she actually birthed—they work to uncover the mystery surrounding Alexios’s untimely demise and the secrets he left behind.

Laila is, at first glance, a woman like any you might meet. Forceful, refined, perhaps a little frayed around the edges.

Oh—and she is also a fairy.

A spriggan, to be precise, which I am given to understand is a manner of fae.

She married into human nobility, and not exactly by choice. Hers was a political union—one she came to cherish all the same.

“Ondine was ten years old and she was collateral. We both are.

…
Insurance written in small bodies. That’s what we are.
…
Laila knew what that felt like.
…
She had learned to smile, learned to manage, and in time learned to love Alexios.”

Having such a diminutive stature, her shoulders are broad—broad enough to bear the weight of the secrets she keeps to herself and a trusted few: her gorgon spymaster and her bard nephew, who holds a resentment or two.

To clear up a couple of things that do not, strictly speaking, require clarification: bards are generally trustworthy. Look at me—the Bard-in-Chief.

Secondly, when I speak of the breadth of Laila’s shoulders, I do so metaphorically. Physically, I am given to understand they are rather slight.

Moving on…

She is the glue that keeps the De Vaillant household together.

That was another metaphor, I assure you—she is not literally glue.

She embodies grace under mounting pressure, and everyone around her looks to her. When all else falls away, she holds the family in place. Which makes it all the more impactful in the moments where she, too, begins to fracture.

Beneath that grace—beneath the caution and the hard-won wisdom—she is something far simpler, and far heavier:

A widow.

You feel the weight of her fatigue in the prose. It is crushing. Her exasperation at her strange and wonderful children comes through clearly, as does the wound that still festers from the loss of her husband.

That tension—between resilience, grief, and the truths she is beginning to uncover—is captured well in moments such as this:

“Alexios is dead. Whatever the truth of who he was doesn’t matter. I can still love the man I remember. The memory is mine. No Dungeon is going to take that from me.”
…
“Now, shall we see what else my late husband has been keeping from us?”

Speak not of flogging dead horses—I have already told you I will not be sharing any details of my former adventures—but Laila comes across as real.

Fully real.

Indeed, all of the characters do, each in their own way.

But if you are expecting some high-queen, demi-goddess who rules above it all, that is not what you find with Laila. You are given something far more human than that. Someone who feels, doubts, and fears—and keeps going regardless.

Not because she is preternaturally strong-willed, but because someone must be.

It has fallen to her.

And damn everything to hell if she is going to stand by and watch the people she loves come to harm.

The narrative rotates perspectives between Laila and her four children: Maximilian, fire mage and heir apparent to the dukedom; Lambert, bastard chaplain of the household; Isabella, the siren huntress; and Wylan, the moonstruck alchemist.

Each character is completely distinct. Each has their own voice, and each voice is compelling—charming and humorous in its own right.

The art of perspective is not merely about adding extra detail; it is about which details are emphasised and which are omitted—sharpening the image formed by each viewpoint. The Light Fanatics is a masterclass in this. While maintaining a third-person perspective, the author controls the lens in a way that consistently illuminates character.

Indeed, the narrator often feels like a character in its own right. It is distinct—witty and funny—but it does not distract. It is like a phantom painter, framing events yet remaining unseen.

I could write this entire review on the characters alone and still not do them justice. Suffice it to say, the character work is outstanding. Each De Vaillant could carry the weight of the narrative alone. Hell, if the whole novel were about their chef, it would remain no less compelling.

That is how strong the character work is. That is what elevates a good concept into a work of art.

Crucially, it is this strength of voice that allows the unfolding mystery to land—every revelation carries weight because it matters to them, and by then, they matter to you.

Narrative & Structure:

Many readers of web serial fiction gravitate to the medium for rapid progression, simplified narrative, rocketing pacing, and mind-blowing set-piece action.

For such readers, The Light Fanatics is not for you. That is not a failing—but it is a demand. This story does not chase your attention. It expects you to bring it.

If you crave constant action, I sympathise. I once attempted ‘rapid progression’ myself — sprinted straight through a dungeon without checking for traps. I progressed, certainly. Mostly downwards.

The Light Fanatics is wiser than I was. It takes its time—and is stronger for it. But that strength comes at a cost. This is not a story you half-read between distractions. It rewards attention—and quietly punishes the lack of it.

Progression here is primarily emotional and secondarily driven by discovery—unravelling the malicious schemes of those who would bring the De Vaillant household to ruin, thread by thread.

There is action, but you must wait for it. It does not arrive all at once, and much of it is psychological rather than spectacle.

This work does not follow the typical structure of a web serial—and that is because it is not one. It is a completed trilogy, untraditionally published on Royal Road, yet traditionally—and professionally—structured.

The chapters are long for the medium—double, perhaps triple, what you might expect. Not every chapter ends in a cliffhanger. Not every segment is engineered to keep you on the edge of your seat. Some moments are quieter. Contemplative. Meaningful—yet not immediately urgent.

This allows the narrative to truly explore the characters. To know them. To care for them. It allows tension to build in the quiet, for crucial moments to be earned, and for their consequences to linger long enough to sting.

However, if you require every chapter to end with a hook at your throat, you will find yourself reaching for the next book. If you allow the story to breathe, you will find it tightening its grip all the same.

That strength is perhaps best captured in moments such as this:

Soup into bowl. Bowl to hands. Next person. Repeat.
…
Laila fell into the rhythm. A shock at first, then buoyancy, then calm.
…
This was not politics. A person was hungry. Soup existed.
…
“Less soup, more bowl,” she called to Laila at one point. “You’re feeding them, not baptising them.”
…
The morning wore on. Laila’s arm began to ache, but for once she felt good about it. A simple cause and effect.
…
The Duchess de Vaillant, anonymous among the anonymous.
…
She found her mind cleared of ghosts.
…
She found her mind cleared of ghosts.

Do not get the wrong idea—the narrative never sags. The pacing is measured, but it does not feel slow, and each moment carries weight—illuminating or advancing character, plot, or world, often all three at once.

The narrative is largely linear, but reflective at key moments. Uncovering the mystery surrounding Alexios’s death is the core drive of the story; reflection and reminiscence are tools employed toward that end.

And as more of that mystery is brought to light, the De Vaillants do not merely bear the emotional weight of those discoveries—they paint ever larger targets upon their backs for those who would prefer the dead remain silent.

The stakes rise alongside their reminiscence. The consequences of digging up old bones follow—and they land.

I speak, of course, metaphorically.

The last time I involved myself with actual bones—no. No, we are not doing this.

Some things are buried for a reason.

This is what maintains tension and momentum, even in the quieter moments—no small feat, I dare confess.

Worldbuilding & Themes:

For such a meticulously crafted, fantastical world, The Light Fanatics feels remarkably grounded. The cosmos is mechanical, yet life within Pharelle feels distinctly terrene.

This is a triumph I all but lack the words to describe.

I shall attempt it nonetheless.

The flat world of Eidolon, where the narrative takes place, is home to mankind… and also elfkind, gorgonkind, sirenkind, and even dragonkind—not to mention the many other races that populate its breadth.

It is a pre-industrial fantasy setting with a touch of steampunk here and there, complete with gothic aesthetics, intricate gearwork, and the occasional pressure-powered blunderbuss.

Magic is prevalent. Prayers are routinely answered. Faith—of one kind or another—is seemingly ubiquitous.

And yet—

The story takes place in a magical world. Despite that, most of the people living in that world live extraordinarily ordinary lives.

Take this example from the prologue:

The Orrery hung in the void, grinding eternity into particles. Its vast celestial gears ticked endlessly away, rings within rings carrying worlds and wonders through the dark.
…
By day, it flung Agony’s scorching brilliance across the world. By night, it reflected Ecstasy’s pale glow, soothing the heavens.
…
Its silent passage set the cadence of daily life, a metronome for the world’s breathing.
…
For the residents of this world, none of it warranted commentary.

The world is mythical—yes. Surreal. Yet inhabited by regular people.

The author grounds this fantastical setting in ordinary concerns. He captures a truth we often overlook about our own world. I mean, is a clockwork cosmos any stranger than a supernova?

Is a cosmic pendulum much weirder than a black hole?

Is a vampire or dragon any more mythical than a blue whale or a platypus?

We take our wonderful world for granted because it fades beneath our daily concerns. The author understands this—and makes the strange feel entirely believable.

Now, before any of you attempt to draw comparisons to certain… other encounters I may or may not have had with creatures that defy natural law—no.

No, we are not doing that.

I have been very clear on the matter.

We are here for literature—not to exhume my regrettable past.

Craft:

Yes, it is good.

Not enough?

It is very good.

Better?

—

No?

Alright then.

I will not spend much time on this segment. Not because there is not more to say, but because what there is to say can be distilled into a single word.

That word is: professional.

The prose is clean. It oozes a distinct, controlled, and often humorous voice. If there were any grammatical errors, I did not find them. I might have raised my brow at some idiosyncratic phrasings, but these largely add to the charm. For example:

“The device dominated the space like an unwelcome guest who had decided to redecorate.”

The prose is rich with personality—detailed without bogging down the pacing, and deeply evocative.

It would not be unfair to call the work expertly crafted. If I have one critique, it lies in the density of characters and lore. There is a great deal to take in, and the rotating perspectives can leave you momentarily unmoored if you are not paying attention.

So pay attention.

Or be left behind.

This is not the sort of story you skim.

If you are looking for light reading—something to enjoy with your brain comfortably switched off—you will not find it here.

If, on the other hand, you are looking to become deeply immersed in a rich and carefully constructed world, you will find The Light Fanatics is crafted precisely to achieve that aim.

Closing Thoughts:

The Light Fanatics isn’t a story that grabs you by the collar. It doesn’t shout, or sprint, or throw itself at your feet demanding to be binged in a single night. It refuses to twist itself into something louder or simpler just to keep your attention.

It does something far braver.

It trusts you.

It trusts you to slow down. To listen. To sit with its characters and follow the threads it lays out. It trusts you to let the quiet moments breathe so that, when the storm finally breaks, it hits with the full weight of everything that came before.

This isn’t a story built for skimming. It isn’t built for speed.

It’s built with intention.

And you can feel that intention everywhere—in the precision of the prose, in the confidence of the voice, in the way the characters carry their burdens, and in the slow tightening of the narrative until you realise you’ve been caught in its grip for chapters.

If you meet the book where it stands, you’ll find something exceptional waiting for you.

If you don’t—

Well.

There are easier stories.

Stories that move faster. Stories that shout louder. Stories that do not require quite so much of you.

Stories where, for example, one might charge heroically into a swamp, mistake a chorus of croaks for applause, and emerge several hours later having slain… absolutely nothing of note.

I would not recommend such stories.

Or such decisions.

*The single four-and-a-half-star category reflects pacing and structural preference rather than any deficiency in execution.

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