The main cast—Tané, Ead, Sabran, and Niclays—each had their moments, but emotional depth? Eh, hit or miss. Ead and Sabran’s relationship had its charm, but it developed like it was following a pre-approved fantasy romance blueprint. No surprises, no real gut punches, just… there. Tané, despite her fascinating setup as a dragon-rider candidate, was basically on a side quest in her own book. By the time the dust settled, she’d grown about as much as a houseplant left in partial sunlight.

As for the supporting cast, Loth was dependable but about as exciting as unsalted crackers. Niclays had potential as a morally gray character, but for someone who got so much page time, he didn’t feel as necessary as the book seemed to think. And some of the other side characters? They existed, technically. Their main function was to exist long enough to push the plot forward and then disappear into the worldbuilding ether.

If this book had one thing nailed down, it was the setting. Shannon crafted a world so rich you could almost smell the ink on the ancient scrolls. Seiiki, Inys, Yscalin—each had distinct cultures, histories, and politics that felt lived-in and layered. From dragon-worshiping traditions to rigid religious hierarchies, the details were immaculate.

That said, sometimes it felt like the book was flexing its worldbuilding muscles a little too hard. When the plot dragged, the setting had to pick up the slack, and at times, it just felt like an excuse to dump lore instead of moving the story forward. It was stunning, but also a bit exhausting—like listening to an extremely knowledgeable history professor who refuses to stop talking.

Shannon’s prose was solid, but it suffered from wild inconsistency. At its best, it was lush and evocative. At its worst, it was an over-explained slog. Some passages were beautifully crafted, while others read like they were trying to ensure the reader fully grasped every single detail, just in case they had the memory of a goldfish.

Dialogue? Serviceable, but a bit samey. Everyone spoke with the same slightly formal, refined cadence, making it hard to distinguish characters through speech alone. Also, the alternating perspectives were a mixed bag—some chapters overstayed their welcome, while others felt like they were cut off just as things got interesting. The pacing? About as stable as a rickety bridge in a storm.

So much potential, so much squandered. The setup was strong—political tension, religious conflict, dragons—but as the story unfolded, things got… messy. The pacing was all over the place, with a saggy middle that dragged like a dead weight and a rushed ending that wrapped things up with all the impact of a deflated balloon.

And the main villain, the Nameless One? Talk about a letdown. For something that was hyped up as the ultimate evil, it spent most of the book as a distant concept rather than an actual threat. When it finally appeared, the final battle felt like an afterthought, like the book suddenly remembered it needed to wrap things up. The resolution wasn’t just anticlimactic—it was borderline forgettable.

And let’s not even start on the convenient plot developments. Prophecies aligning too neatly? Check. Problems solving themselves just in time? Check. Characters conveniently being exactly where they needed to be? Double check. The narrative was held together with the fantasy equivalent of duct tape and wishful thinking.

There were definitely moments that had me hooked—especially in the first half when all the political maneuvering and character dynamics were still fresh. But the middle dragged, and once I realized everything was going to tie up way too neatly, the tension evaporated.

For a book with world-ending stakes, it never really felt like the characters were in any serious danger. Sure, they faced obstacles, but there was always an underlying safety net that made it clear they’d be fine. The urgency just wasn’t there, which made it hard to stay fully invested.

Ah, the relationships—rushed, underdeveloped, and occasionally baffling. Ead and Sabran had potential, but their romance felt more like a box that needed ticking off rather than an emotionally resonant journey. There just wasn’t enough buildup for it to feel natural.

Tané’s relationships? Almost nonexistent. Her rivalry with Turosa barely registered, and for someone on such a high-stakes journey, she had shockingly few meaningful interpersonal connections. She was basically in her own separate book half the time.

Also, some of the worldbuilding logic had cracks. The dragons’ relationship with humans was frustratingly vague, and the Priory—the literal namesake of the book—felt like an afterthought. You’d think it would play a more central role, but nope. Instead, it was mostly left on the sidelines, which was a weird choice for a book that spends so much time setting up its importance.

Did I enjoy The Priory of the Orange Tree? Yeah, but not without a healthy dose of frustration. The worldbuilding? Phenomenal. The execution of the story itself? Patchy. Some sections had me fully engrossed, but just as often, I found myself side-eyeing the pacing, character choices, and underwhelming villain.

Would I recommend it? Sure, but with caveats. If you love intricate worldbuilding and can tolerate a slow, uneven plot, you might adore it. But if you’re here for tight storytelling, strong relationships, and a satisfying climax? Let’s just say this might not be the magical experience you’re hoping for.