Gideon The Ninth

Absolutely! 'Gideon the Ninth' got a sequel called 'Harrow the Ninth', and it’s just as wild. The story shifts to Harrow’s perspective, diving deeper into her fractured mind and the cosmic horror lurking behind the necromantic empire. The tone gets even darker, blending psychological torment with grotesque body horror. If you loved Gideon’s snark, brace yourself—Harrow’s voice is dense, poetic, and utterly unreliable. The sequel expands the universe, introducing godlike beings and twisted magic systems that make the first book’s puzzles feel tame. It’s a challenging but rewarding read, especially for fans of complex character studies and layered mysteries.

Gideon the Ninth is one of those books that either clicks with you instantly or leaves you scratching your head—but in the best way possible. I picked it up because I kept hearing about its wild mix of necromancy, swordplay, and bone-dry humor, and wow, it did not disappoint. The protagonist, Gideon, is this brash, foul-mouthed swordswoman stuck serving a death-obsessed noble house, and her voice is just chef's kiss. The way Tamsyn Muir writes her snark feels so fresh, like someone injected a pulp fantasy novel with neon-lit internet humor. The plot starts as a locked-room mystery in a gothic space palace and spirals into something much weirder and more emotional. It’s not for everyone—the jargon-heavy worldbuilding can be a hurdle—but if you vibe with Gideon’s attitude, you’ll devour it.

What really hooked me was how the book balances its tonal extremes. One minute you’re laughing at Gideon’s exasperated inner monologue, the next you’re gutted by a moment of vulnerability between her and Harrow, her nemesis-ish necromancer. The 'lesbian necromancers in space' tagline undersells how layered their relationship is. And that ending? I had to sit staring at the wall for a solid ten minutes afterward. Fair warning: the sequel, 'Harrow the Ninth,' cranks the confusion dial to eleven, but in a way that feels rewarding if you trust Muir’s chaotic vision.

Gideon Nav is the absolute star of 'Gideon the Ninth,' and she’s the kind of character who makes you want to cheer from the first page. A sword-wielding, sarcastic, and downright hilarious orphan from the Ninth House, Gideon’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of a planet—and for good reason. She’s spent her life trapped in a dreary, corpse-filled necromantic hellhole, dreaming of escape. When her childhood rival, the necromancer Harrowhark Nonagesimus, drags her into a deadly trial to serve as her cavalier, Gideon’s journey becomes this wild mix of brutal sword fights, snarky comebacks, and unexpected emotional depth.

What I love about Gideon is how unapologetically herself she is. She’s crude, reckless, and hides her vulnerability behind jokes, but she’s also fiercely loyal and has this raw, untapped potential that keeps you rooting for her. The book’s blend of gothic horror and sci-fi is already cool, but Gideon’s voice—full of pop culture references and exasperated sighs—makes it unforgettable. By the end, you’ll either want to be her or be her best friend.

Gideon's journey in 'Gideon the Ninth' is a wild ride from start to finish. At first, she’s this brash, sword-loving cavalier stuck serving Harrowhark, the necromancer she can’t stand. But when they get dragged into the Emperor’s messed-up trial on Canaan House, everything changes. The puzzles, the betrayals, the skeletons—it’s like a goth murder mystery on steroids. Gideon’s loyalty gets tested hard, especially when Harrow’s secrets start unraveling. And that ending? Brutal. I won’t spoil it, but let’s just say it redefines 'bittersweet.' The way Muir writes her—snarky, vulnerable, and ridiculously brave—makes you root for her even when the plot kicks her in the teeth.

What stuck with me was how Gideon’s humor never fully masks her loneliness. She’s this orphan with a heart too big for her own good, and her dynamic with Harrow is equal parts toxic and tragic. The book leaves you screaming for the sequel because, damn, she deserves better. Also, the fight scenes? Chef’s kiss. Nobody swings a two-handed sword like Gideon Nav.

If you loved the wild, gothic sci-fi vibes of 'Gideon the Ninth'—lesbian necromancers in space, dark humor, and a murder mystery wrapped in bones—then you're in for a treat. Tamsyn Muir’s blend of genres is unique, but 'The Locked Tomb' series isn’t alone in its eccentric brilliance. Try 'The Unspoken Name' by A.K. Larkwood for another queer, morally gray protagonist diving into godly chaos with a side of snark. Or 'Empress of Forever' by Max Gladstone, which throws a tech genius into cosmic battles with a found-family twist. Both have that same mix of irreverence and high stakes.

For darker, bone-heavy aesthetics, 'The Bone Shard Daughter' by Andrea Stewart crafts a world where magic is literally carved from skeletons, and 'The Book of the Ancestor' trilogy by Mark Lawrence offers nuns with knives and icy apocalypses. If you just want more necromancers being disasters, 'Harrow the Ninth' (obviously) and 'Nona the Ninth' dig deeper into Muir’s labyrinthine plot. Honestly, half the fun is finding books that steal your heart like Gideon did—sword-first and grinning.

Oh wow, diving into 'Gideon the Ninth' is like stepping into a whirlwind of necromantic drama and sword fights that leave you breathless. Gideon herself is such a force—brash, hilarious, and unapologetically herself. Now, about her fate... without spoiling too much, the book does take a brutal turn. Muir doesn’t pull punches when it comes to emotional gut punches. The way Gideon’s story unfolds is both shocking and weirdly poetic, like a bone sculpture crumbling in slow motion. It’s the kind of ending that lingers, making you flip back pages to see if you missed some foreshadowing (you probably did).

What I love is how the book balances her larger-than-life personality with moments of vulnerability. Even if you guess the outcome, the journey there—full of sarcastic one-liners and gut-wrenching loyalty—makes it hit harder. And the sequel? Let’s just say her presence isn’t easily forgotten, even if the specifics are best left unspoiled. This is one of those stories where death isn’t just a plot point; it’s a mood, a theme, and a catalyst all rolled into one.

Man, I totally get the urge to dive into 'Gideon the Ninth' without breaking the bank—Tamsyn Muir’s necromantic space opera is addictive! But here’s the thing: while I’ve stumbled upon sketchy sites claiming to offer free downloads, they’re usually piracy hubs packed with malware or low-quality scans. The author and publisher put insane work into this wild blend of gothic horror and sci-fi banter; they deserve support. Libraries are your best legal free option—apps like Libby or OverDrive let you borrow ebooks with a library card. Sometimes the waitlist’s long, but hey, it fuels the anticipation!

If you’re tight on cash, keep an eye out for legit promotions. Tor.com occasionally gives away freebies, and Humble Bundle has included 'Gideon' in past book bundles. Secondhand ebook stores or trading forums (like r/ebookdeals) might score you a discount. Honestly, the audiobook’s also worth saving up for—Moira Quirk’s narration adds chef’s kiss drama to Gideon’s snark. Pirated copies often butcher formatting, missing out on Muir’s poetic bone puns and footnotes that make the series shine.

Gideon the Ninth is this wild, gothic sci-fi mashup that feels like someone threw a skeleton rave into a haunted house and added swords. The story follows Gideon Nav, a snarky, sunglasses-wearing orphan with a serious sword obsession, who’s stuck serving the Ninth House—a death-obsessed necromantic cult. When the Emperor invites the heirs of all eight Houses to compete for immortality, Gideon gets dragged along as the cavalier (bodyguard) to her nemesis, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, the Ninth’s bone-witch heir. The vibe? Claustrophobic space castle full of puzzles, murder, and skeletons—so many skeletons. The duo’s toxic frenemy dynamic is hilarious and heartbreaking, especially as the competition turns deadly and secrets unravel. What starts as a locked-room mystery spirals into cosmic horror, with betrayals, necromantic power plays, and a finale that’ll leave you screaming. Muir’s writing is dense with memes, Latin, and sword lesbians—it’s like if 'The Locked Tomb' was a Tumblr thread come to life.

Honestly, the plot’s hard to pin down because it’s constantly subverting expectations. One minute it’s a dark comedy about Gideon’s grumpy inner monologue, the next it’s a tragedy about loyalty and godhood. The magic system? Necromancy with bone constructs, soul shenanigans, and a lot of gross body horror. The setting? A decaying space empire where everyone’s either a goth or a himbo. I adore how Muir blends genres—part murder mystery, part queer romance, part existential nightmare. The ending’s a gut punch, but it makes the rereads even more rewarding when you spot the foreshadowing hidden in Gideon’s jokes.