I finish Throne of Glass feeling like I’ve been handed the opening rehearsal for a much better fantasy series and told to clap because one day the full production will be brilliant.

And look — I do see the potential. That is the irritating part. There are flashes of a more interesting world here. You can feel the shape of something bigger lurking under the surface: old magic, buried history, a darker mythology, a heroine who might one day grow into the kind of figure this book keeps insisting she already is. The problem is that book one is not that story yet. Book one is a parade of over-explanation, juvenile dialogue, paper-thin romantic bait, and a premise that never becomes half as convincing as it thinks it is.

This is not a case of me being too grown-up and serious for YA. I am perfectly happy to read YA when it is sharp, compelling, emotionally precise, or at least fun. This is not that. This feels young in the most annoying way: everything is over-described, under-earned, and delivered with the confidence of a book that does not realise it has not yet proved a single thing.

The writing drives me up the wall. Every detail gets escorted onto the page like it is of earth-shattering importance. Every reaction is spelled out. Every emotional beat is explained, then explained again, then dressed up and sent back out for another lap. There is no room for the reader to infer, feel, or anticipate anything because the book is too busy hovering over your shoulder with a clipboard. It is exhausting. Not rich. Not immersive. Exhausting.

Then there is the dialogue, which has all the charm of a school drama club discovering sarcasm for the first time.

Everyone is forever tossing out these smug little lines as though being faintly cheeky counts as chemistry, wit, or character depth. It doesn’t. It just makes half the cast sound like sassy fifteen-year-olds taking turns to feel pleased with themselves. Very little of the conversation reveals genuine emotional texture. Very little of it makes the relationships feel lived in. It is all posture. All surface. Everyone is performing cleverness rather than inhabiting an actual voice.

Celaena is the biggest offender in that sense, though the book is also doing her no favours. We are told over and over and over that she is the most feared assassin in the land, Adarlan’s Assassin, a lethal legend, a deadly prodigy, practically a myth in nice dresses. Right. Fine. Then why do I not believe a word of it?

This book does not build Celaena’s legend. It simply keeps repeating it and hopes repetition will do the work. But a character is not convincing because the narrative shouts their résumé at me every ten pages. A character becomes convincing when the page makes me feel their intelligence, their danger, their edge, their competence. Here, there is a constant disconnect between who Celaena allegedly is and who she actually seems to be. I am not saying she has to be grim and humourless to work. I am saying the book has to earn its own pitch. It doesn’t.

And the premise — my God, the premise should be better than this.

A notorious assassin is hauled out of a death camp to compete in a contest and potentially serve a tyrant king. Great. Strong hook. Loads of room for brutality, manipulation, strategy, fear, court games, and moral ugliness. Instead I spend a good chunk of the book thinking: why is any of this arranged like this? Why does the king need a champion in this way? Why her? Why now? Why is the structure of this entire set-up so wobbly? I understand that not every answer arrives in book one, but there is a difference between deliberate intrigue and a story simply failing to make its own central mechanics feel persuasive.

That is what frustrates me most: this book has the bones of something vicious and gripping, but it keeps choosing the least interesting version of itself. It softens its own danger. It sidesteps its own darkness. It gives me an assassin competition with far less menace than promised, and then fills the space with banter, gowns, longing looks and endless reminders that Celaena is just ever so exceptional.

The love triangle is where I fully lose patience.

I do not believe in Dorian for a single second. Not as a serious romantic possibility, not as a compelling match, not as anything beyond the designated prince-shaped obstacle the book has shoved into place because fantasy YA of a certain era apparently required one. Every scene with him feels pre-packaged. The chemistry is announced rather than generated. I never buy the emotional pull. I never buy the attraction. I barely buy the conversations.

Chaol is more interesting, mostly because there is at least some resistance there. Some tension. Some abrasion. Their dynamic has more weight because it is not quite so desperate to be adored. There is something there that feels capable of becoming a real relationship, or at least a real problem, which is more than I can say for the gag-worthy romantic staging elsewhere.

What is maddening is that I can already see the shape of the argument people make when they defend this book. It gets better. The series grows up. This is just the beginning. And honestly, I believe them. Even from this first instalment, you can feel there is more buried underneath. There are hints of a wider mythology and a more interesting emotional and political story waiting to emerge. That promise is the only reason I am continuing.

But I am rating the book I read, not the series fans assure me is coming.

And the book I read is not very good.

It is over-written, over-explained, under-mature, and deeply pleased with things it has not earned: the heroine’s reputation, the romance, the banter, the emotional stakes, the mystique of the world. It has potential, yes. It has glimmers, yes. It has enough intrigue around the edges that I will keep going, yes. But this first book feels like a draft of a stronger story wearing a finished novel’s clothes.

So I will continue, because I can see the outline of something better.

But I am not giving book one credit for the books that come after it.