Book Review: The Wind Weaver by Julie Johnson

Title: The Wind Weaver
Author: Julie Johnson
Series: Reign of Remnants #1
Pages: 544
Publication Date: April 8, 2025
Publisher: Ace
Genres: Fiction / Romance / Fantasy / Romantasy
Synopsis:

Fear of maegic plagues war-torn Anwyvn. Halflings like Rhya Fleetwood are killed on sight. But Rhya’s execution is interrupted by an unexpected savior—one far more terrifying than her would-be killers. The mysterious and mercenary Commander Scythe. In the clutches of this new enemy, Rhya finds herself fighting for her life in the barren reaches of the Northlands. Yet the farther she gets from home, the more she learns that nothing is as it seems—not her fearsome captor, not the blight that ravages her dying realm, not even herself.

For Rhya is no ordinary halfling. The strange birthmark on her chest and the wind she instinctively calls forth means she is a Remnant, one of four souls scattered across Anwyvn, fated to restore the balance of maegic…or die trying.

But mastering the power inside her is only the beginning. Desire for the Commander—a man she can never trust, a man with plans of his own—burns just as fiercely as the tempests beating against her rib cage for release. Rhya must choose: smother the flames…or let them consume her.

LINKS: Goodreads | BookBub | Amazon | Bookshop.org

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My Thoughts on The Wind Weaver:

The Wind Weaver swept me away (pun intended) with its lush world-building, elemental magic, and slow-building enemies-to-lovers romance. From the first intense scene when Rhya, a halfling, is bound and awaiting execution simply for existing, the fear, tension, and unrest set the tone for the rest of the book. The hatred for halflings in this world is brutal, and Rhya’s capture by the king’s men makes it clear that survival is going to be a fight every step of the way. Saved by a shadowy figure whose motives are anything but clear, Rya quickly learns it’s not a rescue out of kindness, but one that drags her deeper into danger. Rya also discovers that the unusual mark she was born with means she’s a remnant, one of four born with elemental magic and an enormous amount of power.

Rhya is a fantastic protagonist, and her character development is one of my favorite parts of the book. She’s fierce and defiant, but there’s also a vulnerability to her that makes her easy to root for. She grows so much as she learns more about her power and works to harness her abilities, and I like that her physical journey parallels her emotional one.

The romance is a slow-building one with major enemies-to-lovers, touch her and die vibes. Rhya and Scythe definitely don’t start on good terms, and his treatment of her, even though he actually saved her from execution, is unkind and borders on cruel. I actually wondered a time or two if he was supposed to be her love interest. lol Scythe is gruff, morally gray, and he doesn’t even explain why and where he’s taking her. However, as they spend more time together, the walls between them start to fall. There’s so much chemistry and sexual tension between them, and the angst is fantastic. There’s also a lot of pain in both of their pasts, which adds depth to their bond and the growing trust between them. And their banter is fabulous. The dialogue and banter with all of the characters, really, is a strength of the novel.

Rya encounters many others throughout their journey, several of whom begin to form a makeshift family that’s equal parts messy and heartwarming. The found family aspect brings so much warmth and a bit of humor to a world that’s otherwise dark and full of mistrust. There’s also one particular character who stays pretty mysterious, and I’m so curious to learn more about them in the next book. I can already see the potential for a love triangle forming, and honestly, I’m not complaining!

The world-building is great, too – layered and immersive, with elemental magic that’s powerful and dangerous. I loved learning more about the Remnants, their unique connection, and the prophecy that these four will save the world from the blight that threatens to take over, and I feel like we’ve only just begun to learn everything about this fascinating world and the magic. With political unrest, deadly prejudices, brewing war, and supernatural threats, the plot and world are as layered and compelling as the characters.

I thought The Wind Weaver was a fabulous start to the Reign of Remnants series! It’s packed with action, suspense, and emotional stakes, and I’m eager to read the next book to find out what happens to my faves. I have a feeling I’ll be in for a wild, unpredictable, and swoon-worthy ride.

Special thanks to NetGalley and Ace for providing me with a copy of the book. All thoughts are my own.

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• enemies to lovers
• found family
• elemental magic
• slow burn romance
• forced proximity

Who are we but the legacy we leave behind?

A man is not his history.

For what is hate but love turned poison?

“Do not test me. I’m not in the mood.” “As far as I can tell, you’re only ever in one mood. Grumpy, gloomy, grouchy…”

“Some grief is too heavy to carry alone. Give it to me. I will carry it for you.”

Julie Johnson is a New England native and internationally bestselling author of The Wind Weaver. When she’s not writing, Julie can most often be found adding stamps to her passport, drinking too much coffee, and avoiding reality by disappearing between the pages of a book.

She published her debut novel on a lark, just before her senior year of college, and she’s never looked back. Since, she has published twenty other novels, which have been translated into more than a dozen different languages and appeared on bestseller lists all over the world, including Der Spiegel, AdWeek, Publishers Weekly, USA Today, and more.

Learn more about The Wind Weaver online at www.juliejohnsonbooks.com.

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EXCERPT from The Wind Weaver:

The noose chafes, a necklace of death.

I feel my pulse-steady, staccato-thudding away beneath the fragile skin at my throat. There’s no fear. Not anymore. That came earlier, with the bruising hands and snarling hounds that tracked me through the wild marshland. And it fled with the sun, slipping over the horizon into crushing darkness.

What is it Eli always said?

Fear only means you have something left to lose.

I have nothing left now. Nothing but my life, and that isn’t worth much of anything to anyone.

Certainly not to my captors.

“Wily little bitch, isn’t she?” A gruff voice barks out a laugh somewhere to my left. “Took half our unit to track her down. A dozen men. Three days we spent in that damned bog with wasps and snakes and spiders. Knee-deep in mud and moss and all manner of shit. She nearly slipped our net when we lost the light yesterday.” A gob of spit lands on my cheek. “Faery scum.”

Another voice answers-this one younger, and slightly wavering. A new recruit, perhaps, not yet worn-out by this endless, bloody game of war the mortal men seem intent on playing. “She’s just-she’s so young.”

“Don’t let your eyes fool you, boy. Faery trickery, that is. They mask their true nature with pretty faces and sweet smiles, same as a poisonous flower. In the olden days, they say some of them cast such a glamour, could make you see anything they wanted. March you straight off a cliff, thinking you were skipping through a field of daisies.”

The younger soldier sucks in an audible breath. His terror is palpable even through my blindfold.

“Don’t worry, son. Maegic like that hasn’t been seen in these parts in nigh on two centuries.” The gruff voice chuckles. “The ones we hunt down, like this runt here, are halflings mostly. Leftovers from before the Cull, back when bloodline mixing wasn’t outlawed. They’re no more enchanted than you or me.”

There’s a marked pause. A cave of silence yawning wide between the two men.

“‘Course, that don’t make ’em helpless,” the older soldier tacks on, almost defensively. “She’d gut us in our sleep given half the chance. Never doubt that.”

“How did you finally catch her?”

“Ran her to ground by the Red Chasm. The ore in those rocks is enough to confuse ’em. Clouds their sense of direction, muddies their minds.” He exhales a sharp breath. “No foe is invincible-not even a damned point.”

I tense at the slur, binds going tight across my chest despite my attempts to keep still. Point. The soldiers who’ve taken me prisoner use the insult often, hissing it at me under their breath when they change watches, tossing it around in casual campfire conversation. As if reducing an entire race to our most notable physical trait-the pointed tip of an ear-somehow makes their barbarity easier to stomach. Every time I hear it, something within me snarls in silent rage. A broken beast, itching for retribution that will never be mine.

Gods above, grant me vengeance in my next life.

“Ain’t so hard to kill ’em, actually. Just a matter of finding the right weapon,” the older soldier boasts, brimming with sage wisdom. “Iron’s best, of course. But, gods’ truth, stick ’em with anything sharp and the job’s done. Points bleed, same as any other beast in the forest. Didn’t your pa take you hunting, son? Haven’t you ever gutted a doe?”

“No . . . I . . . We . . .” The young soldier shifts from foot to foot, boots crunching dead leaves. “We’re crofters, sir.”

“Crofters?”

“Yes, sir. We tithe a tract by the coast. Iceberries, mostly.”

The older soldier scoffs. “Well, you’ll need ice in your berries for this deployment, I’ll tell you that. Cold as all fuck, this close to the Cimmerians.”

Behind my blindfold, I imagine the scene. An encampment of soldiers, weather beaten from weeks on the road. A crackling fire to ward off the chill-and the wolves. A simple dinner cooking over the coals.

The smell of meat carries to me on the wind, and my stomach rumbles a contemptuous response. Hare, most likely, or a steer. Maybe a wild boar, if one of them is skilled enough with a bow. For surely there are hunters among their number. Men capable of tracking down some prey besides me and my kind. Though if we were edible, they might eat us, too.

It’s been an unforgiving winter.

I wonder to which kingdom they belong, to which of the warring kings they’ve pledged their fealty. Perhaps the very one who sent his armies into Seahaven and set the Starlight Wood aflame-and the only home I’ve ever known along with it.

A hand tugs at the shackles around my raw wrists. I hear the hiss an instant before the pain bolts through me. The smell of charred skin hits my nostrils.

My own flesh, burning.

It takes all my self-possession not to cry out-but I will not give these soldiers the satisfaction. Breathing deeply, I press my spine harder against the bark of the tree to which I’m lashed, trying not to lose consciousness.

Gods above, it hurts.

“See how she blisters?” the older soldier asks. “You’d think I’d taken a blazing log to her!”

“Y-yes,” the youth stammers. “I see.”

The irons stir a ceaseless tide of agony that never recedes-even now, after my wrists are scorched nearly to bone and sinew. Each shift of my chains sets off a fresh flow of anguish.

“When . . .” The young recruit clears his throat. “When will they . . .”

“String her up? Won’t be long now. Commander Scythe will be here by midnight. Captain says we can’t touch her till he signs off.”

“Why?”

“Likes to be sure they’re really dead, I suppose. Kick around the ashes a bit, make certain nothing stirs. Seems overboard to me, but it’s on order of King Eld, so I do as I’m told. Hang ’em up, burn ’em down.” There’s the sound of a cork being unstoppered. A throat working to swallow the contents of a flask. A steadying breath. “Folks tend to get a touch superstitious when it comes to faery executions. You’ll see, lad.”

“Right . . .” The young man sounds unconvinced. “When I enlisted, I didn’t think we’d be hunting halflings. I didn’t know there were any left.”

“Not many, these days. ‘Specially this far up in the Midlands. The Southlanders have some . . . different practices. You should thank the skies you aren’t stationed at the border to the Reaches. Hard to stomach, from what I’ve heard. And I ain’t heard much.”

My heart lurches. I’ve not been spared the rumors of what happens to halflings in the Southlands. Not in full. Eli gave me the briefest of glimpses at that darkness one night over a stiff dram of whiskey.

They might not kill you right away, Rhya, but the things they’ll do to you will make you wish they had . . .

I force my thoughts from that dark path. It leads nowhere good.

Excerpted from The Wind Weaver by Julie Johnson Copyright © 2025 by Julie Johnson. Excerpted by permission of Ace. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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