What happens when you take a Chosen One narrative, drench it in blood and forbidden desire, and then hand it to a narrator working in Spanish for nearly twenty hours? Either something spectacular or something that tests your patience. De sangre y cenizas lands somewhere in between, and I have feelings about it.
I was shelving returns at the library — late shift, nobody around but me and the hum of the fluorescent lights — when I hit the section where Poppy sneaks out to the Red Pearl. Headphones in, surrounded by quiet stacks of books, listening to a scene dripping with tension and want. The contrast between my sterile, silent surroundings and what was happening in my ears was almost absurd. Almost.
The Stomach Problem (No, Literally)
Let's address the elephant in the room: Poppy's stomach. This poor girl's internal organs are doing Olympic-level gymnastics throughout the entire book. Her stomach flutters, tightens, drops, hollows, clenches — I lost count somewhere around hour six. Armentrout leans on this physical tic so hard it becomes unintentionally comedic. Every emotional beat, every encounter with Hawke, every revelation — stomach. Sweetie, see a gastroenterologist. I say this with love, but it pulled me out of some genuinely tense moments because I was too busy mentally tallying the stomach references.
That said — and I need to be fair here — this book understands that horror isn't about gore, it's about dread. The Craven attacks, the slow unraveling of what the Ascension actually means, the creeping realization that the institutions Poppy trusts are built on rot. Armentrout borrows from vampire and dark fantasy traditions but filters it through a theocratic society that felt uncomfortably familiar to me, someone who grew up in a house where questioning the rules got you labeled dangerous. Poppy's rebellion isn't just romantic rebellion. It's doctrinal. That hit different. The way institutions weaponize belief against the people inside them — it's a horror all its own, the kind that keeps showing up in unexpected places, like in History's Great Plagues: How Germs Shaped Civilization, which spends a surprising amount of time on how fear and doctrine intertwined to make epidemics so much deadlier than they needed to be.
Sonia García Ranz and the Twenty-Hour Marathon
Here's where it gets complicated. This is the Spanish-language narration, and at nearly twenty hours, that's a commitment. I went in with limited expectations because there's almost nothing out there about Sonia García Ranz's specific performance here — no detailed reviews of her voice work, no breakdowns of character differentiation. And honestly? I can see why listener reactions are split.
The narration didn't fully commit to the creepy when it needed to. The romantic tension scenes land better than the horror beats, which is a problem for a book that's supposed to be juggling both. When Poppy is sparring with Hawke — verbal or otherwise — there's energy, heat, a sense of push and pull. But the Craven scenes, the moments of genuine threat and body horror, needed a rawer edge. The pacing of the read felt consistent throughout, which sounds like a compliment but isn't entirely — a twenty-hour listen needs dynamic range. The quiet moments should feel quiet. The violent ones should feel like they're tearing through the speakers. I wanted more contrast.
That said, sustaining a single-narrator performance for this length without it becoming monotonous is no small thing. She carries it. I just wished she'd committed harder to the darkness.
Shirley Jackson Walked So Armentrout Could... Jog
Look, I know comparing Armentrout to Jackson is unfair and a little unhinged. Different genres, different eras, different ambitions. But the DNA is there — both are writing about women trapped in systems that claim to protect them while slowly consuming them. The Rite of Ascension echoes the kind of institutional horror Jackson perfected. Armentrout just wraps it in romantasy packaging, which means the horror elements sometimes take a back seat to Hawke's golden eyes and devastating smirk.
And Hawke. Let's talk about Hawke. He's fun. He's infuriating. He's exactly the kind of morally ambiguous love interest that makes you yell at a fictional woman to be more careful while simultaneously understanding why she won't be. The dynamic works because Poppy isn't passive — she fights, she questions, she stabs people. But the book's insistence on filtering every interaction through physical desire sometimes flattens what could be sharper character work.
Compared to something like Una corte de rosas y espinas, Armentrout's world-building feels more cohesive from the jump — you understand the rules of this society quickly, and the political structure doesn't require three rereads to parse. But compared to La serpiente y las alas de la noche, the emotional stakes here feel lighter, more romance-forward than gut-punch.
Who Gets the Key to the Red Pearl (And Who Should Walk Away)
If you love Sarah J. Maas and want a darker theological edge with your forbidden romance — this is your book. If you're coming for the horror elements specifically, temper your expectations. They're present but not prioritized. If repetitive physical descriptors (stomach, stomach, stomach) drive you up a wall, maybe keep a stress ball handy.
Skip this if you need your dark fantasy to actually prioritize the dark — you'll spend too much time waiting for horror that stays at arm's length. If you scare easily, this won't be the thing that does it. But if you want a sprawling fantasy romance with genuine world-building and a protagonist who earns her defiance? Worth your time.
Shelving This One in the Right Section
My podcast listeners are going to have opinions about this one — it straddles the line between fantasy romance and dark fantasy in a way that fully satisfies neither camp but entertains both. The Spanish narration is competent but not electric. The story is addictive but occasionally repetitive. Shirley (my cat) was unimpressed. I was entertained, occasionally thrilled, and only mildly annoyed by the stomach count.
It's a solid entry point to the series. Just know what you're signing up for: twenty hours of forbidden desire, crumbling theocracy, and a protagonist whose digestive system is working overtime.
