If you loved how The Gospel of Loki lets Loki rewrite the tale of the Asgard wall, the dwarven wager that birthed Mjölnir, and even Balder’s fall with biting self-justification, you’ll relish Circe. Miller lets the witch of Aiaia tell her own story—crossing paths with Hermes and Odysseus, transforming rivals like Scylla, and owning the consequences of her magic—with the same intimate, confessional voice that makes Loki’s version of events so addictive.

Loki’s slippery narration—spinning the bet over his head with Brokk and Eitri or that infamous feast of insults into his personal gospel—feels right at home with Kvothe sitting in the Waystone Inn, deciding what to tell, what to embellish, and what to dodge. The Name of the Wind captures that same intoxicating sensation of being seduced by a brilliant voice who might be editing the truth as he goes.

If Loki’s gleeful self-defense during the Lokasenna or his cool rationalizing around setting the mistletoe in motion hooked you, Grendel offers a similarly magnetic confession. From inside the monster’s head, you get mordant humor, philosophical tangles, and a doomed showdown with Beowulf—echoing Loki’s path to Ragnarök, where the so-called villain finally gets to explain himself.

Did Loki’s snarky asides on Odin’s plans and his deadpan march toward Ragnarök make you grin even as the sky was falling? Good Omens channels that same darkly comic energy: an angel and a demon bicker, bureaucracy bungles Armageddon, and an Antichrist upends destiny. It’s the kind of apocalyptic romp that would fit neatly between Loki’s jabs at the Aesir and his gleeful commentary on the end of days.

If Loki’s voice—conning giants, weaseling out of the dwarven head-bet, and needling the gods—was the hook, Kinch Na Shannack will scratch the same itch. In The Blacktongue Thief, Kinch narrates with quicksilver wit as he bluffs, steals, and swears his way through dangers involving giants, witches, and old gods, delivering that same mischievous, confessional charm.