If you loved Rin’s ruthless climb through Sinegard—those sadistic drills, cutthroat exams, and Jiang’s unconventional tutelage—you’ll click with Tau’s obsession-fueled rise through the Omehi war academies in The Rage of Dragons. The sparring pits, rank challenges, and elite-warrior hierarchies echo Sinegard’s unforgiving meritocracy, while Tau’s fixation on vengeance mirrors Rin’s relentless drive after the Golyn Niis atrocities. And when supernatural power hits the battlefield—here via Isihogo demons and war-channeled fury—the costs feel as scalding and personal as Rin calling the Phoenix.

The way The Poppy War stares straight into atrocity—Rin’s Cike missions, the devastation of Golyn Niis, and her spiraling choices—finds its mirror in The Blade Itself. You’ll meet Logen Ninefingers and Sand dan Glokta, whose lives are shaped by brutality, torture, and realpolitik in a world where victory is never clean. Like Rin’s compromises under Su Daji and the Cike, Abercrombie’s characters navigate power where every choice corrodes something human. It’s that same razor-edged tone: bleak, darkly funny at times, and utterly unwilling to look away.

If Rin’s slide from scrappy prodigy to Phoenix-touched war criminal gripped you—the way her pain, rage, and ambition hollow her out—then Jorg Ancrath’s path in Prince of Thorns will feel chillingly familiar. After brutal formative trauma, Jorg pursues power with a clarity that burns bridges the way Rin severs ties with Jiang and the Cike. Lawrence captures that same thrill and horror of watching a gifted, wounded mind choose ruthlessness again and again, and dares you to keep empathizing even as the costs mount.

Rin’s world is scarred by imperialism—the Federation’s invasion, cultural annihilation, and the political games of Su Daji—and The Traitor Baru Cormorant dives even deeper into that wound. Baru infiltrates the empire that colonized her homeland, weaponizing ledgers and policy the way generals weaponize armies. Like Rin’s strategic betrayals and unbearable endgame choices, Baru’s victories come edged with tragedy. If the themes of cultural survival, compromised resistance, and state-sanctioned cruelty in Nikara spoke to you, this is a devastating, brilliant echo.

If the shamanic communion in The Poppy War—Rin courting the Phoenix in trance, the Cike’s god-brokering, and Jiang’s warnings about the price—fascinated you, The Killing Moon offers a luminous, deadly cousin. Gatherers draw power from dreams under the goddess Hananja, and every act of magic carries spiritual, ethical, and political weight. Like Rin’s bargain that scorches everything it touches, Ehiru’s faith and power collide with real human consequences, turning belief, statecraft, and godhood into a knife’s edge.