V. S. Edwár steps into the literary world with a debut that is striking in both scale and ambition. Reign of Pawns unfolds with the confidence of an author who has lived with his story for a long time, almost as if the novel grew in layers until the only natural next step was to write it. What stands out most is the deliberate pace with which he builds his universe, inviting the reader into an intricate web of global conspiracies, human frailties, ancient prophecies, and forgotten inheritances. The novel moves from Boston to London, from Paris to Barcelona, before finally turning to India with a sense of inevitability, as though the story always belonged there. Such a slow-burning narrative requires patience, but Edwár rewards it consistently, especially when he threads mythology into the fabric of modern geopolitics. The effect is subtle and steady, never impulsive, and often compelling.
One real mark of Edwár’s potential is his instinct for suspense. He does not hurry the revelation of connections between the five abducted men or the motivations of their captors. Instead, he relies on atmosphere and foreshadowing, letting clues surface in fragments. A line like “It’s our duty” from a mysterious figure encountered in an otherworldly moment keeps the reader in a state of anticipation, nudging them to look again at the boundaries between the possible and the impossible. Elsewhere, when Drágosláv confronts the truth about the prophecy, his words open a window into the author’s ability to blend realism with mythology: “I understand who I am supposed to be. I know what needs to be done in the end.” Such statements are not merely dramatic devices but signals that the novel is reaching beyond its genre and aspiring for thematic depth.
Edwár’s writing thrives on cinematic clarity. He constructs scenes with the precision of someone who sees them vividly. The State Opening of Parliament reads almost like a documentary, each element of pageantry described with careful detail. The prison break in Paris is handled with technical finesse, and the abduction sequences show his instinct for building tension through pacing rather than shock. Even quieter moments, such as scenes set in Lucas Sánchez’s home, carry a sincerity that emotionally grounds the reader. A small but telling moment comes when Sánchez stands disoriented outside his laboratory while surreal visions form around him: “Giant bubble-like objects appeared and floated around him. Their boundaries shone red, orange, and black.” In this line, one senses Edwár’s talent for blending the ordinary with the uncanny, giving the narrative a mythic undercurrent.
As a storyteller, Edwár is driven by structural ambition. He is not afraid to manage multiple timelines, locations, and character arcs. This gives the novel a global signature that feels refreshing in the context of Indian mythological thrillers, many of which remain confined to specific cultural or geographical frames. Edwár’s approach suggests he is reaching for universality, attempting to show how ancient narratives might echo across borders and centuries. His characters come from different nations, races, and vocations; some are drawn into the mystery willingly, others are thrown into it without warning. All of them are rendered with enough individuality to remain memorable. The emotional outburst of Ojoré when he sees his mother’s abduction on the tablet, or the disorientation of Diego when he wakes miles away from the football field where he last stood, reveals how well Edwár understands the power of human vulnerability.
However, writing with such ambition comes with natural challenges. Readers who prefer brisk narratives may notice the weight of Edwár’s descriptive style. He can linger on ceremonies, scientific exposition, or historical backstory longer than expected, trusting the reader to stay with him. Yet this is also part of the novel’s charm. It reads like the work of someone who wants to immerse the reader completely, not just entertain. His craft shows a commitment to the world he is building, and by extension, to the reader’s experience of that world. The transitions between modern scenes and mythological revelations are handled with restraint, allowing curiosity to grow gradually rather than erupt through dramatic revelations. The final shift to India feels earned because Edwár has patiently planted seeds throughout the novel.
As a debut novelist, his strengths lie in worldbuilding, narrative patience, and the interweaving of myth with modernity. His dialogue is straightforward and natural, often revealing character rather than exposition. His imagery can be striking, such as when Drágosláv recalls seeing “a pair of scaly hands and legs with translucent webs between the fingers and toes,” a description that lingers in the reader’s mind long after the scene transitions. Such details prove that Edwár is not merely recounting events; he is crafting a text meant to stay with the reader.
The potential limitations that appear in the novel are perhaps the ones typical of an ambitious first work. The cast is vast, and at times, the narrative threads stretch far apart before converging. This demands attentive reading, though for many readers, that becomes part of the pleasure. The mythological framework unfolds slowly, and some may wish for greater clarity sooner. Yet it is precisely this slow unfolding that allows the final chapters to resonate.
Edwár is likely to find his most substantial readership among those who appreciate layered mysteries, mythological reinterpretations, and thrillers that take their time. Readers who enjoy Dan Brown’s structure, Amish Tripathi’s mythic reimaginings, or global political thrillers will find his voice engaging. His writing appeals to those who enjoy decoding clues, following multiple perspectives, and immersing themselves in expansive narrative landscapes.
Ultimately, Reign of Pawns announces V. S. Edwár as an author with vision and courage. He does not hesitate to merge mythology with modern science, to connect continents, or to let silence speak as loudly as action. His storytelling shows the promise of someone who will continue to refine his craft, deepen his characters, and take bolder creative risks. For a maiden attempt, this novel is not just a promising start; it is a statement of intent. Edwár writes like someone who has many stories left to tell, and this book marks the beginning of a journey worth following.
By Chandan for Indian Book Critics
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