United States
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The Final Strife: A Novel
In the first book of a visionary fantasy trilogy with its roots in the mythology of Africa and Arabia that "sings of rebellion, love, and the courage it takes to stand up to tyranny" (Samantha Shannon, author of The Priory of the Orange Tree), three women band together against a cruel empire that divides people by blood.
"The Final Strife is the real deal: epic fantasy turned on its head in the most compelling way imaginable."-Kalynn Bayron, bestselling author of Cinderella Is Dead and This Poison Heart
ONE OF THE MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF 2022-Book Riot
Red is the blood of the elite, of magic, of control.
Blue is the blood of the poor, of workers, of the resistance.
Clear is the blood of the slaves, of the crushed, of the invisible.
Sylah dreams of days growing up in the resistance, being told she would spark a revolution that would free the empire from the red-blooded ruling classes' tyranny. That spark was extinguished the day she watched her family murdered before her eyes.
Anoor has been told she's nothing, no one, a disappointment, by the only person who matters: her mother, the most powerful ruler in the empire. But when Sylah and Anoor meet, a fire burns between them that could consume the kingdom-and their hearts.
Hassa moves through the world unseen by upper classes, so she knows what it means to be invisible. But invisibility has its uses: It can hide the most dangerous of secrets, secrets that can reignite a revolution. And when she joins forces with Sylah and Anoor, together these grains of sand will become a storm.
As the empire begins a set of trials of combat and skill designed to find its new leaders, the stage is set for blood to flow, power to shift, and cities to burn.
Book One of The Ending Fire Trilogy
"The Final Strife is the real deal: epic fantasy turned on its head in the most compelling way imaginable."-Kalynn Bayron, bestselling author of Cinderella Is Dead and This Poison Heart
ONE OF THE MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF 2022-Book Riot
Red is the blood of the elite, of magic, of control.
Blue is the blood of the poor, of workers, of the resistance.
Clear is the blood of the slaves, of the crushed, of the invisible.
Sylah dreams of days growing up in the resistance, being told she would spark a revolution that would free the empire from the red-blooded ruling classes' tyranny. That spark was extinguished the day she watched her family murdered before her eyes.
Anoor has been told she's nothing, no one, a disappointment, by the only person who matters: her mother, the most powerful ruler in the empire. But when Sylah and Anoor meet, a fire burns between them that could consume the kingdom-and their hearts.
Hassa moves through the world unseen by upper classes, so she knows what it means to be invisible. But invisibility has its uses: It can hide the most dangerous of secrets, secrets that can reignite a revolution. And when she joins forces with Sylah and Anoor, together these grains of sand will become a storm.
As the empire begins a set of trials of combat and skill designed to find its new leaders, the stage is set for blood to flow, power to shift, and cities to burn.
Book One of The Ending Fire Trilogy
Editorial Reviews
"Saara El-Arifi deftly facets every layer of her debut. Epic in scope, its world building as intricate as filigree, The Final Strife sings of rebellion, love, and the courage it takes to stand up to tyranny, following three women whose journeys will keep you gripped to the last."-Samantha Shannon, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Priory of the Orange Tree
"With a heroine with bite, a supporting cast of flawed but deeply human characters, and world building that is raw, unforgiving, and richly textured, The Final Strife is the real deal: epic fantasy turned on its head in the most compelling way imaginable."-Kalynn Bayron, bestselling author of Cinderella Is Dead and This Poison Heart
"El-Arifi tells a tale as fierce as its characters, plunging you into a sandy, stratified world until you can feel the grit between your teeth. Heart-wrenching and heart-pounding, The Final Strife is an unmissable debut."-Andrea Stewart, author of The Bone Shard Daughter
"El-Arifi is a game-changing new voice in epic fantasy, and The Final Strife is a triumph of a book, full of rage, charm, and a cast of misfits you can't help but root for. There are no Chosen Ones here-only bad choices and blood."-Tasha Suri, author of The Jasmine Throne
"The Final Strife is everything you could ever hope to experience in fantasy-magnificent worldbuilding, unpredictable plotting, entertaining twists and turns, gorgeous slow-burn romance, and characters you're rooting for from the start. El-Arifi weaves her debut novel with great passion, originality, and the heart of a poet."-London Shah, author of the Light the Abyss series
"The Final Strife has a rich world with a complicated story about what happens when the hero-or their heroic actions-may not be who or what you thought they would be. The interweaving of the three women's stories k...
"With a heroine with bite, a supporting cast of flawed but deeply human characters, and world building that is raw, unforgiving, and richly textured, The Final Strife is the real deal: epic fantasy turned on its head in the most compelling way imaginable."-Kalynn Bayron, bestselling author of Cinderella Is Dead and This Poison Heart
"El-Arifi tells a tale as fierce as its characters, plunging you into a sandy, stratified world until you can feel the grit between your teeth. Heart-wrenching and heart-pounding, The Final Strife is an unmissable debut."-Andrea Stewart, author of The Bone Shard Daughter
"El-Arifi is a game-changing new voice in epic fantasy, and The Final Strife is a triumph of a book, full of rage, charm, and a cast of misfits you can't help but root for. There are no Chosen Ones here-only bad choices and blood."-Tasha Suri, author of The Jasmine Throne
"The Final Strife is everything you could ever hope to experience in fantasy-magnificent worldbuilding, unpredictable plotting, entertaining twists and turns, gorgeous slow-burn romance, and characters you're rooting for from the start. El-Arifi weaves her debut novel with great passion, originality, and the heart of a poet."-London Shah, author of the Light the Abyss series
"The Final Strife has a rich world with a complicated story about what happens when the hero-or their heroic actions-may not be who or what you thought they would be. The interweaving of the three women's stories k...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One
The Day of Descent
I have been searching for any trace of the Sandstorm to complete my tale. Though the wardens claim to have killed them some years ago, I have no confirmation of where or when. It may be my aging eyesight, but I can't see the end of the story. The rumors are thin, wisps of smoke that I can't grasp. I will continue to search. I will continue to hope.
-Note found in Griot Zibenwe's villa
Bang-dera-bang-dera-bang.
The drumbeat still thrummed through Sylah's veins as she weaved her way back home.
The raw pink of dawn promised a blistering heat, and Sylah tilted her head and basked in the sun's rays. The trinkets in her braids chimed.
She ran her tongue over the joba seed tucked in the gap between her front teeth. The warmth induced by the seed was dissipating, leaving her cold. Hugging her arms to her chest, she noticed for the first time she held an empty bottle of firerum. She threw it at the wall of a derelict villa, which was filmed with blue sand. It had been a strong wind last night. At times its pounding had even eclipsed the drums.
But not the drumbeat in her memory.
Bang-dera-bang-dera-bang.
The sound came again and with it an unmistakable tremor of fear that woke people from their beds. Now Sylah listened and realized she knew the cadence of the rhythm, and it wasn't from the song in her mind. It was the pounding of the Starting Drum, indicating the beginning of a trial.
It was the sound of death.
Bang-dera-bang-dera-bang.
Dredge-dwellers began to seep out of their decrepit homes and stream toward Dredge Square. Sylah found herself being carried along in the current.
The square was full of Dusters and Ghostings, blurry-eyed from a night of drugs, sex, or alcohol. Or in Sylah's case, all three. A dozen officers of the warden army stood to attention in front of the rack, the wooden device used for executions. Like ripe bruises, the army's purple uniform was enough to instill fear in anyone north of the Ruta River-anyone without red blood.
Sylah spotted Hassa in the crowd and pushed her way toward her.
"How's it hurting?" Sylah greeted the Ghosting girl.
Like the beetle she had been named after, Hassa was small with dark eyes. The color was unusual for a Ghosting, as light-colored eyes were often a feature of their translucent blood. But it didn't matter if you were a Ghosting or Duster, everyone who lived in the Dredge had the same hollowed-out look. It was a mandatory uniform, an expression of squalor and poverty enforced by malnutrition and childhood labor.
You look like shit. Have you even slept? Hassa signed.
Sylah ignored Hassa's observation and pointed toward the officers. "Have you seen this guy's talent?"
Hassa followed Sylah's gaze to the officer with the Starting Drum strapped to his chest. He was beating the rhythm with absolute dedication, his muscles clenching and releasing with military precision.
He was born to play the drums, Hassa agreed.
Sylah snorted. "Bet he wanted to join the playhouse, but his mother made him enlist in the army. Poor little Ember."
Hassa smiled, revealing the spongy flesh of her severed tongue. Her tongue, like her severed hands, had been taken from her at two mooncycles, like they were for every Ghosting in the empire. Their limbs and tongues were cut off and sent to the wardens to tally against the number of Ghosting births as a penance for a rebellion four hundred years old. As a result, Ghostings had developed a complex language that used all elements of their body. It was a subtle language, one invented in defiance of the rulers that still condemned them.
The drum stopped, though the vibrations of dread rippled out for moments afterward. The captain, identified by his striped green kente epaulettes, stepped forward.
"In the name of the four wardens, blessed by Anyme, our God in the Sky, we bring forth the accused."
A prisoner in shackles was brought forward between the officers' ranks. Sylah inhaled sharply between her teeth. "A griot."
They raided his villa a few strikes ago, no warning, Hassa signed. He told his final story last night.
Sylah vaguely remembered a griot entering the Maroon, but she had been preoccupied with chewing a record number of joba seeds.
"What did they get him for?"
Writing letters.
"Bastards."
Bastards, Hassa agreed, using her left wrist against her shoulder in a slashing motion.
Sylah scowled up at the podium where the officers stood. How she hated them and everything they represented: fear, oppression, pain. She rubbed her neck as the captain continued.
"The accused deliberately...
The Day of Descent
I have been searching for any trace of the Sandstorm to complete my tale. Though the wardens claim to have killed them some years ago, I have no confirmation of where or when. It may be my aging eyesight, but I can't see the end of the story. The rumors are thin, wisps of smoke that I can't grasp. I will continue to search. I will continue to hope.
-Note found in Griot Zibenwe's villa
Bang-dera-bang-dera-bang.
The drumbeat still thrummed through Sylah's veins as she weaved her way back home.
The raw pink of dawn promised a blistering heat, and Sylah tilted her head and basked in the sun's rays. The trinkets in her braids chimed.
She ran her tongue over the joba seed tucked in the gap between her front teeth. The warmth induced by the seed was dissipating, leaving her cold. Hugging her arms to her chest, she noticed for the first time she held an empty bottle of firerum. She threw it at the wall of a derelict villa, which was filmed with blue sand. It had been a strong wind last night. At times its pounding had even eclipsed the drums.
But not the drumbeat in her memory.
Bang-dera-bang-dera-bang.
The sound came again and with it an unmistakable tremor of fear that woke people from their beds. Now Sylah listened and realized she knew the cadence of the rhythm, and it wasn't from the song in her mind. It was the pounding of the Starting Drum, indicating the beginning of a trial.
It was the sound of death.
Bang-dera-bang-dera-bang.
Dredge-dwellers began to seep out of their decrepit homes and stream toward Dredge Square. Sylah found herself being carried along in the current.
The square was full of Dusters and Ghostings, blurry-eyed from a night of drugs, sex, or alcohol. Or in Sylah's case, all three. A dozen officers of the warden army stood to attention in front of the rack, the wooden device used for executions. Like ripe bruises, the army's purple uniform was enough to instill fear in anyone north of the Ruta River-anyone without red blood.
Sylah spotted Hassa in the crowd and pushed her way toward her.
"How's it hurting?" Sylah greeted the Ghosting girl.
Like the beetle she had been named after, Hassa was small with dark eyes. The color was unusual for a Ghosting, as light-colored eyes were often a feature of their translucent blood. But it didn't matter if you were a Ghosting or Duster, everyone who lived in the Dredge had the same hollowed-out look. It was a mandatory uniform, an expression of squalor and poverty enforced by malnutrition and childhood labor.
You look like shit. Have you even slept? Hassa signed.
Sylah ignored Hassa's observation and pointed toward the officers. "Have you seen this guy's talent?"
Hassa followed Sylah's gaze to the officer with the Starting Drum strapped to his chest. He was beating the rhythm with absolute dedication, his muscles clenching and releasing with military precision.
He was born to play the drums, Hassa agreed.
Sylah snorted. "Bet he wanted to join the playhouse, but his mother made him enlist in the army. Poor little Ember."
Hassa smiled, revealing the spongy flesh of her severed tongue. Her tongue, like her severed hands, had been taken from her at two mooncycles, like they were for every Ghosting in the empire. Their limbs and tongues were cut off and sent to the wardens to tally against the number of Ghosting births as a penance for a rebellion four hundred years old. As a result, Ghostings had developed a complex language that used all elements of their body. It was a subtle language, one invented in defiance of the rulers that still condemned them.
The drum stopped, though the vibrations of dread rippled out for moments afterward. The captain, identified by his striped green kente epaulettes, stepped forward.
"In the name of the four wardens, blessed by Anyme, our God in the Sky, we bring forth the accused."
A prisoner in shackles was brought forward between the officers' ranks. Sylah inhaled sharply between her teeth. "A griot."
They raided his villa a few strikes ago, no warning, Hassa signed. He told his final story last night.
Sylah vaguely remembered a griot entering the Maroon, but she had been preoccupied with chewing a record number of joba seeds.
"What did they get him for?"
Writing letters.
"Bastards."
Bastards, Hassa agreed, using her left wrist against her shoulder in a slashing motion.
Sylah scowled up at the podium where the officers stood. How she hated them and everything they represented: fear, oppression, pain. She rubbed her neck as the captain continued.
"The accused deliberately...
