The Gyreheart of Harrowe

I wanted to love this more than I did. The premise — a city kept aloft by a machine and a young mechanic who must recover it — is solid, and the opening images are evocative, but the middle of the book sags. The Vaulteers, who should be an intriguing antagonist force, felt underdeveloped; their motives are sketched rather than earned. A few plot conveniences bothered me: the way critical tools turn up at just the right moment felt like authorial hand-waving, and some emotional beats (the sacrifice choice) are signposted too heavily, so the reveal lacks punch. The prose has charm — I liked the lines about wind as a neighbor and the little workshop details — but the pacing and predictability held the story back from being truly memorable.

Grounded, inventive, and genuinely fun. The worldbuilding around tethered isles and wind-lenses is clever but never cumbersome, and the characters — especially Ori and Plume — are charmingly realized. The Vaulteers add a necessary edge, and scenes like Ori maneuvering across a gusting bridge had my pulse up. I also liked how community threads run through the plot; it’s not just about fixing a machine, it’s about mending social bonds. Quick read, but it stays with you. Would recommend for fans of steampunk and character-driven adventure.

There’s a tender coming-of-age at the center of this mechanical adventure. Ori’s growth from a quick-handed mechanic into someone who understands community responsibility is quiet and believable. I kept going back to the Far Elsin line — that patient instruction shapes Ori’s decisions in very satisfying ways, especially during the climax on the Cinder Atoll. The descriptions are evocative without being overwrought: the Gyreheart’s hum, the webbed spindles between roofs, and the smell of oil and citrus wax made the world feel immediate. Very glad I picked this up; it left me hopeful rather than hollowed out, which I appreciate in an adventure tale.

Okay, confession: I wanted a mechanical kestrel SO bad after reading this. Plume is adorable and gloriously useful as both comic relief and a little mirror for Ori’s loneliness. The story’s tone is lovely — tough, a bit dusty, but never dour. I laughed out loud at the tiny domestic moments (the patched shirt elbow = chef’s kiss), and the Vaulteers were suitably menacing without being caricatures. The author writes sacrifice well — it’s not just dramatic for drama’s sake; you feel the cost. If you like your adventure with a side of heart and a whole lot of gears, this is your jam. Also, more wind-lenses, please 😂.

I’m impressed by how the story balances mechanical wonder with real human costs. The Gyreheart as a literal device that holds the city aloft is a clever plot engine, and the choices Ori faces about sacrifice feel thematically consistent rather than tacked-on. I liked the craftsmanship of the set pieces: the windwing half-built in Ori’s shop, the ways the wind is harnessed (nets that catch featherfish!), and the confrontation on the tether-lines. The only critique I have is that a few Vaulteer motivations could use an extra layer — some of their actions felt driven more by plot requirement than lived history. Still, the prose, pacing of the climax, and the resonant ending make this a strong adventure read.

This is one of those books where the setting reads like a character: Harrowe’s tides of wind, the carved bridges, and the hum of the Gyreheart are all beautifully rendered. The line “Wind lived in Harrowe like a neighbor” made me pause — that intimacy with environment suffuses the whole piece. Ori’s hands, the mentor Far Elsin’s quiet wisdom, and the small ritual of oiling tools creates a domesticity that grounds the larger quest. The Cinder Atoll is stark and dangerous, and the Vaulteers introduce moral ambiguity that keeps the finale from feeling like a simple victory lap. A tender, atmospheric adventure that lingers.

An absolute blast. This story hits the fun part of steampunk — brass and gears with a heart. The Vaulteers scene on the Cinder Atoll crackled with tension, and the mechanical kestrel, Plume, is a terrific little character beat (the chirp-as-clink moment made me smile). I appreciated how the author didn’t make everything about flashy tech; there are genuine community stakes and quiet scenes where Ori remembers Far Elsin’s lessons. The final choice — what to sacrifice to mend both machine and community — landed emotionally. Also, can we talk about the wind-lenses? Ingenious detail. Went in wanting adventure, came out grinning 😊.

Short and sweet: loved it. The prose balances technical detail with warmth — the workshop smells of oil and citrus wax is such a tangible image. Ori’s tinkering scenes, especially when he brings Plume to life, felt joyful and intimate. The stakes around the Gyreheart are well-scaled for an adventure: big enough to threaten the whole city, but focused through one young mechanic’s hands. Perfect for readers aged 18–25 who like coming-of-age journeys in weird, skyborne places. Would buy a sequel about Ori and his windwing.

As someone who eats worldbuilding for breakfast, The Gyreheart of Harrowe delivered in spades. The tethered isles, wind-lenses, and mechanical animals are rendered with practical specificity — you can almost hear the bellows feeding the forges. The Cinder Atoll sequence is particularly strong: gritty, claustrophobic, and full of small engineering details that make danger feel plausible (the collapsing wind-bridge had me holding my breath). Ori’s arc is credible; his relationship with Far Elsin — the “Let the tool teach you, not the hurry” line — gives him a grounded ethos that the story builds on. My only minor nitpick is a couple of pacing stretches in the midsection where the Vaulteer politics could have been tightened, but that didn’t stop me from being invested in the final choices. A solid, thoughtful adventure with mechanical heart.

I fell in love with Harrowe on the first page. The image of the city “hung like a constellation of iron and rope” stuck with me all week — it’s such a perfect, lived-in steampunk setting. Ori is magnetic without trying to be: his stained knuckles, the elbow patch where he learned to file a rotor, and the quiet reverence he shows his tools feel utterly real. The Gyreheart scene in the tower (that humming like a sleeping star) gave me chills, and Plume — the brass kestrel — was my favorite companion moment, especially when it knocks tools off the bench and then finds them again. I appreciated the moral weight around the choice to mend machine versus community; the ending’s sacrifice felt earned. Beautiful prose, memorable imagery, and a protagonist I want more stories about. Highly recommend to anyone who likes tender adventure and inventive worldbuilding.