In Hierarchy, power literally feeds on the weakest. From the first line, James Islington sets the tone: "I am suspended." No transition, no peaceful setup. The image, a dizziness, then the fall. Hierarchy (translated by Giulia Belvaude Canavaggio) progresses thus, always keeping the gaze fixed on what threatens to give way. Vis observes, calculates, lies, improvises. And because he thinks quickly, the novel runs with him. He will be caught (or caught, as you choose), on October 21. The central discovery is remarkably simple: in the Catennian Republic, the lowest give up a part of their Will to those who dominate them. Power is thus literally extracted. "According to me, this is where the truth about Hierarchy is laid bare." Everything starts from there. Ranks, institutions, transports, animated objects, privileges: each marvel reminds that another pays the bill. The official maxim, "Will strengthens Will," sounds less like a motto than an admission. This structure becomes the fuel of the plot. Vis is never a simple guide: he hates this system, knows it well enough to circumvent it and must constantly measure what he knows, what he shows, and what others might understand. "All of this would have seemed terribly suspicious. It was suspicious, I suppose." That's almost all Vis: lucid even in lies, confident enough to take risks, anxious enough to calculate the price. The narrative, however, does not rest on a single enigma. Vis's identity, his past, the opaque areas of Hierarchy, the ambitions surrounding him and the trials of the Academy intertwine. Islington distributes information methodically, shifts suspicions, and knows how to suddenly make a detail seen much earlier decisive. One learns a lot, never enough to feel safe. Vis, however, has many cards. Dethroned prince, strategist, fighter, polyglot, future diplomat: some difficulties seem designed to reveal an additional skill. The risk of a hero too well equipped exists. Islington disarms it through his mistakes, blind spots, and especially through the impossibility of controlling everything. "I hate this. This feeling of crushing helplessness." When this flaw resurfaces, the character ceases to be merely brilliant: he becomes vulnerable, hence more appealing. The Academy tightens the trap further. Classes, rankings, trials, alliances, rivalries: everyone observes everyone, and every friendship can become a strategic data point. The secondary characters do not remain simple pieces around the hero. Callidus brings warm loyalty; Eidhin, a roughness that transforms into trust; Aequa, a relationship made of suspicion and reassessments. Vis knows: "It's just that, overall, I've never liked this." Pretending, seducing, gaining trust: his diplomatic reflexes serve as much to survive as to keep others at a distance. This is why sincere bonds take on more depth. Facing Eidhin, a crack appears: "He resembles me more than I thought." A short phrase, almost dry, but it shifts an entire relationship. Islington succeeds in these moments where strategy recedes and attachment, shame, or fear emerge. The reversals then gain weight: they also change the way Vis looks at those around him. Over more than a thousand pages, Hierarchy takes its time. The explanation of ranks, the mechanisms of Will, the institutions, and some training slow down the dramatic push at times. Some cuts would have given more nerve, especially in the first third. But this abundance also bears fruit: when the pieces start to fit together, the reader knows why they matter. The prose remains clear, mobile, willingly dry in action. It prioritizes immediate perception, suspicion, decision. Islington especially knows how to end a scene on the detail that doesn't fit, the incomplete answer, the threat still unnamed. It is this that makes this first volume so effective. Hierarchy is not only an academy fantasy, nor a caste novel, nor a spy intrigue: it superimposes these engines without letting them function separately. Dense, sometimes too generous, but solidly constructed, it transforms a simple idea - the power of some comes from what others abandon - into a narrative machine, driven as much by its mysteries as by its characters. Ndlr: the cover is that of the American edition, the French version having not yet been communicated.