To Shape a Dragon’s Breath: A Feminist Critique of Colonial Power and Indigenous Resistance
Before We Begin: A Word of Warning
Alright, listen up, dear reader—I’m about to gush hard about To Shape a Dragon’s Breath, but before we dive in, I have to give you a spoiler warning. Yes, that’s right, this review will contain major spoilers, deep analysis, and possibly some yelling (the excited kind). So if you haven’t read the book yet and you prefer to go in blind, stop right here and do yourself a favor: go grab a copy, devour it, and then come back so we can scream about it together.
Need a link? I got you: Buy To Shape a Dragon’s Breath here! and no I don't make money on this link.
If you’ve already read it (or if you’re a chaos gremlin who loves spoilers), then buckle up, because we’re about to break down why this book is an absolute 10 out of 10 masterpiece of feminist, queer, and anti-colonial storytelling. Let’s get into it.
The Burden of Being “The First”
You know that classic story where a scrappy protagonist stumbles into a prestigious school, and after some initial resistance, they wow everyone with their natural talent and eventually become the golden child of the institution? Yeah. That’s not this book.
Instead, To Shape a Dragon’s Breath by Moniquill Blackgoose takes that well-worn trope, sets it on fire, and buries the ashes under a colonial boarding school where our protagonist, Anequs, an Indigenous girl, is not allowed to simply excel. No, she has to prove, over and over, that her very existence within Kuiper’s Academy isn’t a mistake.
The novel is a scathing critique of assimilation, cultural erasure, and systemic oppression dressed up in the shiny trappings of a fantasy school for dragon-riding. But don’t be fooled—this isn’t Hogwarts with more diversity. It’s a carefully constructed examination of how institutions were designed to break people like Anequs. And she, being the icon that she is, refuses to let that happen.
At its core, To Shape a Dragon’s Breath is a fierce rejection of the colonial fantasy trope that frames white-coded institutions as the pinnacle of civilization. Instead, Anequs refuses to be reshaped to fit their mold, choosing instead to redefine what power and knowledge look like on her own terms.
Breaking Down the Core Themes
The Patriarchal Gatekeeping of Power
The academy isn’t just a school—it’s a glorified control center where only the “worthy” are allowed access to power. And by worthy, they mean “The while, male, wealthy elite.” Naturally, Anequs, who was raised in a matriarchal society where leadership isn’t based on who can yell the loudest, immediately runs into issues.
The colonial framework of Kuiper’s extends beyond race—it also upholds patriarchal ideals that dismiss feminine and non-Western forms of leadership as naive, weak, or irrational. While male students are trained to command their dragons with an iron grip, Anequs has the audacity to wonder why domination is necessary at all. Her ability to communicate with her dragon without resorting to force is treated as an anomaly, not because it doesn’t work, but because it doesn’t fit their rigid definitions of mastery.
It’s almost like… the system was never designed to accommodate people like her. Weird.
Dehumanization, Othering, and the Myth of the "Exceptional" Woman
Anequs isn’t just an outsider—she’s the outsider. The first Indigenous girl to ever be “allowed” into this world. And with that status comes a very familiar burden: she has to be exceptional to be tolerated.
If she fails? They were right all along—she never should have been here.
If she succeeds? She’s an exception, not proof that the system is flawed.
- They expect her to educate them while refusing to actually listen.
- They dismiss her knowledge as "folk magic" while labeling their own practices as "science."
- They force her to assimilate, yet punish her when she doesn’t do it “correctly.”
This is a well-documented feminist struggle—especially for women of color. They aren’t simply allowed to exist; they have to be twice as good just to be seen as acceptable, let alone worthy. And even then, their success is framed as an anomaly rather than a sign that the system itself is broken.
The way Anequs’ teachers and peers treat her mirrors real-world microaggressions:
This isn’t just about whether Anequs gets to ride a dragon. It’s about whose knowledge, culture, and way of life is seen as legitimate—and whose is treated as something to be erased.
Strength (and Danger) of Visibility
One of the novel’s greatest strengths is its deeply diverse cast, which doesn’t just exist for the sake of representation—it’s woven into the world in a way that highlights how different forms of oppression intersect. This isn’t a “look, we checked the diversity box!” kind of story. This is a book that actually interrogates what it means to exist as a marginalized person in a system that was never built for you.
Representation Matters
Autism Representation: Sander’s Story
Let’s talk about Sander, one of the students at the academy, and possibly one of the best portrayals of autism in recent fantasy literature. Sander isn’t a stereotype. He isn’t reduced to a quirky genius, a tragic loner, or a socially inept comic relief character. He’s just… Sander. A person navigating a world that was not designed for him.
His autism is portrayed with depth and nuance—his communication style, his sensory sensitivities, his difficulty with unwritten social rules—all of it feels real, not exaggerated or turned into a gimmick. And the best part? The novel never pathologizes his autism. The problem isn’t Sander—it’s the academy that refuses to accommodate him.
Because the academy, much like real-world institutions, was built for neurotypical minds. And when Sander struggles, the assumption isn’t that the system should change—it’s that he should. Sound familiar? It’s the same exhausting fight neurodivergent people deal with every day, where the burden is always placed on them to “adjust” instead of questioning why the system is so damn rigid in the first place.
Sander’s friendship with Anequs is particularly powerful because she doesn’t see him as broken or needing to be fixed. She sees him as Sander. And that’s exactly what real inclusion looks like—it’s not about forcing people to “fit in,” but about valuing them as they are.
Theod: A Tragic Lesson in Internalized Oppression
Theod’s deep desire to be seen as good stems not only from the academy’s rigid expectations but also from a brutal and traumatic history—one that has left him completely unmoored from his own identity.
Seventeen years old and now in his second year at Kuiper’s, Theod is one of only two Nackie dragonirs at the academy—the other being Anequs. But while she remains deeply connected to her Naquisit roots, Theod has been cut off from his heritage entirely. He never had the chance to know what it meant to belong to his people; his first lessons in identity came from the very people who sought to erase it.
His parents were executed for their part in the Nack Island uprising—his father was hanged as a traitor, and his mother, deemed too valuable to kill immediately, was kept alive just long enough to give birth to him. She did not live to name him, to pass on her stories, to give him anything of herself. Theod was an orphan before he ever had the chance to understand what he had lost.
But his tragedy didn’t end there.
He was raised in an orphanage, but not as a child in need of care—as a burden to be managed, as something that had to be shaped into usefulness. He was taught from the start that he was lucky to be alive at all. That he had been spared. And that with that so-called mercy came obligation.
- He was not allowed to mourn his parents.
- He was not allowed to question their fate.
- He was not even allowed to think of them as his own.
No, they were murderers, he was told, and the stain of their crimes marked him as well. If he wanted to survive, if he wanted any kind of life beyond servitude, he needed to prove—to everyone, to himself—that he was not like them.
By fourteen, he was sent into servitude, fully expecting to spend the rest of his life in quiet, obedient labor. He would be nothing more than a tool, unseen and unremarkable.
Until the day everything changed.
A dragon hatchling chose him.
It should have been impossible. Dragons of the academy were meant to bond with the sons of noblemen—not with a Nackie servant boy. His master’s sons had been waiting, expecting to be chosen—but instead, the hatchling broke free and went to him.
Cue absolute scandal.
The idea of a Nackie owning a dragon—of having power, of being anything but a servant—was unthinkable. It was enough to warrant a moot, where Theod’s very right to exist in the academy’s world was debated like a trade dispute.
In the end, it was Frau Kuiper who intervened. She paid the value of the egg, and rather than allow him to be cast out, she accepted him into Kuiper’s as a student—on scholarship, of course, a reminder that he did not truly belong, only that he had been allowed entry.
His place was a technicality, not a triumph.
His dragon, Copper, was an akhari—a Kindah breed similar to a bjalladreki, a creature of both power and difference. Like Theod himself, Copper was seen as not quite right, tolerated but never fully embraced.
Theod was given just enough legitimacy to exist in their world, but never enough to belong in it. And in his mind, this precarious acceptance was better than nothing.
If he just worked hard enough, if he followed every rule, if he proved—over and over again—that he wasn’t like his parents, maybe one day, they would stop seeing him as a mistake.
Maybe they would stop reminding him that he was only alive because they allowed it.
Assimilation as Survival, but at What Cost?
Theod's desire to be seen as good and useful is not about personal ambition—it is a survival strategy.
He understands, perhaps more than anyone, the consequences of standing out. He has witnessed the punishment that comes with defiance, the humiliation that follows any failure to conform. Rather than fight the system, he chooses to work within it, believing that if he is obedient, he will at least be tolerated.
But Theod’s tragedy is that no amount of submission will ever grant him the security he craves. The academy’s approval is conditional, always teetering on the edge of revocation. The moment he stops being useful, he risks being discarded.
This reflects a painful reality for many people of color who attempt to assimilate into white-dominated spaces—success is always precarious, and the cost of maintaining it is the erasure of self.
His Relationship with Anequs: A Mirror and a Warning
Anequs and Theod’s relationship is tense, and for good reason.
Where Anequs challenges the academy at every turn, Theod resents her refusal to conform. He sees her defiance as foolish, even dangerous—not just for herself, but for him as well.
To Theod, Anequs is a disruption—a reminder of everything he has worked so hard to suppress.
His frustration with Anequs is layered. On one hand, he envies her ability to remain connected to her culture, something he has sacrificed in his pursuit of acceptance. On the other, he fears that her rebellion will undo everything he has built.
If she fails, it reinforces the belief that people like them do not belong here.
If she succeeds without following the rules, then everything he has endured was for nothing.
When Anequs tries to wake Theod from his narrow, fear-driven view of the world, he reacts with anger. He doesn’t want to hear that his way of surviving might not be the only way. He pushes her away, rejecting the idea that there is anything beyond the academy for him.
But later, when he has had time to reflect, he realizes that maybe he was too harsh.
Maybe there is something worth exploring beyond the scraps of acceptance the academy throws his way.
By the end of the novel, Theod takes Anequs up on her offer to potentially meet surviving family on (insert island name)—a moment that suggests a glimmer of hope.
While he may not fully break free from the academy’s influence, there is at least the possibility that he will begin to see himself beyond the limitations imposed on him.
Theod as a Reflection of Internalized Racism
Theod’s arc is an uncomfortable but necessary depiction of how internalized racism operates.
He is not a villain, but rather a tragic figure—one who has learned to survive by bending to a system that will never fully embrace him. His story serves as a warning of what happens when someone believes that proximity to power will protect them.
But Theod also serves as a contrast to Anequs. While he spends the novel chasing approval, she understands something he cannot—true belonging is not something that can be given by the colonizer.
By the end, it is clear that Theod is still imprisoned by his need for validation, while Anequs is forging a new path entirely.
Theod’s presence in the novel is crucial because it complicates the idea of resistance.
- Not everyone fights back the way Anequs does.
- Some, like Theod, internalize the logic of the oppressor because it feels safer.
But To Shape a Dragon’s Breath reminds us that survival without self-determination is not true freedom.
Theod’s journey is not a triumphant rebellion, but a quiet, deeply human struggle between fear and hope—between the security of submission and the terrifying possibility of something more.
His final decision to explore his roots is not a rejection of everything he has believed, but the first step toward questioning it.
And that, in itself, is an act of resistance.
Female Friendship as Resistance: Anequs and Marta
Ah yes, the classic “begrudging allies turned actual friends” dynamic—one of my personal favorites. But what makes Anequs and Marta’s relationship stand out is how real it feels. This isn’t an instant besties situation. Marta doesn’t start off as an ally, and she sure as hell doesn’t start off as a good friend. In fact, for a while, she’s kind of the worst.
Marta, who comes from an Eastern European-coded culture, thinks she gets what it means to be an outsider. And to a certain extent, she does—she’s not part of the ruling elite, and she knows how it feels to be underestimated. But unlike Anequs, she still holds a level of privilege within the colonial system. She isn’t seen as fully “equal” to the academy’s elite, but she’s still closer to them than Anequs could ever be. And at first, that leads her to act, well… entitled.
Marta doesn’t even realize how disrespectful she is in the beginning. She assumes a familiarity with Anequs that Anequs never agreed to, she treats their differences as if they’re small, inconvenient details instead of fundamental cultural divides, and—my personal favorite—she gets hit with a massive case of white fragility when Anequs doesn’t immediately welcome her with open arms.
But here’s what makes Marta’s arc so satisfying: she actually does the work. She doesn’t just say she wants to be Anequs’ friend; she earns it. She sits with the discomfort of realizing she’s been complicit in the very system that oppresses Anequs, and instead of doubling down or demanding immediate forgiveness, she listens. She learns. She challenges herself.
And that’s the beauty of their relationship. The academy wants them to be competitors, to see each other as threats instead of allies. The system is designed to keep them isolated, fighting for scraps of approval from the ruling class. But instead of falling into that trap, Anequs and Marta make the radical choice to lift each other up.
This is such an important feminist theme: how solidarity among marginalized people is one of the most powerful forces against oppression. True friendship isn’t just about liking each other—it’s about being willing to change, to unlearn, to grow. Anequs doesn’t need Marta’s friendship, but Marta? Marta needs Anequs in ways she doesn’t even fully understand until later.
And honestly? I love that for them.
Queerness as Resistance: The LGBTQ+ Representation
Ah yes, the queer representation—chef’s kiss.
The book doesn’t just include queer characters; it examines queerness under colonialism and how different cultures approach identity. Anequs’ homeland is wonderfully queer-inclusive, with no strict binaries in gender or sexuality. Relationships aren’t confined to monogamous, heteronormative standards, and polyamory is a natural, accepted part of life.
Contrast that with Kuiper’s, where gender roles are policed, relationships are monitored, and any deviation from the norm is met with disapproval—or worse, punishment. Anequs being openly interested in Liberty, a Black indentured laundry maid at the academy, is an act of defiance in itself. Their mutual attraction is tinged with the knowledge that their relationship, as far as the Anglish are concerned, shouldn’t exist.
Then we have Frau Kuiper and Frau Brinkenhoff, the academy’s co-heads, who are living proof that queer women can take power, hold onto it, and absolutely refuse to be told they don’t belong. Frau Kuiper is a boss-ass bitch for daring to exist in this world, much less thrive in it. She didn’t just climb the ranks—she clawed her way into power, proving herself in battle (which, let’s be real, probably involved kicking some deeply mediocre men’s asses), founding an entire school, and cementing herself as a force to be reckoned with.
And she didn’t do it the “acceptable” way, either. No, Frau Kuiper straight-up pulled a Mulan, disguising herself as a man in order to get her shot at becoming a dragoneer. Because, of course, in the deeply sexist world she was born into, women weren’t allowed to bond with dragons. But rather than accept that nonsense, she said, “Fine. I’ll just pretend to be a dude and beat you all at your own game.” And she did. She fought, she won, and she proved that no amount of gender-based gatekeeping was going to stop her from claiming power.
And honestly? I need a whole book on her backstory. I want every gritty detail of how she became a dragoneer, how she survived in a world that wanted her to disappear, and how she got her dragon, Gerhard, to be as fiercely loyal to her as he is. Give me the Frau Kuiper origin story, Moniquill Blackgoose. I’m begging.
And let’s talk about her relationship with Frau Brinkenhoff, because even though it’s kept secret, we still get to see it through Anequs’ eyes, and it works. Their dynamic is so well-crafted—there’s tension, tenderness, and an unspoken understanding that carries the weight of years of shared ambition and survival. They have built something powerful together, not just as co-heads of the academy, but as partners navigating a world that was never designed for them.
Their queerness isn’t framed as shocking or groundbreaking—it simply is. And that, in itself, is powerful. These two carved out a space in a male-dominated world and built something that couldn’t be easily taken from them.
We love to see it.
Final Thoughts: Feminism, Consent, and the Right to Self-Definition
At its heart, To Shape a Dragon’s Breath is about the right to exist on your own terms. The right to define your own power, your own knowledge, and your own way of moving through the world.
It’s a story that understands that assimilation is not freedom. That being allowed into an institution built to oppress you is not a privilege—it’s a trap. And that real change doesn’t come from seeking acceptance within broken systems, but from creating something entirely new.
This novel is everything I want in a book—thought-provoking, deeply feminist, rich in worldbuilding, and filled with characters who feel achingly real. It doesn’t just tell a story; it challenges the structures of power that shape both its world and our own.
As an author, I’m always striving to tell feminist stories with rich queer representation—the kind of narratives that reflect the world as it is and as it could be. If you love books that challenge oppression while still delivering gripping, character-driven storytelling, you’ll probably enjoy my novel, Valley of Wolves. It’s a queer supernatural thriller about identity, trauma, and survival—full of messy emotions, complicated friendships, and things that go bump in the night.
I absolutely loved To Shape a Dragon’s Breath. This is a 10 out of 10 read for me, and I’m already picking it up again because one read is simply not enough. And if you’re looking for your next queer, feminist, supernatural read—maybe Valley of Wolves is up next on your list.
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