Again, I’m not discussing my votes, but here is the second paragraph of the third chapter of each of the finalists.

Witch King, by Martha Wells

So far the voyage hadn’t been as bad as Kai had feared. But waking up dead and entombed had invited some unpleasant memories into his dreams, mixed with fading nightmares still written into this new body’s flesh. Like so many aspects of mortal life, sleep was overrated. He said, “Do you know where we are?”

The Saint of Bright Doors, by Vajra Chandrasekara

When he makes conversation, on a third date like this one with Hejmen, for instance, he does his best to be open and vulnerable. It’s easier to open up while they sit at an outdoor café in the darkening evening, lit by the smouldering canopy of the flame trees above. He’ll talk about his childhood at length, but not about his teens.

Starter Villain, by John Scalzi

“Hello, Hera,” I said. I plucked the kitten from my shoulder and brought it down to Hera’s eye level. “I’ve brought you something.” I set the kitten down in front of her and waited.

Translation State, by Ann Leckie

I wasn’t an extra. I toddled out of the Tiny beds and into the slightly wider world of the Littles with not a care. By the time I grew from Little to Small, I had developed a comfortable sense of my own importance to the world, to the other Smalls around me. I knew that the larger figures around us who fed us, who instructed us in various proprieties (don’t put that in your ear!; no, don’t bite off her finger!) would keep me safe and comfortable.

Some Desperate Glory, by Emily Tesh

Vic called Arti’s name after her, but she didn’t look back.

The Adventures of Amina al-Sirafi, by Shannon Chakraborty

My mother had put my clothes, my weapons, my tools—all that made me the infamous Amina al-Sirafi—into storage, and unearthing the woman I used to be, carefully tucked and folded away by another’s hand, was disorienting. I had once delighted in color and flash, known by reputation to traipse about in whatever royal silks, meltingly thin muslins, and silver headdresses I had recently plundered. Part of it was about cultivating the confidence I needed to survive my chosen profession—a little madness goes a long way in convincing men that you might stab them if they step out of line.