What Are The Biggest Plot Twists In 'Gideon The Ninth'?

Let me geek out about 'Gideon the Ninth'—the plot twists aren’t just surprises; they rewrite the entire story’s foundation. The first bombshell is the Lyctor process: it requires consuming your cavalier’s soul, a truth hidden behind poetic nonsense about 'undying loyalty.' When Harrowhark completes the process with Gideon’s unwilling sacrifice, it flips their dynamic from frenemies to tragedy. Gideon’s identity as the Emperor’s heir isn’t dropped as a reveal; it’s woven into her disdain for authority, making her defiance ironic in hindsight.

The mansion’s haunting isn’t random ghosts—it’s the accumulated screams of cavaliers consumed by their necromancers, a visceral critique of the Empire’s cruelty. The biggest mind-bender? The Emperor isn’t a benevolent ruler; he’s a parasite recycling souls to maintain power. Gideon’s resurrection as a Lyctor puppet exposes his cycle of exploitation. What starts as a goth murder mystery ends as a rebellion manifesto, with Harrow’s grief-stricken actions setting up a war against the system that doomed them both.

Bonus twist: Cytherea’s murder spree isn’t just villainy—she’s a rogue Lyctor trying to expose the Emperor’s lies, adding moral grayness to the carnage. The book’s genius is how every twist reframes earlier scenes, like Gideon’s jokes about 'shitty dad energy' suddenly cutting deep.

If you think 'Gideon the Ninth' is just bones and sarcasm, buckle up. The twists hit like a sledgehammer. Gideon Nav? She’s actually A.I. (Alecto’s Imprint), a clone of the Emperor’s original lost daughter. Harrow’s obsession with her isn’t hatred—it’s guilt, because Harrow’s family murdered Gideon’s predecessors. The trial’s real purpose hits different when you realize the 'perfect Lyctor' is a myth; the process always destroys the cavalier. The skeletons in the basement aren’t décor—they’re previous failures, their voices begging Gideon to run.

Harrow’s final act—binding Gideon’s soul to her own—isn’t redemption. It’s theft, wrapped in love. The Emperor’s reveal as a soul-hoarding tyrant makes Gideon’s resurrection horrifying; she’s not reborn, she’s repurposed. Even the setting twists: the mansion isn’t a trial ground, it’s a tomb for the Empire’s sins. The book’s last line? Gideon waking up in a new body, screaming—not victory, but another cycle of exploitation.

I still get chills thinking about the twists in 'Gideon the Ninth'. The biggest shocker is Gideon herself—she’s not just some sword-swinging muscle; she’s the Emperor’s lost daughter, a secret buried so deep even she didn’t know. The whole necromancer trial isn’t about picking a Lyctor at all; it’s a slaughterhouse to create them, with Harrowhark sacrificing her cavalier to become one. The moment Gideon realizes she’s the sacrifice? Brutal. And Harrow’s betrayal hits harder because their rivalry hides something darker—Harrow’s love is twisted into desperation. The skeletons aren’t just minions; they’re failed Lyctors, screaming in the walls. The book’s last pages reveal the Emperor’s game: he’s been farming Lyctors for centuries, and Gideon’s resurrection as a puppet? Chef’s kiss.