You do not get to pick and choose which parts of her to love, Dorian had once said to him. He’d been right. So painfully right. Nesryn.
As she reached into her cloak for her own hidden dagger, she realized he might have been handsome were it not for the promise of violence in his pine-green eyes.
There was such glittering darkness in her, an endless rift straight through her core.
To escape death, she’d become death.“ – page 294 Crown of Midnight.
He made her want to laugh and sing and shake the world with her voice.
Now, I’d replied, I don’t know what I want. I can’t paint anymore. Why? Because that part of me is empty.
I, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, swear upon my immortal soul to guard, to nurture, and to honor Terrasen from this day until my very last.
Don’t tell me what I do and don’t deserve. Don’t tell me about tomorrow, or the future, or any of it.
Shifter or true animal, that truth lay etched in the soul of every canine. Ithan Holstrom sprinted toward Asphodel Meadows with the weight of that history behind him, burning in his heart. He prayed he was not too late.
Rowan waited, knowing she was gathering the words, hating the pain and sorrow and guilt on every line of her body. He’d sell his soul to the dark god to never have her look like that again.
The first snow of winter had begun whipping through Velaris an hour earlier.
They alighted on a little plateau covered in purple and orange wildflowers, its grasses hissing in the wind. Abraxos was practically grunting with joy, and Manon, her exhaustion as heavy as the red cloak she wore, didn’t bother to reprimand him.
I ignored the offer. Agreeing to do anything with him felt too permanent, too accepting of the bargain between us. “What do you want with me? You said you’d tell me here. So tell me.” Rhys leaned back in his chair, folding powerful arms that even the fine clothes couldn’t hide. “For this week? I want you to learn how to read.
I am Bryce Quinlan,” she said to the Gate, to the void, to all of Hel behind it. Her voice was serene – wise and laughing. “Heir to the Starborn Fae.
Her clothes were dirty, but fine enough to mark her as a thief’s target. So she’d carefully examined her ale, sniffing and then sipping it before deeming it safe. She’d still have to find food at some point soon, but not until she learned what she needed to from the Vaults: what the hell had happened in Rifthold in the months she’d been gone.
You did not fit – the mold that they shoved you into. The path you were born upon and forced to walk. You tried, and yet you did not, could not, fit. And then the path changed.” A little nod. “I know – what it is to be that way.
Outside of this rotten, festering court and kingdom, the rest of the world had loved Nehemia. It was hard not to. Celaena had adored Nehemia from the moment she’d laid eyes on her, like they were twin souls who had at last found each other. A soul-friend.
You’re exquisite,” he breathed.
Keelie was still breathing, Manon realized as they neared, the wind tearing at her face and clothes. Keelie was still breathing, and fighting like hell to keep steady. Not to survive. Keelie knew she would be dead any moment. She was fighting for the witch on her back.
There was good in people – deep down, there was always a shred of good. There had to be.