Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass, #1)

by Sarah J. Maas

Princes are not supposed to be handsome! They’re sniveling, stupid, repulsive creatures! This one … this … How unfair of him to be royal and beautiful.

She didn’t dream, but when she awoke, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Small white flowers lay at the foot of her cot, and many infant-sized footprints led in and out of the tent.

Celaena was so miserably cold that she contemplated throwing herself into a ravine,

Same sis

She felt as though she were in a state of partial decay, and with each gust of frigid, stinging wind, she wondered when her skin would rip from her bones.

And then no one noticed that she was still screaming when they buried her alive.

Still, the image haunted his dreams throughout the night: a lovely girl gazing at the stars, and the stars who gazed back.

What a ridiculous idea: a castle made of glass.

“Only an idiot would walk in a house made of glass.”

Libraries were full of ideas—perhaps the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons.

“I hate women like that. They’re so desperate for the attention of men that they’d willingly betray and harm members of their own sex. And we claim men cannot think with their brains! At least men are direct about it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thank you so much for interfering on my behalf.” “You don’t need me to rescue you.” “It still would have been nice.” “You can fight your own battles.”

As his name suggested, Bill Chastain, the Eye Eater, ate the eyes of his victims.

“Yes, well, hopefully you’ll read something of quality before I see you again.” He sniffed the air as he walked out of her room. “Hopefully you’ll take a bath before I see you again.”

“And what’s wrong with headstrong girls?” she pressed. “Other than the fact that they’re not wooden-headed ninnies who can only open their mouths to give orders and gossip?”

I am Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan’s Assassin. If these men knew who I was, they’d stop laughing. I am Celaena Sardothien. I am going to win. I will not be afraid.

“Oh, Dorian.” She put a hand over her heart. “You’re not about to inform me that you wish to marry for love, are you? Love does not guarantee a successful marriage.”

There she was.

Apparently, a woman can only go so long without a sword between her hands.”

“I will not spar with the princess.” “Would you rather spar with me?” “Perhaps if we had a private lesson in your chambers,” he said smoothly. “Tonight.” “I’ll be waiting.” She curled her hair around a finger.

He was charming, she supposed. In an arrogant sort of way. But someone with his title could have been far, far worse. It made her uneasy how he’d made her blush. In fact, he was so attractive that she had difficulty not thinking about how attractive he was, and again wondered why he wasn’t married. She sort of wanted to kiss him.

“You seemed rather friendly with Sardothien,” Chaol said, his voice cold. “Jealous, are we?” Dorian teased. “I’m more concerned for your safety. She might be pretty and might impress you with her cleverness, but she’s still an assassin, Dorian.”

“You worry too much.” “It’s my occupation to worry.” “Then you’ll have gray hair before you’re twenty-five, and Sardothien certainly will not fall in love with you.”

the way music could break and heal and make everything seem possible and heroic.

She was surprised that her hands had not forgotten, that somewhere in her mind, after a year of darkness and slavery, music was still alive and breathing.

He had come here with the intention of embarrassing a snide assassin, and had instead found a young woman pouring her secrets into a pianoforte.

You just called me little more than a whoremonger.”

Though she was asleep on the bed, she still wore that strange dress. Somehow, it seemed far more fitting now that she lay sprawled upon the red blanket. Her golden hair was spread around her, and a flush of pink bloomed on her cheeks. A book lay by her side, open and still waiting for her to turn the page. He remained in the doorway, fearful that she’d wake up if he took another step. Some assassin. She hadn’t even bothered to stir. But there was nothing of the assassin in her face. Not a trace of aggression or bloodlust lay across her features. He knew her somehow. And he knew she wouldn’t harm him. It made little sense.

She was still in her clothes, and while she looked beautiful, that did nothing to mask the killing potential that lay beneath. It was present in her strong jaw, in the slope of her eyebrows, in the perfect stillness of her form. She was a honed blade made by the King of Assassins for his own profit. She was a sleeping animal—a mountain cat or a dragon—and her markings of power were everywhere.

Why was the woman’s face bathed in moonlight and the man’s in darkness?

Yin and yang?

Nothing is a coincidence. Everything has a purpose.

“Courage of the heart is very rare,” she said with sudden calm. “Let it guide you.”

Dorian’s blood went a bit cold. “You think they’ll try to kill Celaena?” “I added some extra guards around her rooms.” “To protect her, or to keep her in?”

“You’re going to hit the left wall,” he said, crossing his arms. “I’m going to hit you in the head if you don’t shut up.”

She turned her head to meet his gaze. His brows rose, and, still staring at him, she smiled wickedly as she blindly fired the arrow. The whiz of the arrow’s flight filled the stone hallway before the faint, dull thud of impact.

Yasssss her Nathan Scott moment

Chaol put a hand on the hilt of his sword. “It’s going to be fine. The element of surprise is gone, that’s all. You’ll still beat Cain in the duels.” She half smiled. “You know, it’s starting to sound like you actually believe in me. You’d better be careful.”

“I like music,” she said slowly, “because when I hear it, I … I lose myself within myself, if that makes sense. I become empty and full all at once, and I can feel the whole earth roiling around me.

“Why aren’t you married yet?” “Married? I’m nineteen!”

“I’m not married,” he said softly, “because I can’t stomach the idea of marrying a woman inferior to me in mind and spirit. It would mean the death of my soul.”

Worse than that, she realized, she liked him.

The outsiders looked out for each other.

“We’re friends,” Nehemia said softly. “When you need me, I’ll be there.” Celaena’s throat tightened, and she put a hand on Nehemia’s shoulder. “No one has called me friend in a long time,” the assassin said.

Aren’t you coming with us?” He slumped down into the pen, and the puppies immediately leapt on him. “Perhaps I’ll see you later tonight.” “If you’re lucky,” Celaena purred, and walked away. She smiled to herself as they strode through the castle.

She moaned into her pillow. “Go away. I feel like dying.” “No fair maiden should die alone,” he said, putting a hand on hers. “Shall I read to you in your final moments? What story would you like?”

“What are you staring at?” “You’re beautiful,” Dorian said before he could think. “Don’t be stupid.”

She was deceitful, cunning, vicious. But he couldn’t make his feet move. With each day, he felt the barriers melting. He let them melt. Because of her genuine laugh, because he caught her one afternoon sleeping with her face in the middle of a book, because he knew that she would win.

She was a criminal—a prodigy at killing, a Queen of the Underworld—and yet … yet she was just a girl, sent at seventeen to Endovier.

“Are you my present, or is there something in that basket at your feet?” she asked. “If you’d like to unwrap me,” he said, lifting the large wicker basket onto the table, “we still have an hour until the temple service.”

Because somehow, the thought of him getting hurt—or worse—made her willing to risk just about anything.

He didn’t know why, but seeing her made him feel like a man.

Dorian’s expression was full of—something. Joy? Wonder? His shoulders were straight, his back erect. He looked like a man. Like a king.