Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass, #2)

by Sarah J. Maas

He shook his head, as if silently chiding himself. “Did Sam love

you?” Yes. More than anyone had ever loved her. He’d loved her enough to risk everything—to give up everything. He’d loved her so much that she still felt the echoes of it, even now. “Very much,” she breathed.

He got to his feet, his eyes so bright. “I’ll walk you back to your room.” She lifted her chin. “I thought I didn’t need to be escorted everywhere now.” “You don’t,” he said, walking to the door. “But it is something that friends tend to do.”

She had a flicker of memory from a time when, just for a moment, she’d been free; when the world had been wide open and she’d been about to enter it with Sam at her side. It was a freedom that she was still working for, because even though she’d tasted it only for a heartbeat, it had been the most exquisite heartbeat she’d ever experienced.

Honestly, she sometimes wondered if there was something a bit wrong with her for being able to cry so easily.

Perhaps there was an unstoppable magic inherent in music and art.

He would move on. Because he would not be like the ancient kings in the song and keep her for himself. She deserved a loyal, brave knight who saw her for what she was and did not fear her. And he deserved someone who would look at him like that, even if the love wouldn’t be the same, even if the girl wouldn’t be her. So Dorian closed his eyes, and took another long breath. And when he opened his eyes, he let her go.

The moonlight and the garden and the golden glow from the ballroom blurred together, now miles away. “We’ll never be a normal boy and girl, will we?” she managed to say. “No,” he breathed, eyes blazing. “We won’t.” And then the music exploded around them, and Chaol took her with it, spinning her so that her cloak fanned out around her. Each step was flawless, lethal, like that first time they’d sparred together so many months ago. She knew his every move and he knew hers, as though they’d been dancing this waltz together all their lives. Faster, never faltering, never breaking her stare. The rest of the world quieted into nothing. In that moment, after ten long years, Celaena looked at Chaol and realized she was home.

And why, when she had said them, something ancient and slumbering deep inside of him had opened an eye.

Trying to learn them while also trying to unravel the labyrinth that was Chaol Westfall was impossible.

You know, the courts weren’t always like this, Nehemia had said. There was a time when people valued honor and loyalty—when serving a ruler wasn’t about obedience and fear…. Do you think another court like that could ever rise again? Celaena hadn’t given Nehemia an answer. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it. But looking at Chaol now, at the man he was, and the man he was still becoming … Yes, she thought. Yes, Nehemia. It could rise again, if we could find more men like him

And then there were tears rolling down her face, and her mouth became a thin, wobbling line. He pulled back, but didn’t let her go. “Why are you crying?” “Because,” she whispered, her voice shaking, “you remind me of how the world ought to be. What the world can be.”

The kiss obliterated her. It was like coming home or being born or suddenly finding an entire half of herself that had been missing.

“Does your love for yourself know no bounds?” “Absolutely none.”

If they wanted Adarlan’s Assassin, they’d get her. And Wyrd help them when she arrived.

Her rage took her to a place where she only knew three things: that Chaol had been taken from her, that she was a weapon forged to end lives, and that if Chaol was hurt, no one was going to walk out of that warehouse.

She tipped her head back and gave the moon a wicked smile. She’d been called Adarlan’s Assassin for a reason. Dramatic entrances were practically her art form.

But death was her curse and her gift, and death had been her good friend these long, long years.

Then Celaena and the King of Adarlan smiled at each other, and it was the most terrifying thing Dorian had ever seen.

So Celaena just hovered at the pianoforte, tracing her fingers over the keys again and again, and let the silence devour her.

I want you to know that in the darkness of the past ten years, you were one of the bright lights for me. Do not let that light go out.

“Cast that thought into the far reaches of your mind. Knowing the truth, whatever it may be, will not change what you must do tomorrow—where you must go.”

Ashryver Eyes The fairest eyes, from legends old Of brightest blue, ringed with gold