More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
He could not remember his name.
He could not remember if the thing was the prince, or if he himself had once been a prince.
A prince would have stopped the blade. A prince would have saved her.
But there was a thing waiting in the darkness, and he could not bring himself to fight it for much longer.
perhaps the King of Adarlan had grown tired of pretending he was anything but a menace
“If memory serves, you were always his favorite bitch.”
she’d never thought Chaol was stupid, but this
“Courtesy of Wesley.”
She wished Rowan were beside her, wished she could smell his pine-and-snow scent and know that no matter what news Arobynn bore, no matter how it shattered her, the Fae warrior would be there to help put the pieces back together.
“There are creatures lurking in my city,” he said. “Creatures who wear the bodies of men like clothing. I want to know what they are.”
“I think only a collar can hold a prince;
“Beheading might work for the ones with collars.” “And the people who used to own those bodies—they’re gone?”
“It would seem so.”
I’m sick of hearing the crows feasting day and night.”
This would not be that sort of death.
the world is a battlefield now
What a shame that the current owner of the Vaults, a former underling of Rourke Farran and a dealer of flesh and opiates, had accidentally run into her knives. Repeatedly.
He didn’t smile.
The woman could give Rowan a run for his money for sheer iciness.
“They don’t notice or really care about the presence of ordinary humans—only people with magic in their bloodline. Even dormant carriers.”
The grief in Chaol’s eyes kept her from speaking.
with that raw magic of his, free when hers was not … It could be critical in defeating the Valg.
She wasn’t entirely certain she could handle being touched without ripping his face off.
“Having magic free would result only in chaos—it would make things worse. Perhaps make it easier for those demons to find and feed on magic-wielders.”
“It’s Aelin now,” she snapped as loudly as she dared. “Celaena Sardothien doesn’t exist anymore.” “You’re still the same assassin who walked away. You came back only when it was useful for you.” It was an effort to keep from sending her fist into his nose.
“Dorian is my king.”
“Many things. Wicked things.”
“There’s no getting Dorian out. There’s no saving him.” “Like hell there isn’t.”
“Magic makes people dangerous.”
She wished he’d struck her instead.
Or maybe he’d been a fool all this time, a fool to look at the lives she’d taken and blood she’d so irreverently spilled, and not be disgusted.
He would not tell her how to free magic—not until he knew for certain that she wouldn’t turn Rifthold into cinders on the wind.
it had intrigued him enough that he’d spent the summer sharing her bed.
Dorian was gone.
Everything—everything was for Dorian, for his friend. For himself, he had nothing left to lose. He was nothing more than a nameless oath-breaker, a liar, a traitor.
Honestly, he didn’t know what he’d expected when the queen returned. Not this. 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.
But she was her own champion now.
Manon had never asked what was kept or done inside those mountains, though her Shadows had reported whispers of stone altars stained with blood and dungeons blacker than the Darkness itself.
the duke’s attention was fixed upon the beautiful, raven-haired woman who was never far from his side, as though tethered to him by an invisible chain. It was to her that Manon now looked while the duke pointed out the areas on the map he wanted Ironteeth scouts to survey. Kaltain—that was her name. She never said anything, never looked at anyone. A dark collar was clasped around her moon-white throat, a collar that made Manon keep her distance. Such a wrong scent around all these people. Human, but also not human. And on this woman, the scent was strongest and strangest. Like the dark,
...more
its white flesh marred with too many bruises to be accidental. And then there was the thick red scar just before the dip of her elbow, two inches long, slightly raised. It had to be recent.
“You’re not my duke,” she said. “Nor are you my grace.”
the sliver of a crescent moon rising higher: the Crone’s Sickle. A good night for hunting, if the unkind face of the Goddess now watched over them, even though the dark of the new moon—the Crone’s Shadow—was always preferred.
HEKATE REFERENCE :D
She’d kill whoever was needed, whore herself, wreck herself, if it meant getting Aedion to safety.
Though the prince didn’t move, Aedion could have sworn he recoiled, as if someone yanked on a leash, as if there was still someone in need of leashing.
The brutal scar on her arm had somehow darkened into a purplish red. Fascinating.
“To determine whether they are compatible for breeding with our allies from another realm—the Valg.”
The Valg—the demons that had bred with the Fae to create the witches—somehow
Manon sliced her nail underneath Elide’s chin, leaving a trickle of blood in its wake. And just because, Manon pulled back and sucked Elide’s blood off her iron nail. It was an effort to keep her face blank as she tasted the blood. The truth it told.
Elide has witch blood...very interesting
but she also knew that Sorrel was stone, and stone would not break.
“I went too long without demanding retribution. I have no interest in forgiveness.”
“You don’t touch Dorian.” “Me? Never,” Aelin purred. “It’s not a joke. You. Don’t. Hurt. Him.”
