The Assassin and the Underworld (Throne of Glass, #0.4)

by Sarah J. Maas

He extended the gift to her. The box in itself was a work of art, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, but she kept her face blank as she flipped open the lid. An emerald-and-gold brooch glittered in the gray afternoon light.

“You look beautiful. Though I bet you already know that.” She most certainly did.

Sam’s face paled. Her words had struck home, but it wasn’t as satisfying as she thought it would be.

“Allow me to introduce my niece, Dianna, and my ward, Sam.” His niece. That was always the story, always the

“My name is Wind,” she whispered. “And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a half-remembered song.”

He chuckled, a low, delightful sound. She was drunk, and silly, and so full of the glory of being young and alive and in the capital of the world that she could hardly contain herself.

“I have no name,” she purred. “I am whoever the keepers of my ...

“I—Sam, I don’t know how to be your friend yet. I don’t know if I know how to be anyone’s friend.

Seated on the roof ledge, she felt wonderfully insignificant—a mere speck in the vastness of the great city. Yet she also felt as if all of it were hers for the taking.