A Court of Frost and Starlight (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3.5)

by Sarah J. Maas

Warm, buttery sunlight through the leaves, setting them glowing like rubies and citrines. The damp, earthen scent of rotting things beneath the leaves and roots she lay upon. Had been thrown and left upon. Everything hurt. Everything. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but watch the sun drift through the rich canopy far overhead, listen to the wind between the silvery trunks. And the center of that pain, radiating outward like living fire with each uneven, rasping breath … Light, steady steps crunched on the leaves. Six sets. A border guard, a patrol. Help. Someone to help— A male voice, foreign and deep, swore. Then went silent. Went silent as a single pair of steps approached. She couldn’t turn her head, couldn’t bear the agony. Could do nothing but inhale each wet, shuddering breath. “Don’t touch her.” Those steps stopped. It was not a warning to protect her. Defend her. She knew the voice that spoke. Had dreaded hearing it. She felt him approach now. Felt each reverberation in the leaves, the moss, the roots. As if the very land shuddered before him. “No one touches her,” he said. Eris. “The moment we do, she’s our responsibility.” Cold, unfeeling words. “But—but they nailed a—” “No one touches her.” Nailed. They had spiked nails into her. Had pinned her down as she screamed, pinned her down as she roared at them, then begged them. And then they had taken out those long, brutal iron nails. And the hammer. Three of them. Three strikes of the hammer, drowned out by ...