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There was an art to dealing death. It demanded a sure hand with a blade, steel-edged dexterity as elegant as a painter wielding brush and graphite.
At least the bolt’s head isn’t bloody iron! he thought. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the crossbow bolt and ripped it free.
👀
To give his eyes a chance to adjust to the lantern light, and his body time to re-knit torn flesh and muscle.
Oh?
The Hunter hauled himself upward in a powerful surge of long, lean muscles that propelled him over the railing to land on the deck of the ship.
Maybe undead assassin, like a vampire
A wolf closing on a wounded deer.
Werewolf assassin would be fun 🐺
He was uncomfortable around weapons, queasy at the sight of blood, and preferred flight to fight.
Jak is an interesting fellow
favorite part of the Maiden’s Fields: the Snowblossom-lined walkways. The trees were in full bloom despite the late time of year. Delicate white and pink blossoms drifted slowly to the paved walkways like a lazy velvet snowfall, their sweet scent filling the air with a heady aroma.
love the contrast of beauty in a dark novel
Fools, he thought. If only you knew how fragile that thing you see as love truly is.
You think you will find meaning in your life by joining it with that of another, but in the end, you walk into the darkness alone.
Thoughts of sticky buns lifted the Hunter’s spirit.
"Of course, Fari." The Hunter gave her a bright smile. "I know! I'll buy the last flowers from you so you can return now."
this child is going to die, isn't she?
The Hunter gave him a mocking smile. "For a priest, you certainly know which end of a sword goes where." "You mean here?" The priest leaped forward.
Jak!
rip
“Who hurt you?”
a question I ask everyone in this book
His body moved of its own accord. One staggering step on numb feet, propelling him toward the door. The awkward, ungainly shuffle transformed into a determined march, then the furious prowl of a predator tasting windborne spoor.
People like Jak and Karrl, Old Nan, and all the others who now lay dead. By slaughtering them, the First had made a grave mistake. He’d shattered the Hunter’s restraints, taken away the only thing that had stayed his hand all these years.
No, no, no!
please don't kill the child
ruffling, and moonlight shone on a little body lying on the edge of the vast, bottomless pit.
😱
One moment Brother Securus had stood poised to kill him; the next the priest was just…gone.
Dang, was kind of hoping they would team up
closer to the Midden.
Wonder if it's a demon hole
He dreamed of pain. Rivers of blood staining the muddy streets a hideous crimson.
Bardin burst into a loud, ringing cackle that echoed through the small shelter.
I like him and I hope he doesn't die
Bardin’s beggar friends, perhaps?
I wonder if it's the Fourth
There, the Hunter had finally shed the tattered clothes he’d worn for more than a week.
He must have been so gross walking around that city
Yet no suit of armor could shield him from the anguish that swelled within his chest at the sight of the ruined building he’d once called home. No blade proved sharp enough to slice away the burden of guilt that settled onto his shoulders when he strode past the pile of burned bodies.
The voice in the Hunter’s mind wailed incoherently,
drama queen
For Bardin’s sake, I’ll bloody well do it!
I'll be sad if he's dead
Soulhunger’s tip punched out the front of Bardin’s chest in a burst of crimson.
Well dang
A new figure of brilliant blue-white light materialized among their midst. Bardin, his eyes clear and mind at peace, came to stand in front of him and rested a hand on his shoulder. You have not failed, Hardwell.
🥲
He straightened, his determination renewed. “I want none of your power,” he spat, drawing an iron-edged blade. “At this moment, there is only one thing I desire.” He leveled Soulhunger at the demon’s face. “Your death!”
“You bastard!” spat a familiar woman’s voice.
I was wondering where she'd gone
