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“The Jasad Heir perished in the Blood Summit. Everyone saw the blaze take her and the Malik and Malika. You cannot be her. She burned.”
I pictured his mind as a thousand tiny serpents, moving in a rhythmic, seething coil. A snare within a snare, and I was caught fast within it.
“There is no such thing as a worthy sacrifice. There are only those who die, and those willing to let them.”
But a temper that ignites as quickly as yours leaves ashes in its wake. I need only follow the trail.”
She was caustic and contradictory. Every time she opened her mouth, she pulled Arin to the very limits of his patience.
“I am a weapon for the Heir, and you will treat me with the dignity you afford a sword, if not a person. You are not meant to wield me.”
Apparently, by being likened to a devious demon of mishap by his Heir.
“Your kindness would be better spent on someone else.” “Impossible,” Marek said. “I’ve never met someone who needs it more.”
The Nizahl Heir is polite, brilliant, handsome. He is the opposite of a brute, and a thousand times more dangerous for it, because you cannot know from which direction he will strike.”
“Why should I owe them my life? Why is it acceptable for others to choose themselves, but it is selfish when I do it? I didn’t ask for this. I do not want it.”
Gratitude lowers women’s necks for a chain far more than it raises them for a fight.
“Men don’t see women, dear Daleel. They see power. Which one of us has more of it, and how easily they can drain it out of her.”
Sultana Vaida’s palace reflected a clear message: beware beauty’s embrace, for its guts are greedy and its teeth are sharp.
“Why do you keep trying to save me?” he said, and if I hadn’t been inches from him, I wouldn’t have heard it. “Why do you keep needing to be saved?”
It didn’t feel like betrayal. It felt like wandering through the woods for an endless night and finally stumbling into the dawn.
