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Leigh Bardugo

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“It's funny, Zoya said contemplatively. I understand why the Darkling and Nikolai want your power. But Mal looks at you like you're...well, like you're me. No he doesn't, said Tolya. He watches her the way Harshaw watches fire. Like he'll never have enough of her. Like he's trying to capture what he can before she's gone. Zoya and I gaped at him. Then she scowled. You know if you turned a bit of that poetry on me, I might consider giving you a chance. Who says I want one? I want one! called Harshaw. Zoya blew a damp curl from her forehead. Oncat has a better chance than you. Harshaw held the little tabby above him. Why, Oncat, he said. You rogue.”

“The boy and the girl had both known loss, and their grief did not leave them. Sometimes he would find her standing by a window, fingers playing in the beams of sunlight that streamed through the glass, or sitting on the front steps of the orphanage, staring at the stump of the oak next to the drive. Then he would go to her, draw her close, and lead her to the shores of Trivka's pond, where the insects buzzed and the grass grew high and sweet, where old wounds might be forgotten. She saw sadness in the boy too. Though the woods still welcomed him, he was separate from them now, the bond born into his bones burned away in the same moment that he'd given up his life for her.”

“You’re wearing his symbol,” he observed, his glance flicking to the little gold charm hanging at my neckline. “His symbol and his colour.” “They’re just clothes.” Mal’s lips twisted in a cynical smile, a smile so different from the one I knew and loved that I almost flinched. “You don’t really believe that.” “What difference does it make what I wear?” “The clothes, the jewels, even the way you look. He’s all over you.”

“Essa é sua verdadeira face, eu pensei conforme apertava os olhos na luz cegante. Os similares se atraem. Essa era sua alma transformada em carne, a verdade sobre ele deixada nua no sol brilhante, despida de mistério e sombra. Essa era a verdade por trás do seu rosto charmoso e de seus poderes milagrosos, a verdade que era o espaço vazio e morto entre as estrelas, o espaço árido preenchido de monstros amedrontados.”

“Lay down the thorn, boy king. Haven’t you earned a bit of rest? Aren’t you tired?' He was. Saints, he was. He thought he had grown used to his scars, but he had never grasped how much of his will it would take to hide them. He had fought and sacrificed and bled. He had gone long days without rest and long nights without comfort. All for Ravka, all for an ideal he would never attain and a country that would never care.”