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“Rhys's face was drawn, his shoulders tense as I gripped them. I knew what to expect, but... even after he told me what he needed me to do, even after I had agreed, he'd been... aloof. Haunted. Worried for me, I realised. And just because of that worry, just to get that tightness off his face, even for these few minutes before we faced his unholy realm beneath that mountain, I said over the wind, 'Amren and Mor told me that the span of an Illyrian male's wings says a lot about the size of... other parts.' His eyes shot to mine, then to pine-tree-coated slopes below. 'Did they now.' I shrugged in his arms, trying not to think about the naked body that night all those weeks ago- though I hadn't glimpsed much. 'They also say Azriel's wings are the biggest.' Mischief danced in those violet eyes, washing away the cold distance, the strain. The spymaster was a black blur against the pale blue sky. 'When we return home, let's get out the measuring stick, shall we?” — Sarah J. Maas