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Quote by Sarah J. Maas

“I'm not going to be a part of this war you think is coming. You say I should be a weapon, not a pawn- they seem like the same to me. The only difference is who's wielding it.' 'I want your help, not to manipulate you,' he snapped. His flare of tempter made me at last lift my head. 'You want my help because it'll piss off Tamlin.' Shadows danced around his shoulders- as if the wings were trying to take form. 'Fine,' he breathed. 'I dug that grave myself, with all I did Under the Mountain. But I need your help. Again, I could feel the other unspoken words. Ask me why; push me about it. And again, I didn't want to. Didn't have the energy to. Rhys said quietly, 'I was a prisoner to her court for nearly fifty years. I was tortured and beaten and fucked until only telling myself who I was, what I had to protect, kept me from trying to find a way to end it. Please- help me keep that from happening again. To Prythian.' Some distant part of my heart ached and bled at the words, at what he'd laid bare. But Tamlin had made exceptions- he'd lightened the guards' presence, allowed me to roam a bit more freely. He was trying. We were trying. I wouldn't jeopardize that. So I went back to eating. Rhys didn't say another word.”

Quote by Sarah J. Maas

Book:A Court of Mist and Fury
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A Court of Mist and Fury

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Sarah J. Maas
Sarah J. Maas

Sarah J. Maas is an American author known for her fantasy novels. Her works are celebrated for their rich imagination, complex characters, and gripping plots. Born on March 5, 1986, Maas has developed a passion for writing from a young age and has become a successful author in her own right. more

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“Start copying the alphabet. Until your letters are perfect. And every time you get through a round, lower and raise your shield. Until that is second nature. I'll be back in an hour.' 'What?' 'Copy. The. Alphabet. Until-' 'I heard what you said.' Prick. Prick, prick, prick. 'Then get to work,' Rhys uncoiled to his feet. 'And at least have the decency to only call me a prick when you shields are back up.”

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“You're going to be a High Lord's wife,' Rhys said. 'You'll be expected to maintain your own correspondences, perhaps even give a speech or two. And the Cauldron knows what else he and Ianthe will deem appropriate for you. Make menus for dinner parties, write thank-you letters for all those wedding gifts, embroider sweet phrases on pillows... It's a necessary skill. And, you know what? Why don't we throw in shielding while we're at it. Reading and shielding- fortunately, you can practice both together.' 'They are both necessary skills,' I said through my teeth, 'but you are not going to teach me.' 'What else are you going to do with yourself? Paint? How's that going these days, Feyre?”

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“The only evidence I had at all that Rhys remained on the premises were the blank copies of the alphabet, along with several sentences I was to write every day, swapping out words, each one more obnoxious that the last. Rhys is the most handsome High Lord. Rhys is the most delightful High Lord. Rhys is the most cunning High Lord. Every day, one miserable sentence- with one changing word of varying arrogance and vanity. And every day, another simple set of instructions: shield up, shield down, shield up, shield down. Over and over and over.”

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“First the shadows started- plumes of them from his back. And then, as if his rage loosened his grip on that beast he'd once told me he hated to yield to, those wings became flesh. Great, beautiful, brutal wings, membranous and clawed like a bat's, dark as night and strong as hell. Even the way he stood seemed altered- steadier, grounded. Like some final piece of him had clicked into place. But Rhysand's voice was still midnight-soft...”

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“The bond between us went taut, and my lingering mental shields collapsed. And for a heartbeat, just as it had happened Under the Mountain, I flashed from my body to his- from my eyes to his own. I had not realised... how I looked... My face was gaunt, my cheekbones sharp, my blue-grey eyes dull and smudged with purple beneath. The full lips- my father's mouth- were wan, and my collarbones jutted above the thick wool neckline of my sweater. I looked as if... as if rage and grief and despair had eaten me alive, as if I was again starved. Not for food, but... but for joy and life-”

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