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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 3 years

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Lounging in the shadows of the wooden banquette, a glass of wine before him.

Arobynn looked exactly as he had the last time she’d seen him: fine-boned aristo face, silky auburn hair that grazed his shoulders, and a deep-blue tunic of exquisite make, unbuttoned with an assumed casualness at the top to reveal a toned chest beneath.

No sign at all of a necklace or chain. His long, muscles arm was draped across the back of the bench, and his tanned, scar-flecked fingers drummed a beat in time with the hall music.

“Hello, darling,” he purred, his silver eyes bright even in the dimness.

-Queen of Shadows

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 3 years

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The breath was sucked from his chest, and his ribs groaned in agony. But there was nothing Dorian could do to stop it.

He wrenched his arm from one of the guards - wrenched it free and reached, bellowing.

He had just touched Sorscha’s limp hand when cool stone gripped his throat, there was a faint click and hiss and the darkness swept in to tear him apart.

-Heir of Fire

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 3 years

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He had come for her. She held his gaze as she grabbed her own dagger and cut her palm, right over the scar she’d given herself at Nehemia’s grave. And though she knew he could read the words on her face, she said, “To whatever end?”

He nodded, and she joined hands with him, blood to blood and soul to soul, his other and coming around to grip her tightly. Their hands clasped between them, he whispered into her ear,

“I claim you, too, Aelin Galathynius.”

-Heir of Fire

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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Far up the hill, as if they had come racing down from the mountains and had not stopped for food or water or sleep, were a towering man, a massive bird, and three of the largest predators she had ever seen.

Five in all.

Answering their friend’s desperate call for aid.

They hurtled through the trees and over stones: two wolves, one black and one moon-white; the powerfully built make; the bird swooping low over them; and a familiar mountain car racing behind. Heading for the darkness looking between them and the fortress.

— Heir of Fire

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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The madam knelt before Chaol and opened the box in her hands. Three pipes now lay on the low-lying table before them. “You need to play the part,” she breathed, glanced over her shoulder through the thick black veil, no doubt calculating how much time they had left.

Chaol didn’t even try to object as she used rouge to redden the skin around his eyes, applied some paste and powder to leech the colour from his face, shook free a few buttons on his tunic, and mussed his hair. “Lay back, limp and loose, and keep the pipe in your hand. Smoke it if you need to take the edge off.”

That was all she told him before she got to work on Aedion, who had finished stuffing Ren into his clean clothes. In moments, the three of them were reclined on the reeking cushions, and the madam had bustled off with Ren’s bloody tunic.

—Heir of Fire

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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“I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name”

“It’s Sorscha,” she said, though there was no anger in it, as there should have been. The spoiled prince and his entitled friends, too absorbed in their own lives to bother learning the name of the healer who had patched them up again and again.

She finished wrapping his hand and he said, “In case we didn’t say it often enough, thank you.”

Those green-flecked brown eyes lifted again. A tentative smile. “It’s an honor, Prince.”

—Heir of Fire

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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The boom of swords striking shields in salute echoed from the hallway, and Aedion Ashryver—the King of Adarlan’s infamous General of the North and cousin to Aelin Galathynius—stalked into the Great Hall.

The hall fell silent, including his father and the king at the high table. Before Aedion was halfway across the room, Chaol was positioned at the bottom of the dais.

It wasn’t that the young general was a threat. Rather, it was the way Aedion prowled toward the king’s table, his shoulder-length hair gleaming in the torchlight as he smirked at them all.

—Heir of Fire

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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Celaena Sardothien wasn’t in league with Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.

Celaena Sardothien was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir to the throne and rightful Queen of Terrasen.

Celaena was Aelin Galathynius, the greatest living threat to Adarlan, the one person who could raise an army capable of standing against the king. Now, she was also the one person who knew the secret source of the king’s power—and who sought a way to destroy it.

—Crown of Midnight

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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It had not snowed since before Nehemia’s murder, so it was easy enough to spot the grave by the upturned earth before it. There were no flowers, not even a headstone. Just fresh soul and a sword thrust into the earth—one of the curved swords of Nehemia’s fallen guard. Apparently, no one had bothered to give her anything more, not when she would be retrieved and brought back to Eyllwe.

Celaeana stares at the dark, tilled earth, a chill wind rustling her veil.

Her chest ached, but this was the one last thing she had to do, the one last honor she could give her friend.

Celaena tilted her head to the sky, closed her eyes, and began to sing.

—Crown of Midnight

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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Heart racing, Dorian lowered his hands from his head and looked at them. There wasn’t a bruise or a cut, or even a trace of pain. But he’d hit that all as hard as he could. He could have—should have—broken his hand. Yet his knuckles were unharmed—only white from gripping his fingers in a tight fist. On trembling legs, Dorian rose and surveyed the damage. The wall splintered, but remained intact. The ancient window, however, had shattered completely. And around him, around where he had crouched...

A perfect circle, clean of debris, as if the glass and wood had showered everything but him.

—Crown of Midnight

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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“Celaena,” he breathed, his voice laced with pain—and hope. This was all she had left— his outstretched hand, and the promise of hope, of something better waiting on the other side of that line. Moving her arm made sparks dance before her eyes, but she extended it until her fingertips reached the line of chalk, and stayed there, not a quarter of an inch from Chaol, the thick white mark separating them. She lifted her eyes to his face and found his gaze lines with silver. “Get up,” was all he said.

—Throne of Glass

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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The mercenary has already tied one end of his climbing rope around the gargoyle’s neck; now she seized it and tied the other around her own waist. The rope was long enough—and strong enough, and the four gargoyles perched beside hers would provide enough space to run. “Touch this rope and I’ll gut you,” she warned the mercenary and readied herself.

—Throne of Glass

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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Every morning, more and more ladies found excuses to be walking through the gardens just after dawn. At first, it had just been a few young women who’d taken one look at Chaol and his sweaty, clingy clothes and halted their walk.

—Crown of Midnight

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lavellancoloursinsidethelines · 4 years

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No — she wasn’t human at all.

—Crown of Midnight

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