Crown of Midnight

And the world … it was moving on without her.

She had lost and lost and lost, been denied countless good-byes. But not this time—not when she could change all of that, even for a few minutes. This time, it would be different.

“No matter what your magic might be, it saved more lives than his that night.”

It wasn’t spying. And it wasn’t sneaking. Dorian was merely curious.

When Sam had died, she had tucked him into her heart, tucked him in alongside her other beloved dead, whose names she kept so secret she sometimes forgot them. But Nehemia—Nehemia wouldn’t fit. It was as if her heart was too full of the dead, too full of those lives that had ended well before their time.

she’d left everything to him. Left it to him because of what she’d felt for him

Her body was a patchwork of scars; he’d seen it with his own eyes. But these new scars might go deeper: the pain of losing Nehemia, and the different, but perhaps just as agonizing, loss of Chaol.

An awful part of him was glad she’d cut out Chaol. He hated himself for it.

“Then you will always have a place here.”

Incredibly hard to care, when you didn’t have anyone left to care about.

To escape death, she’d become death.