Book: Maas. The courtyard of the Wings of Death. Page 2

Frankly, it was one of my best works, even if her indifference was obvious only to me.

Not now, I told myself with each brush stroke, every movement that I made during these weeks. Quick revenge will not help anyone or anything, except my own raging fury.

If I were to draw this yard as was suggested to me my gut, it would depict spikes, tearing the flesh, flowers, collecting sunlight in plants, smaller sizes, and the hills are painted red.

I used his power, as long as she didn't smoke in my veins, and then it went skills with my Illyrian workouts, while waving a shield and sword did not become all that I knew I could use against hordes of enemies.

I always thought that death will be similar to the peaceful return home as a sweet, sad lullaby that leads me into whatever it is after.
Now I thought the lullaby of death not a pretty song, and the buzzing of the flies. As if flies and maggots were servants of Death.

Prince Dagdan fulfilled every wish and orders of his twin. As if it was a blade that she owned to erupt across the world. He was pouring her drinks, pre-sniffing them. He chose the best pieces of meat from the dishes and neatly put them on her plate. He always gave her answer, and never looked at her with doubt in his eyes. One soul in two bodies. And the way they looked at each other, as if in silent conversation, gave me the idea that they were... maybe they were me. Damati.