As long as I live, the demon will remain inside you,” said the Darkling as Nikolai used a knife to saw through the ropes at his wrists.“We’ve made our peace.”“Some treaties do not last.”“You do love a dire prophecy, don’t you?”“Zoya will live a very long life,” the Darkling said. “Despite the demon, you may not do the same.”“Then I will love her from my grave.

Stay,” she panted. Tears leaked from her eyes. “Stay till the end.” “And after,” he said. “And always.

It’s good to feel foolish sometimes, Fjerdan.”“You only say that because you have no shame.

This is what love does. In the stories, love healed your wounds, fixed what was broken, allowed you to go on. But love wasn’t a spell, some kind of benediction to be whispered, a balm or a cure-all. It was a single, fragile thread, which grew stronger through connection, through shared hardship and trust.

I don't want your prayers, he said.What do you want, then?The old answers came easily to mind. Money. Vengeance. Jordie's voice in my head silenced forever. But a different reply roared to life inside him, loud, insistent, and unwelcome. You, Inej. You.

Didn’t someone say love is a shared delusion?

I would have come for you. And if I could't walk, I'd crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we'd fight our way out together - knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that's what we do. We never stop fighting.

Stay till the end. ""And after, and always.""I want to feel safe again. I want to go home to Ravka. ""Then I'll take you there. We'll set fire to raisins or whatever you heathens do for fun. ""Zealot.""Witch.""Barbarian.

Alina!’ His voice was raw white wood, torn from the heart of a tree. I did not turn.