The Assassin's Blade by Sarah J. Maas

Reality opened wide and swallowed her whole.

She didn’t move from the bed.




She knew the day was drifting along because of the shifting light on the wall of the bedroom. She knew the world still passed by, unaffected by the death of a young man, unaware that he’d ever existed and breathed and loved her. She hated the world for continuing on. If she never left this bed, this room, maybe she’d never have to continue on with it.

The memory of his face was already blurring. Had his eyes been more golden brown, or soil brown? She couldn’t remember. And she’d never get the chance to find out.

Never get to see that half smile. Never get to hear his laugh, never get to hear him say her name like it meant something special, something more than being Adarlan’s Assassin ever could.

She didn’t want to go out into a world where he didn’t exist. So she watched the light shift and change, and let the world pass by without her.




Someone was speaking outside her door. Three men with low voices. The rumble of them shook her from sleep to find the room was dark, the city lights glowing beyond the windows.

“Jayne and Farran will be expecting retaliation,” a man said. Harding, one of Arobynn’s more talented assassins, and a fierce competitor of hers.

“Their guards will be on alert,” said another—Tern, an older assassin.

“Then we’ll take out the guards, and while they’re distracted, some of us will go for Jayne and Farran.” Arobynn. She had a foggy memory of being carried—hours or years or a lifetime ago—up from that dark room that smelled of death and into her bed.

Muffled replies from Tern and Harding, then—

“We strike tonight,” Arobynn growled. “Farran lives at the house, and if we time it right, we’ll kill them both while they’re in their beds.”

“Getting to the second floor isn’t as simple as walking up the stairs,” Harding challenged. “Even the exteriors are guarded. If we can’t get through the front, then there’s a small second-story window that we can leap through using the roof of the house next door.”

“A leap like that could be fatal,” Tern countered.

“Enough,” Arobynn cut in. “I’ll decide how to break in when we arrive. Have the others ready to go in three hours. I want us on our way at midnight. And tell them to keep their mouths shut. Someone must have tipped off Farran if he knew to set a trap for Sam. Don’t even tell your servants where you’re going.”

Grunted acquiescence, then footsteps as Tern and Harding walked away.

Celaena kept her eyes closed and her breathing steady as the lock turned in her bedroom door. She recognized the even, confident gait of the King of the Assassins striding toward her bed. Smelled him as he stood over her, watching. Felt his long fingers as they stroked through her hair, then along her cheek.

Then the steps leaving, the door shutting—and locking. She opened her eyes, the glow of the city offering enough light for her to see that the lock on the door had been altered since she’d left—it now locked only from the outside.

He had locked her in.

To keep her from going with them? To keep her from helping to pay back Farran for every inch of flesh he’d tortured, every bit of pain Sam had endured?

Farran was a master of torture, and he’d kept Sam all night.

Celaena sat up, her head spinning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Food could wait. Everything could wait.

Because in three hours, Arobynn and his assassins would venture out to exact vengeance. They’d rob her of her claim to revenge—the satisfaction of slaughtering Farran and Jayne and anyone who stood in her way. And she had no intention of letting them do it.

She stalked to the door and confirmed that it was locked. Arobynn knew her too well. Knew that when the blanket of grief had been ripped away …

Even if she could spring the lock, she had no doubt that there was at least one assassin watching the hall outside her bedroom. Which left the window.

The window itself was unlocked—but the two-story drop was formidable. While she’d been sleeping, someone had taken off her suit and given her a nightgown. She ripped apart the armoire for any sign of the suit—its boots were designed for climbing—but all she found were two black tunics, matching pants, and ordinary black boots. Fine.

There were no weapons in sight, and she hadn’t brought any in with her. But years of living in this room had its advantages. She kept her motions quiet as she pulled up the loose floorboards where she’d long ago hidden a set of four daggers. She sheathed two at her waist and tucked the other two into her boots. Then she found the twin swords she’d kept disguised as part of the bed frame since she was fourteen. Neither the daggers nor the sword had been good enough to bring with her when she moved. Today they would do.

When she’d finished strapping the blades across her back, she rebraided her hair and fitted on her cloak, throwing the hood over her head.

She’d kill Jayne first. And then she’d drag Farran to a place where she could properly repay him and take however long she wanted. Days, even. When that debt was paid, when Farran had no more agony or blood to offer, she’d place Sam in the embrace of the earth and send him to the afterlife knowing he’d been avenged.

She eased open the window, scanning the front courtyard. The dew-slick stones gleamed in the lamplight, and the sentries at the iron gate seemed focused on the street beyond.