The Assassin's Blade by Sarah J. Maas

Doneval knelt before the loose floorboard and pulled it up. He swore.

Celaena flicked the sword out of the hidden compartment in her suit and moved.



She was out of the closet before they even looked at her, and Doneval died a heartbeat after that. His blood sprayed from the spine-severing wound she gave him through the back of his neck, and the other man let out a shout. She whirled toward him, the sword flicking blood.

An explosion rocked the house, so strong that she lost her footing.

What in hell had Sam detonated down there?

That was all the man needed—he was out the study door. His speed was admirable; he moved like someone used to a lifetime of running.

She was through the threshold almost instantly. Smoke was already rising from the stairs. She turned left after the man, only to run into Philip, the bodyguard.

She rebounded away as he swiped with a sword for her face. Behind him, the man was still running, and he glanced over his shoulder once before he sprinted down the stairs.

“What have you done?” Philip spat, noticing the blood on her blade. He didn’t need to see whose face was under the mask to identify her—he must have recognized the suit.

She deployed the sword in her other arm, too. “Get the hell out of my way.” The mask made her words low and gravely—the voice of a demon, not a young woman. She slashed the swords in front of her, a deadly whine coming off of them.

“I’m going to rip you limb from limb,” Philip growled.

“Just try it.”

Philip’s face twisted in rage as he launched himself at her.

She took the first blow on her left blade, her arm aching at the impact, and Philip barely moved away fast enough to avoid her punching the right blade straight through his gut. He struck again, a clever thrust toward her ribs, but she blocked him.

He pressed both her blades. Up close, she could see his weapon was of impressive quality.

“I wanted to make this last,” Celaena hissed. “But I think it’s going to be quick. Far cleaner than the death you tried to give me.”

Philip shoved her back with a roar. “You have no idea what you’ve just done!”

She swung her swords in front of her again. “I know exactly what I’ve just done. And I know exactly what I’m about to do.”

Philip charged, but the hallway was too narrow and his blow too undisciplined. She got past his guard instantly. His blood soaked her gloved hand.

Her sword whined against bone as she whipped it out again.

Philip’s eyes went wide and he staggered back, clutching the slender wound that went up through his ribs and into his heart. “Fool,” he whispered, slumping to the ground. “Did Leighfer hire you?”

She didn’t say anything as he struggled for breath, blood bubbling from his lips.

“Doneval …,” Philip rasped, “… loved his country …” He took a wet breath, hate and grief mingling in his eyes. “You don’t know anything.” He was dead a moment later.

“Maybe,” she said as she looked down at his body. “But I knew enough just then.”



It had taken less than two minutes—that was it. She knocked out two guards as she catapulted down the stairs of the burning house and out the front door, disarming another three when she vaulted over the iron fence and into the streets of the capital.

Where in hell had the man gone?

There were no alleys from the house to the river, so he hadn’t gone left. Which meant he had gone either straight through the alley ahead of her or to the right. He wouldn’t have gone to the right—that was the main avenue of the city, where the wealthy lived. She took the alley straight ahead.

She sprinted so fast she could hardly breathe, snapping her swords back into their hidden compartment.

No one noticed her; most people were too busy rushing toward the flames now licking the sky above Doneval’s house. What had happened to Sam?

She spotted the man then, sprinting down an alley that led toward the Avery. She almost missed him, because he was around the corner and gone the next instant. He’d mentioned his partners—was he was headed to them now? Would he be that foolish?

She splashed through puddles and leapt over trash and grabbed the wall of a building as she hauled herself around the corner. Right into a dead end.

The man was trying to scale the large brick wall at the other end. The buildings surrounding them had no doors—and no windows low enough for him to reach.

Celaena popped out both of her swords as she slowed to a stalking gait.

The man made one last leap for the top of the wall, but couldn’t reach. He fell hard against the cobblestone streets. Sprawled on the ground, he twisted toward her. His eyes were bright as he pulled out a pile of papers from his worn jacket. What sort of documents had he been bringing to Doneval? Their official business contract?

“Go to hell,” he spat, and a match flared. The papers were instantly alight, and he threw them to the ground. So fast she could hardly see it, he grabbed a vial from his pocket and swallowed the contents.

She lunged toward him, but she was too late.

By the time she grabbed him, he was dead. Even with his eyes closed, the rage remained on his face. He was gone. Irrevocably gone. But for what—some business deal gone sour?

Easing him to the ground, she jumped swiftly to her feet. She stomped on the papers, extinguishing the flame in seconds. But half of them had already burned, leaving only scraps.