Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass #1) by Sarah J. Maas

She raised the shaft of broken wood with her left hand. Cain, panting and grinning, approached.

•

Dorian clenched his teeth. Something was terribly wrong. He’d known it from the moment the duel started, and began sweating when she had the opportunity to bestow a winning blow and failed to deliver it. But now . . .

He couldn’t watch as Cain kicked her shoulder, and felt as if he’d vomit when the brute picked her up and she fell to the ground. She kept wiping her eyes, and sweat shone on her forehead. What was wrong?

He should stop it—he should call off the duel now. Let her start tomorrow, with a sword and her senses. Chaol hissed, and Dorian almost cried out as Celaena attempted to stand, but collapsed. Cain teased her—breaking not only her body, but her will . . . He had to stop it.

Cain swung his sword at Celaena, who threw herself backward—but not fast enough. She yelped as the blade sliced across her thigh, clothing and flesh ripping. Blood colored her pants. Despite it, she stood again, her face set in defiant rage.

Dorian had to help her. But if he interfered, they might just proclaim Cain the victor. So he watched, in growing horror and despair, as Cain’s fist slammed into her jaw.

Her knees twisted as she fell.

•

Something in Chaol began fraying as Celaena raised her bloodied face to look at Cain.

“I expected better,” Cain said as Celaena crawled into a kneeling position, still clutching at her useless piece of wood. She panted through her teeth, blood leaking from her lip. Cain studied her face as if he could read it, as if he could hear something Chaol couldn’t. “And what would your father say?”

An expression flashed across Celaena’s eyes that bordered on fear and confusion. “Shut your mouth,” she said, her words trembling as she fought the pain of her wounds.

But Cain kept staring at her, his smile growing. “It’s all there,” he said. “Right under that wall you built on top of it. I can see it clear as day.”

What was he talking about? Cain lifted his sword and ran his finger through the blood—her blood. Chaol reined in his disgust and anger.

Cain let out a breathy laugh. “What was it like when you woke up between your parents, covered in their blood?”

“Shut your mouth!” she said again, her free hand clawing at the ground, her face twisted with rage and anguish. Whatever wound Cain was touching, it burned.

“Your mother was a pretty young thing, wasn’t she?” Cain said.

“Be quiet!” She tried to surge to her feet, but her injured leg kept her down. She gasped for breath. How did Cain know these things about Celaena’s past? Chaol’s heart pounded wildly, but he could do nothing to help her.

She let out a wordless scream that shattered through the frozen wind as she scrambled to her feet. Her pain lost in her fury, she swung at his blade with the remnant of the staff.

“Good,” Cain panted, pressing her staff so hard that his blade sank into the wood. “But not good enough.” He shoved her, and as she staggered back a step, he brought up his leg and kicked her in the ribs. She went flying.

Chaol had never seen anyone struck that hard. Celaena hit the ground and flipped, over and over and over, until she slammed into the clock tower. Her head whacked against the black stone, and he bit down on his yell, forcing himself to remain on the sidelines, forcing himself to watch as Cain broke her apart, piece by piece. How had it gone wrong so quickly?

She trembled as she raised herself to her knees, clutching her side. She still held on to the remnant of Nehemia’s staff, as if it were a rock in the middle of a violent sea.

•

Celaena tasted blood as Cain seized her again, dragging her across the floor. She didn’t try to fight him. He could have pointed his sword at her heart at any point. This wasn’t a duel—it was an execution. And no one was doing anything to stop it. They’d drugged her. It wasn’t fair. The sunlight flickered, and she thrashed in Cain’s grip, despite the agony shooting through her body.

All around her were whispering, laughing, otherworldly voices. They called to her—but called a different name, a dangerous name . . .

She glanced skyward, seeing the tip of Cain’s chin before he hoisted her onto her feet and slammed her—face-first—into a wall of freezing, smooth stone. She was enveloped in familiar darkness. Her skull ached with the impact, but Celaena’s cry of pain was cut short as she opened her eyes to the dark and saw what appeared. Something—something dead stood before her.

It was a man, his skin pale and rotting. His eyes burned red, and he pointed at her in a broken, stiff way. His teeth were all sharp and so long they barely fit into his mouth.

Where had the world gone? The hallucinations must be starting. Light flashed as she was yanked back, and her eyes bulged as Cain threw her to the ground near the edge of the ring.

A shadow passed across the sun. It was over. She would die now—die, or lose and be sent back to Endovier. It was over. Over.

Two black boots came into view, then a pair of knees as someone crouched on the edge of the ring.

“Get up,” Chaol whispered. She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the face. It was over.

Cain began laughing, and she felt the reverberations of his steps as he walked around the ring. “Is this all you have to offer?” he shouted triumphantly. Celaena trembled. The world was awash with fog and darkness and voices.