A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses #4) by Sarah J. Maas

Every hated enemy, every moment she’d been powerless against them simmered to the surface. And with each movement of the sword, each breath, a thought formed. It echoed with every inhale, every thrust and block.

Never again.

Never again would she be weak.

Never again would she be at someone’s mercy.

Never again would she fail.

Never again, never again, never again.

Cassian’s voice stopped, and then the world paused, and all that existed was him, his fierce smile, as if he knew what song roared in her blood, as if he alone understood that the blade was an instrument to channel this raging fire in her.

The other females were utterly silent. Their hesitation and shock shimmered in the air.

Slowly, Nesta broke her stare from Cassian and looked to Emerie and Gwyn, already moving across the ring. Cassian had the wooden swords ready by the time they arrived.

No fear shone in their eyes. As if they, too, saw what Cassian did. As if they, too, heard those words within Nesta’s head.

Never again.





CHAPTER

39

The fire inside her didn’t stop.

Nesta could barely get through her work in the library that afternoon thanks to that fire, that bouncing energy. By the time the clock chimed six, she bade Clotho farewell and went straight to the outside stairwell.

Down and down, around and around and around.

Step to step to step.

She didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

As if she had been freed from a cage she hadn’t realized she’d been held in.

Every step downward, she heard the words. Never again.

She had escaped the kelpie by pure luck. But she had been terrified. As terrified as when she’d been hauled into the depths of the Cauldron, as terrified as she’d been with Tomas. At least with Tomas, she had fought. With the kelpie, she had barely done anything until the Mask had spared her.

She had become so afraid. So meek and trembling. It was unacceptable. Unacceptable that she had let herself balk and cower and curl inward.

Down and down, around and around and around.

Step to step to step.

Never again. Never, ever again.

Nesta reached the six thousandth step and began the ascent.



The first of the autumnal rains arrived the next day, and Cassian half-expected the priestesses not to show up for practice, but they were already waiting in the cold and wet when he entered the training ring. None bothered to use magic to keep dry.

As if they wanted the grit, the extra effort.

In the center of the group stood Nesta, her eyes already focused.

Cassian’s blood heated, unable to keep his desire contained at the sight of that fierceness in her face, the eagerness to learn more, push harder.

He hadn’t sought her out last night, deciding to sleep at the river house rather than risk temptation. The sex had been that good—and he knew if he didn’t put up some semblance of a barrier, it’d consume him entirely. She’d consume him entirely.

Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn stood together, and—there were three new priestesses today.

“Ladies,” he said by way of greeting, surveying the eleven soaked females waiting like troops to be commanded on a battlefield. Roslin had removed her hood, revealing a head of deep red hair and pale skin over delicate features. Her eyes were the color of caramel, and if she was afraid to be revealing her face at last, she did not let on. Cassian surveyed the rest of the lineup, and—well, that was new. Gwyn was in Illyrian leathers. Nesta’s old ones, from the scent of them.

Cassian observed them, all clear-eyed and eager. “I think we need another tutor.”



The next morning, though the females were hesitant around a newcomer, Azriel kept so aloof and quiet that they quickly relaxed around him. Az had readily agreed to squeeze in the lessons before heading out to keep an eye on Briallyn.

Cassian continued to train Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn. The rain didn’t let up, and they were all soaked, but the exertion kept the bite of the cold away.

“So this can really down a male in one move?” Gwyn asked Cassian as he stood before Nesta. They’d taken a break from the swords to stretch their hands, but rather than sit idle and have their bodies go stiff with inactivity, he’d shown them a few techniques to get out of a pinch.

Gwyn had been distracted today—one eye on the other side of the ring. Cassian could only assume she was watching his brother, who had given Gwyn a small smile of greeting upon arrival. Gwyn hadn’t returned it. Cassian cursed himself for a fool. He should have asked her if she’d be comfortable with Azriel here. Perhaps he should have asked all the priestesses about including another male, but especially Gwyn—whom Azriel had found that day in Sangravah.

She’d said nothing about it during the lesson. Only glanced every now and then toward Az, who remained dutifully focused on his charges. Cassian couldn’t read the expression on her face.

He concentrated on the females in front of him. “This move will knock anyone unconscious if you hit the right spot.” Cassian took Nesta’s hand, placing it on his neck. Her fingers were so small against his, and freezing cold. He might have run his thumb over the back of her hand before he positioned her fingers. “You want to go for this pressure point. Hit it hard enough, you’ll make them drop like a stone.”

Nesta’s fingers tightened, and he grabbed her hand. But she smirked, as if knowing she’d caught him. He squeezed her chilled fingers. “I know you were thinking of it.”