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

Cassian nodded. “We’ll pay for the blades if they’re damaged.”

The blacksmith surveyed Nesta again, as if testing the ore in her, then nodded. “I’ve got a few you could try your hand at.”

He led them back into the heat and flame and light, and Cassian could have sworn Nesta was inhaling and exhaling in a perfect, controlled rhythm. She kept her gaze only on the blacksmith, however, as he carried over a half-made sword and laid it upon the anvil. Pretty, but ordinary. A common, everyday sword, the blacksmith said. After a swift, flawless demonstration, he handed her the hammer. “Brace your feet like so,” the blacksmith said, and Nesta followed his instructions until she lifted the hammer above one shoulder and swung down.

A clanking thunk sounded, and the sword clattered. A clumsy near-miss. Nesta gritted her teeth. “That’s not as easy as it looks.”

The blacksmith pointed to the sword. “Try again. It takes a while to grow accustomed to it.” Cassian had never heard the male speak so … gently. Normally their conversations were swift and to the point, free of formalities or personal tidbits.

Nesta struck the sword again. A better hit this time, but still a sorry blow. Coals popped in the forge behind them, and Nesta flinched. Before Cassian could ask why, she’d gritted her teeth again and struck the sword a third time. Fourth. Fifth.

By the time the blacksmith brought out a dagger, she’d gotten the hang of it. Was even smiling slightly. “Daggers require a different technique,” the blacksmith explained, again demonstrating. So much work and skill and dedication, all for an ordinary blade. Cassian shook his head. When had he last stopped to appreciate the craftsmanship and labor that went into his weapons?

Sweat beaded Nesta’s brow as she hammered at the dagger, blows and body surer now. Pride wended through his chest. Here she was, that female who’d been forged during the war with Hybern. But different—more focused. Stronger.

Cassian was only half-listening when the blacksmith brought out a great sword.

But he snapped to attention as Nesta fell upon it in one smooth movement, the hammer striking clear and true.

Strike after strike, and Cassian could have sworn the world paused as she unleashed herself with the same intensity she brought to training.

The blacksmith smiled at her. The first time Cassian had ever seen the male do so.

Nesta’s arm arched above her, the hammer gripped in her clenched fingers. It was a dance, each of her movements timed to the ringing echo of the hammer on the blade. She pounded the sword to a music no one but she could hear.

Cassian let her keep at it, the rain and wind rustling the thatched roof a distant counter-beat above them, and began to wonder what would emerge from the heat and shadows.



Learning swordplay was no easy task—it required repetition and muscle memory and patience—but Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn were game.

No, Cassian realized as he watched them put away their swords in the icy rain that continued the next day. They were more than game: they trained with a newfound, steady focus. No one more so than Nesta, who now shelved her sword and took up a length of linen. She began wrapping her hands, rolling her neck as she did so.

They hadn’t spoken after the blacksmith lesson yesterday afternoon, though she’d thanked him quietly upon returning to the House of Wind. She’d had that intensity upon her face again, eyes distant—as if focusing on some invisible target. So he hadn’t sought her out last night, even though every part of him had screamed to do so. But he’d give her time. Let her initiate when she was ready. If she wanted him again.

Cassian shut down the thought. Allowed the icy rain to cool his desire, his dread.

In silence, Nesta approached the punching block, a fallen tree trunk that had been wrapped in thick blankets. She approached it as if she were facing an opponent.

She glanced over her shoulder to Cassian as she stopped before it, a question in her eyes.

He nodded. “You want to use the last fifteen minutes to spar, go ahead.”

That was all she needed, and he was too pleased to say more as Nesta took up her fighting stance and began punching.



The first impact of her knuckles against the padded wood hurt. But she hit where she was supposed to, and her thumb remained where she’d made it learn to stay, and when she pulled her arm back, the pain became a song. She threw another punch, eliciting a satisfying thunk from the wood.

Good—it felt good. To get it out, to channel it this way.

Her breathing was sharp as a blade, but she threw a left hook, then two jabs of her right fist.

She didn’t feel the rain, didn’t feel the cold.

Every punch carried her fear, her rage, her hate out of her body and into that wood.

For three days, she’d had fire in her blood. For three days, she had dreamed of swords and stairs and combat. She couldn’t stop it. Had fallen into bed so tired that she had no chance to even read before she was unconscious. There certainly had been no sex with Cassian. Not even a smoldering glance over the dining table.

Azriel’s presence helped. He now trained the newest recruits, quiet and gentle yet unfaltering, and if she didn’t know better, she’d swear at least two of the priestesses—Roslin and Ilana—sighed every time he walked past.

Some small, awful part of her was glad they didn’t sigh over Cassian. She punched that thought out of herself, too. That pathetic, selfish thought.