2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

Azriel just shook his head. “I’ll go. The Prison sentries know me—what I am.”
I wondered if the shadowsinger was usually the first to throw himself into danger.
Mor’s fingers stilled on the stem of her wineglass, her eyes narrowing on Amren. The
jewels, the red gown—all perhaps a way to downplay whatever dark power roiled in her
veins—
“If anyone’s going to the Prison,” Rhys said before Mor opened her mouth, “it’s me.
And Feyre.”
“What?” Mor demanded, palms now flat on the table.
“He won’t talk to Rhys,” Amren said to the others, “or to Azriel. Or to any of us. We’ve
got nothing to offer him. But an immortal with a mortal soul …” She stared at my chest as
if she could see the heart pounding beneath … And I contemplated yet again what she ate.
“The Bone Carver might be willing indeed to talk to her.”
They stared at me. As if waiting for me to beg not to go, to curl up and cower. Their
quick, brutal interview to see if they wanted to work with me, I supposed.
But the Bone Carver, the naga, the Attor, the Suriel, the Bogge, the Middengard Wyrm
… Maybe they’d broken whatever part of me truly feared. Or maybe fear was only
something I now felt in my dreams.
“Your choice, Feyre,” Rhys said casually.
To shirk and mourn or face some unknown horror—the choice was easy. “How bad can
it be?” was my response.
“Bad,” Cassian said. None of them bothered to contradict him.