2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

Their tan, muscled arms were both covered in the same manner of tattoos that adorned
my own hand and forearm, the ink flowing across their shoulders and over their sculpted
pectoral muscles. Between their wings, a line of them ran down the column of their spine,
right beneath where they typically strapped their blades.
“We get the tattoos when we’re initiated as Illyrian warriors—for luck and glory on the
battlefield,” Cassian said, following my stare. I doubted Cassian was drinking in the rest
of the image, though: the stomach muscles gleaming with sweat in the bright sun, the
bunching of their powerful thighs, the rippling strength in their backs, surrounding those
mighty, beautiful wings.
Death on swift wings.
The title came out of nowhere, and for a moment, I saw the painting I’d create: the
darkness of those wings, faintly illuminated with lines of red and gold by the radiant
winter sun, the glare off their blades, the harshness of the tattoos against the beauty of
their faces—
I blinked, and the image was gone, like a cloud of hot breath on a cold night.
Cassian jerked his chin toward his brothers. “Rhys is out of shape and won’t admit it,
but Azriel is too polite to beat him into the dirt.”
Rhys looked anything but out of shape. Cauldron boil me, what the hell did they eat to
look like that?
My knees wobbled a bit as I strode to the stool where Cassian had brought a pitcher of
water and two glasses. I poured one for myself, my pinkie trembling uncontrollably again.
My tattoo, I realized, had been made with Illyrian markings. Perhaps Rhys’s own way
of wishing me luck and glory while facing Amarantha.
Luck and glory. I wouldn’t mind a little of either of those things these days.
Cassian filled a glass for himself and clinked it against mine, so at odds from the brutal
taskmaster who, moments ago, had me walking through punches, hitting his sparring pads,
and trying not to crumple on the ground to beg for death. So at odds from the male who
had gone head to head with my sister, unable to resist matching himself against Nesta’s
spirit of steel and flame.
“So,” Cassian said, gulping down the water. Behind us, Rhys and Azriel clashed,
separated, and clashed again. “When are you going to talk about how you wrote a letter to
Tamlin, telling him you’ve left for good?”
The question hit me so viciously that I sniped, “How about when you talk about how
you tease and taunt Mor to hide whatever it is you feel for her?” Because I had no doubt
that he was well aware of the role he played in their little tangled web.
The beat of crunching steps and clashing blades behind us stumbled—then resumed.
Cassian let out a startled, rough laugh. “Old news.”
“I have a feeling that’s what she probably says about you.”