Grace Harding-Smith

“You have the skills,” Chaol said, “but some of your moves are still undisciplined.”
“That’s never stopped me from killing before,” she spat.
Chaol chuckled at her agitation and pointed his sword at the rack, allowing her to get to her feet.
“Pick another—something different. Make it interesting, too. Something that will make me sweat, please.”
“You’ll be sweating when I skin you alive and squish your eyeballs beneath my feet,” she muttered, picking up the rapier.
“That’s the spirit.”
She practically threw the rapier into place, and drew the hunting knives without hesitation.
My dear old friends.
A wicked smile spread across her face.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Throne of Glass