Becca

“Rowan Whitethorn is a legend. And so is his—what do you call them?”
“Cadre,” she said glumly.
“The six of them …” Aedion loosed a breath. “We used to tell stories about them around fires. Their battles and exploits and adventures.”
She sighed through her nose. “Please, please don’t ever tell him that. I’ll never hear the end of it, and he’ll use it in every argument we have.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Queen of Shadows

“The three others whirled for Rowan, and there was nothing he could do to get to that fuse.
To save the queen who held his heart in her scarred hands.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Queen of Shadows

“Shit. He was in such deep, unending shit.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Queen of Shadows

“Why", he asked. "Why did you save her?"
She dragged a hand through her hair. A white bandage around her upper arm peeked through her shirt with the movement. He hadn't even been conscious for that wound. He stifled the urge to demand to see it, assess the injury himself—and tug her close against him.
"Because that golden-haired witch, Asterin...," Aelin said. "She screamed Manon's name the way I screamed yours."
Rowan stilled. His queen gazed at the floor, as if recalling the moment.
"How can I take away somebody who means the world to someone else? Even if she's my enemy." A little shrug. "I thought you were dying. It seemed like bad luck to let her die out of spite. And..." she snorted. "Falling into a ravine seemed like a pretty shitty way to die for someone who fights that spectacularly."
Rowan smiled, drinking in the sight of her: pale, grave face; the dirty clothes; the injuries. Yet her shoulders were back, chin high. "You make me proud to serve you."
A jaunty slant to her lips, but silver lined her eyes. "I know.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Queen of Shadows