Linzey

“I could torch him if you would like,” Tairn offers. “But you do seem attached.”
― Rebecca Yarros, Iron Flame

“If you didn't figure it out, you weren't worthy of knowing." She huffs. "I waited six hundred and fifty years to hatch. Waited until your eighteenth summer, when I heard our elders talk of a weakling daughter of their general, the girl forecasted to become the head of the scribes, and I knew. You would have the mind of a scribe and the heart of a rider. You would be mine." She leans into my hand. "You are as unique as I am. We want the same things."
"You couldn't have known I would be a rider."
"And yet, here we are."
A thousand questions go through my head, none of which we have the time for, so I give her exactly what I wanted–to be seen for who and what she is.
"You are not a black dragon, or any of the six that we know of. You're a seventh breed."
"Yes." Her eyes widen in excitement.”
― Rebecca Yarros, Iron Flame

“See? Right there. Carhartt. Why couldn’t he have just punched me in the face like a normal person?”   “Probably because he wasn’t a normal person, love. I thought the chainsaw was a big clue.”
― Brynne Weaver, Butcher & Blackbird

“Scratch her eyes out,” Andarna suggests. “Really. The eyes are the softest tissue. Just jab your thumbs in there—”

“Andarna! Use some common sense,” Tairn snaps. “The kneecaps are a much easier target.”
― Rebecca Yarros, Iron Flame