Ruin and Rising (The Grisha Trilogy)

It was stupid. It was dangerous. But Ana Kuya used to tell me that hope was tricky like water. Somehow it always found a way in.

They had an ordinary life, full of ordinary things—if love can ever be called that.

We sat in silence as I tried to piece together the implications of what she’d said. I saw no tears on Baghra’s cheeks. Her grief is old, I reminded myself. And yet I didn’t think pain like that ever faded entirely. Grief had its own life, took its own sustenance.

At the stairs, I grabbed Genya’s hand. “What did you whisper?” I asked quietly. “To the King.”

She watched the others move up the steps, then said, “Na razrusha’ya. E’ya razrushost.” I am not ruined. I am ruination.

“Mal?”

He cleared his throat, crossed his arms. “As a matter of fact, I did. I had some very … distracting thoughts about you.”

“You did?” I sputtered.

“And I felt guilty for every one of them. You were supposed to be my best friend, not…” He shrugged and turned even redder.

“Idiot.”

They wanted a Grisha queen. Mal wanted a commoner queen. And what did I want? Peace for Ravka.

I’d been born with my power; the rest I’d earned.

“Loss is loss,” Mal said. “You have the right to grieve.”

“Once more,” he said. “Speak my name once more.”

“Don’t let me be alone,” he murmured. And then he was gone.