Audiobook: A Court of Silver Flames (10th Anniversary Recording) by Sarah J. Maas

**Elizabeth Evans** (0:00)
Cassian raised his fist to the green door in the dim hallway, and hesitated. He'd cut down more enemies than he cared to tally, had stood knee deep in gore on countless battlefields and kept swinging, had made choices that had cost him the lives of skilled warriors, had been a general and a grunt and an assassin, and yet, here he was, lowering his fist, balking.
The building on the north side of the Sidra River was in need of new paint and new floors if the creaking boards beneath his boots as he'd climbed the two flights had been any indication, but at least it was clean. Definitely grim by Volaris' standards, but when the city itself had no slums, that wasn't saying much. He'd seen and stayed in far worse.
He'd never understood, though, why Nesta insisted on dwelling here. He got why she wouldn't take up rooms in the House of Wind. It was too far from the city and she couldn't fly or winnow in, which meant dealing with the 10,000 steps up and down. But why live in this dump when the townhouse was sitting empty? Since construction had finished on Feyre and Reese's sprawling home on the river, the townhouse had been left open to any of the friends who needed or wanted it. He knew for a fact that Feyre had offered Nesta a room there and had been rejected.
He frowned at the door's peeling paint. No sounds trickled through the sizable gap between the door and the floor, wide enough for even the fattest of rats to meander through. No fresh scents lingered in the cramped hallway. Maybe he'd get lucky and she'd be out, perhaps sleeping under the bar of whatever seedy tavern she'd frequented last night. Though that might be worse, since he'd need to track her down there instead.
Cassian lifted his fist again, the red of his siphon flickering in the ancient phalites tucked into the ceiling. Coward, grow some damned balls.
Cassian knocked once, twice, silence. Cassian almost sighed his relief aloud, thank the fucking mother. Clipped, precise footsteps sounded from the other side of the door, each more pissed off than the last. He tucked his wings in tight, squaring his shoulders as he braced his feet apart. A traditional fighting stance, beaten into him during his training years, now mere muscle memory. He didn't dare consider why the sound of those footsteps sent his body falling into it. The snap as she unlatched each of her four locks might as well have been the beating of a war drum. Cassian ran through the list of things he was to say, how Feyre had suggested he say them. The door was yanked open, the knob twisting so hard, Cassian wondered if she was imagining it as his neck. Nesta Archeron already wore a scowl, but there she was. She looked like hell.