“For you, my dear,” I heard her whisper, “I will not dally with lesser toys.”
A sound, then, of a catch being lifted. I hung suspended, too high to kneel, too weak to stand, and wondered what.
“Do you know these?” The cold caress of steel against my cheek, a razor-fine edge tracing the line of the sash binding my eyes. “They are called flechettes.”
Then I did weep, and it availed nothing.
The fine blade of the flechette, keen as a chirurgeon’s tool, trailed down the length of my throat and brushed the neckline of my gown.
-Jacqueline Carey, “Kushiel’s Dart”


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