Everything- everything was for Dorian, for his friend. For himself, he had nothing left to lose. He was nothing more than a nameless oath-breaker, a liar, a traitor.

Dorian surged from the chair and dropped to his knees beside the bed. He grabbed Chaol's hand, squeezing it as he pressed his brow against his. "You were dead," the prince said, his voice breaking. "I thought you were dead.

You gave me the truth today, so I’ll share mine: even if it meant us being friends again, I don’t think I would want to go back to how it was before—who I was before. And this…” He jerked his chin toward the scattered crystals and the bowl of water. “I think this is a good change, too. Don’t fear it.”

Dorian left, and Chaol opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was too stunned. When Dorian had spoken, it hadn’t been a prince who looked at him. It had been a king.

...are you as deft at handling your sword as Captain Westfall?"
"Better," he whispered in her ear.

As for Celaena," he said again, "you do not have the right to wish she were not what she is. The only thing you have a right to do is decide whether you are her enemy or her friend.

Dorian walked slowly back to his rooms, his heart racing. He could still feel her lips on his, smell the scent of her hair, and see the gold in her eyes flickering in the candlelight.

Consequences be damned. He'd find a way to make it work; he'd find a way to be with her. He had to.

He had leapt from the cliff. He could only wait for the net.