"No one needs to ask for a woman’s opinion. It’s expected that she gives it freely."
~ Kristen Ciccarelli
Read all great Kristen Ciccarelli quotes below ...
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In the vast landscape of fantasy literature, Kristen Ciccarelli emerges as a luminary, her spellbinding tales and vibrant characters captivating readers worldwide. With her inexhaustible creativity and adept storytelling, Ciccarelli has carved a niche for herself as a master of the fantastical, spinning intricate narratives that whisk readers away to worlds brimming with wonder and magic.
Hailing from Ontario, Canada, Kristen Ciccarelli's fascination with storytelling took root early in her life. Inspired by the myriad myths and legends from across the globe, she embarked on a quest to craft her own fantastical realms, driven by a fervent belief in the transformative power of storytelling.
Ciccarelli burst onto the literary stage with her debut novel, "The Last Namsara," a mesmerizing tale of dragons, forbidden love, and epic adventure. The book received widespread acclaim, garnering Ciccarelli a devoted following and solidifying her status as a rising star in the realm of fantasy fiction.
Building on the success of "The Last Namsara," Ciccarelli continued to enchant readers with a succession of equally enthralling novels, including "The Caged Queen" and "The Sky Weaver." Each installment showcases Ciccarelli's prowess in world-building, her adept handling of multifaceted characters, and her talent for weaving intricate plots that ensnare readers until the very last page.
While "The Last Namsara" remains a pinnacle of Ciccarelli's oeuvre, she has also received acclaim for her contributions to short fiction and poetry, which have graced the pages of esteemed literary journals and anthologies. Her writing is distinguished by its lyrical prose, vividly realized settings, and deeply empathetic characters, transporting readers to realms where the fantastical thrives.
Ciccarelli's distinctive writing style seamlessly melds fantasy and folklore, drawing inspiration from a myriad of cultural traditions and mythologies. Her novels are infused with an aura of wonder and magic, whisking readers away to distant lands where dragons soar and heroes embrace their destinies.
Readers are captivated by Kristen Ciccarelli's work for its lushly imagined worlds, dynamic characters, and spellbinding storytelling. Her books offer an escape from the humdrum realities of everyday life, beckoning readers on thrilling escapades replete with danger, romance, and intrigue.
For those yearning for a literary voyage into realms of imagination and wonder, Kristen Ciccarelli's books are an essential addition to any reading list. With their compelling narratives, richly drawn characters, and evocative prose, they transport readers to worlds where the impossible becomes possible, and where the allure of storytelling knows no bounds.
Looking ahead, fans eagerly anticipate Kristen Ciccarelli's forthcoming book, slated for release in the coming months. While details remain shrouded in secrecy, anticipation runs high for another enchanting sojourn into the fantastical realms of Ciccarelli's imagination. As readers eagerly await the next chapter in her literary journey, one thing is certain – with her boundless creativity and unwavering passion for storytelling, the possibilities are endless.
Kristen Ciccarelli Best Quotes
“The dragon hissed. Asha narrowed her eyes. Time to end you.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Bestaat er wel echt gerechtigheid als degenen die de wetten handhaven zich daar als enigen niet aan hoeven te houden? - Eris” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Sky Weaver “"Listen," he said, reaching for her wrist distractedly, eyes on the page of the book as he pulled her closer. Holding the Dark, the title read. By a poet named Melanie Cameron. Emeline leaned back against the shelves, watching him. " 'I didn't know it would go this,' " he recited. " 'I didn't know I would find you in the dark...' " Emeline stared at his mouth, captivated by the cadence of his voice. His expression was hungry as he read on, as if he'd discovered some delicious secret and wanted to feed it to her. a ripe red strawberry dipped in chocolate. "When I lie against you with my eyes closed, I bring your body with me, into the darkness, I bring your whole body inside me. And in that darkness I know you so much better than hands and mouth can know, I know you, as though you were the darkness inside me." He glanced up from the page, fixing her in place with that same hungry gaze. Warmth pooled in her belly. "It's nice," she murmured. He raised an eyebrow. "Nice?" The corner of his mouth turned up as he lifted his hand, bracing it against the shelf beside her. She wrinkled her nose at him. "Pretty, then." "How about tender. And..." His eyes dropped to her mouth. "Intimate." There was the oddest feeling in Emeline's chest. a million tiny stars on the cusp of bursting. Sparks crackled in the air between them.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “A fool scan be sure of anything; that doesn’t make her right.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “As realization sunk in, Asha screamed her rage - at Elorma, at the Old One, and at the bloodred moon waning above her. And when she was done screaming, the shadow dragon remained. Head tilted. Eyes fixed on her. As if to say: Where are you going? Can I come too?” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “The woods came for Emeline the way they always did: creeping in with the shadows, seeping up through the cracks. Emeline, they whispered. Sing us a true song. Emeline gritted her teeth, ignoring it. From her perch on the wooden stool beneath the white lights, she continued to croon into the mic, picking the strings of her ukulele, telling herself she didn't care if the ale in the bar taps turned to mucky creek water tonight, or if the cash in the register transformed into crisp golden maple keys. She didn't care if those spongy green clumps currently sprouting up between the floorboards were, in fact, forest moss.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “The two sisters didn't come wailing. They came quietly, holding on to each other. As if they needed no one's comfort but the other's. As if, as long as they were together, there was nothing to be afraid of.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Caged Queen “A tiny orb rested in the center of the pale green pillowcase. She picked it up. The orb was smaller than a marble, but bigger than a pearl, and it was unnaturally cold to the touch. Opal- colors swirled beneath the surface: pale blues and greens and creamy whites. Emeline stared for several seconds, unable to catch her breath. Knowing what this was despite every part of her that screamed it wasn't true. The mark of a tithe paid.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “If she and her sister were two books in their father's study, Essie would be the one lying open on the desk, enticing you to read it. Roa would be the one stuffed between a dozen others, high up on the shelf.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Caged Queen “In forgiving him, a strange thing happened: Rune found forgiveness for herself, too. For what she’d done to Nan. The thing she’d needed all this time was right there inside her.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Crimson Moth “Kozu vliegt elke nacht rondjes boven de medina, op zoek naar jou. Hij mist zijn Namsara... Volgens de oude verhalen is Namsara een naald die de wereld aan elkaar naait... En onze wereld moet dringend aan elkaar genaaid worden. - Roa, tegen Asha.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Namsara. De zeldzame woestijnbloem die elke aandoening kon genezen. Dat was Asha.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Above, a vivid painting hung over the fireplace. Inside its frame, a woman was transforming into a tree. The lower half of her body was bark and roots, plunging into soil, while her waist and chest arched upwards and her outstretched hands reached for the sky. The nymph's dark hair was a knotted mass of branches around her head, sprouting bright green leaves. It was the myth of Daphne---the nymph who begged the river god to save her from Apollo and was turned into a laurel tree. "It must be a terrible thing to lose," Hawthorne said, making her jump. He looked up from where he crouched near the fire: to the woman in the frame. His left forearm was streaked with black ash. "What's a terrible thing to lose?" Hawthorne's eyes glittered as he studied the nymph. "Your humanity." "But it was her choice," said Emeline, feeling defensive of Daphne. If the river god hadn't turned her into a laurel, she would have fallen prey to Apollo. "She asked to be saved." Firelight flickered over Hawthorne's face as his gray-eyed gaze caught hers and held it. "Saved," he murmured, considering this. "Is that really what the river god did? As a tree, her life is forfeit. She'll never be human again. She'll never laugh or sing, ponder or love, again. Don't you think she would have preferred the river god defeat Apollo, or at the very least warn him away, instead of taking something so precious from her?” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “Soon, she was singing along, tweaking the song as she watched the sun rise over the King's City below. As she sang, her gaze wandered over the shining white walls of the palace beyond the dome. She thought of the Wood King sitting on his white throne. Of candlelit halls and attendants fluttering moths. Of Claw's silver snout emerging from the shadows, and Rooke falling to his knees before Bog, and that creepy wall of skulls in the crypt... It was habitual. Whenever she sang a song for the first time, she sealed a memory inside the melody. a gift she was packaging for her future self. She'd been doing it for as long as she could remember. From now on, whenever she sang this song, she would come back to this moment, looking out over the King's City. She would remember the things that happened here.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “We spoke of you. According to Joel, you make him very happy." She bristled at his mocking tone but couldn't help the blush creeping up her neck. "Bite me, Hawthorne." The corner of his mouth curved upwards. His eyes glittered, as if he was imagining doing exactly that. In the silence, his gaze traced over her. Moving slowly across her jaw, down her throat, and along her collarbones topping to linger on the curve of her shoulder. As if showing her all the places he longed to bite most. Emeline couldn't help but imagine it: His teeth on her bare skin. Soft little bites in between kisses.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “When Emeline passed through, she didn't step onto boardwalk, but flagstones. She paused, disoriented. The darkness of the woods morphed into soft, dewy lamplight and the sour-water smell of Bog was replaced by the perfumed scent of late- blooming roses. They'd stepped out of a swamp and into... a city. Before her lay a quiet, cobbled street lined by white row houses, many of them creeping with green ivy. The city stretched out, its streets rising and twisting towards the top of a lush green hill thick with trees. Emeline caught glimpses of rust-red rooftops and stone bridges over steep canals, of a white-bricked bell tower and a wide blue lake. At the crest of the hill, a fortress crowned the city, gleaming ivory in the starlight. It was just as Tom had described it. "The Wood King's palace," she whispered.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “Emeline couldn't remember when, exactly, things changed. Only that a moment ago she was walking down palace halls and now she walked a dirt path beneath a midnight sky. Tulip trees lined the path, their flowers unfolding burning yellow crowns among their green leaves. The farther they walked, the taller the trees grew, until they were impossibly tall. So tall, they seemed to brush the stars. The path ended in a grove of silver birches. Moonlight pooled in from the canopy above, illuminating a bone-white throne and a man seated upon it. Atop his head sat a crown of rosebud thorns. His skin was sunbrowned, his hair moon pale; and instead of robes, water adorned him. It flowed in rivers from his hair, over his neck and shoulders where it began to gush, a waterfall, down the rest of his body. Emeline could see no glimpse of skin beyond the cascade, but at his feet water pooled and sank into the brown earth. Wherever it touched, gray and purple thistles grew. The Wood King.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “A rippling murmur echoed through the grove behind her. Emeline turned to see people emerging from the shadows of the trees, gathering to cluster and stare. Clothed in leather and fine wool, delicate lace and soft silk, they held themselves with moonlit grace. Their eyes shone too bright and their shadows twisted behind them, hinting at other shapes. They were... not quite human. Remembering Tom's stories, Emeline knew this was the shiftling court. I'm really here, she thought, resisting the urge to pinch herself. All the stories were true.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “Ik wil haar in mijn hut.' Safire verslikte zich bijna. Vol afgrijzen draaide ze zich met gebalde vuisten. 'Ik zit volgens mij liever in de cel.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Sky Weaver “The songs transported her backwards in time, to when she first wrote them. As each one melted into the next, as her voice sang lyrics and melodies from her past, memories burst colors across a blank canvas. Because inside each and every one of these songs---songs she'd written before she ever left Edgewood---memories were hidden. Emeline choked on them. Hot tears burned in her eyes as she tapped the next file, and the next, racing through songs and, with them, memories that had been stolen from her. Images of a younger Sable flashed before her eyes, interwoven with a younger Rooke. And someone else. Hawthorne. He was everywhere, with his dark hair and strange eyes. Her songs were so full of him, Emeline felt she was drowning in him. Hawthorne, sitting next to the fire, reading a book. Hawthorne, shucking off his shirt and diving into a moonlit pond. Hawthorne, climbing in through her bedroom window. Kissing her in the dark. She'd embedded him inside her music. Because songs were never just songs for Emeline. They were capsules, each one containing a moment trapped inside it. As the next one started to play through her headphones, an image of a tree rose up in her mind. Emeline could see its thirsty roots; the twisting, twirling gray-brown bark; the gnarly branches stretching towards the sky. A silent sentinel, standing guard at the edge of the woods. Her tree.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “After they toweled her off, Emeline grudgingly let them dress her in a pale gold gown that fell to the floor. A trail of delicate poplar leaves was sewn into the bodice. The leaves, stitched in ivory thread, trailed gently along the boatneck collar, as if blown there by a breeze. They were so finely wrought, she could almost see them moving. Next, the women braided her black hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, lacing it through with sprigs of Queen Anne's lace. Last, they took her sliced palm and carefully salved it, then wrapped it tight with slender strips of gauzy white cotton, fastening it with with a golden pin. "There," said the curvy brown attendant, her voice summer rain. A smile ghosted her soft lips as she turned Emeline to the gilt mirror. "Look." In the polished smoky surface, Emeline found a stranger staring back. Gone was the broke musician who desperately needed new jeans, who wore her grandfather's oversized cardigan to keep him close, and who rarely remembered to brush her hair. The girl standing in the mirror had stepped straight out of a story. Her black eyes were dark pools in her pale face, and her cheekbones were dusted with gold to match her dress. She looked utterly foreign and strange.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “He had just lifted a finger to his lips when a massive shape materialized from the darkness, glinting as it stepped into the sunlight. Emeline gaped up at it. A silver sharp-toothed snout emerged first, elegant nostrils sniffing the air. The snout alone was roughly the size of Emeline's hatchback. The rest of a head emerged, revealing filmy white eyes and gray tufts where ears should be. Was this... Claw? If so, he was definitely awake. His massive paws were tufted too and tipped in sharp nails, reminding Emeline of a lion. But his wings were that of a snowy owl, tucked primly against his sides. Feathers and scales rippled over his body, the color of silver coins. A watchdog, Hawthorne had said. More a watchdragon.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “I'm here to give a tithe," she told the Heartwood. "I give you my voice---and with it, my dreams beyond the woods. I'll be your new Song Mage, if you'll have me." Breathing in sharply, Emeline thought of the cost. She would never again sing her songs beneath the lights. Never walk out on a new stage or record an album she was proud of. She would never get the chance to prove she could make it on her terms. Emeline breathed out, letting it go. It hurt when the woods took her offering. hands reaching in and plucking out her soul, severing her from her oldest dream. But when she breathed, something new flooded in. It felt the night she sang to the elm tree cage, asking the trees to set Hawthorne free. She'd felt the power in her voice flow out of her that night. This time, though, it was the reverse. Power was flowing in. Infusing her marrow and blood. Folding itself into her skin. It was Grace said: there was magic in sacrifice. Emeline had tithed the most precious thing she owned, and something equally precious was filling in the gaps. It coursed through her---thick as honey, bright as starlight. Pushing a blazing-hot sun. Humming a swarm of contented bees. Power. It tasted sugared sunshine on her tongue.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “Emeline's attendants fluttered moths as they dressed her, oblivious to her unhappiness. They helped her into a midnight- blue gown with two glittering cicada wings stitched down the back in gold thread, cascading from the middle of her shoulder blades to the tops of her thighs.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “With her hand tucked into his elbow, Rooke led Emeline down halls awash in the golden hues of sunset. Vases bordering the windows sprouted green pine boughs and branches of bright red sumac. As Emeline quickened her pace to match his long strides, the fabric of her dress whispered against the floor.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “Emeline...?" Her mother's voice was no longer a rasp, but a soft, quivering thing. Emeline spun to find the Vile behind her, glimmering a mirage. The air shone, delicate as a cobweb, then changed. a butterfly abandoning its chrysalis, the Vile before her fell away, until a monster stood before Emeline no longer. In the monster's place was a middle-aged woman, beautiful as the moon. Her raven-dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, her eyes were the bright blue of robins' eggs, and down her body spilled a silk dress the color of storm clouds. Emeline let out a shaky breath. "Mama?" Rose Lark dropped the knife and the sharpening stone. They hit the soft earth with a thud. The roots of the cavern immediately grew over them, pulling both blade and stone deep into the earth where they couldn't be retrieved. Staring at her daughter, Rose took a hesitant step before lifting shaky fingers to Emeline's face. "I'm so sorry," she whispered as tears trembled down her pale cheeks. Emeline shook her head furiously, reaching for her. "It wasn't your fault." She wrapped her arms around her mother's frail shoulders, pulling her close. Her hair smelled sweet, rosewater. Her thin body shook a sapling in a gale. Weeping, Rose held her daughter tightly, as if, this time, she didn't intend to let go.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “Asha could see that barefoot child inside her. She could hear the stories spilling from her lips as she ran through the moonlit Rift. She could feel that butterfly heart as her steps brought her closer to an ancient evil.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Moria bowed low to the king of Firgaard. She did not meet his gaze for fear he would see the raging fire in her eyes. She did not speak her name for fear he would hear the sharpened edge of her voice.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “The stories Essie most loved were ones about the Skyweaver, a goddess who spun souls into stars and wove them into the sky.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Caged Queen “In its place rested a flower. A white anemone, pretty as a star. What the...? Emeline pinched the flower's stem between her fingers and plucked it out from beneath her stool. Light caught in the translucent white petals circling the black center. The sight sent a chill down her back. "If this is a prank," she murmured to the woods, "it's not your best work.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “Always know where a dragons tail is” ― Kristen Ciccarelli “Emeline turned around to discover the biggest, blackest horse breathing on her face. She stared up into enormous golden eyes. Flecks of red dusted the horse's irises, a fire sparking, and her hot breath smelled smoke. Holy hell. Emeline stepped quickly back----straight into the boy. The scent of him enveloped her: crushed pine needles and oiled leather. "This is Lament." "Uh-huh," she whispered, staring at the massive beast, which was pawing the ground as if to say, I'm getting impatient! Let us leave! When she threw back her head, those golden eyes flickered red.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “Lament's trot soon became a canter. Her canter, a gallop. The forest blurred around them as they picked up speed, blazing through copses and thickets, the rhythm of the horse's hooves drumming thunder. Despite the stinging wind crushing past them, it wasn't cold. Heat radiated from Lament's black coat, and when Emeline looked down she found red flames flickering in the horse's mane. Tongues of fire engulfed Emeline's fingers, licking her skin. She jerked hand free, staring in horror. But her fingers were unsinged. Holy cats! Was Lament an ember mare? It was impossible. The wild, unearthly horses were forged of fire and said to be uncatchable. Untamable. In no story she knew had one ever been ridden. But Emeline had thought shadow skins impossible too. The pungent tang of smoke smoldered in the air. They were out of the Stain---nothing dead surrounded them here. The forest was lush and green and living. But in the distance, Emeline saw red. Fire. It surged toward them from the right, spreading quickly. Emeline was about to cry out in alarm, in case the boy at her back hadn't seen it, when she heard the sound of hoofbeats. Hundreds of them. Pummeling the earth in time with Lament's. Wait. Emeline squinted into the distance. It wasn't a forest fire advancing on them. It was a massive herd of ember mares. Their black bodies raged red, burning coal, and their manes smoldered with bright flames. They were stampeding, headed straight for Lament with no sign of slowing or stopping.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “But which character was she—the heroine, the villain, or the fool? The fool.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Heartless Hunter “All around them, ember mares rushed alongside Lament. They had never intended to trample her but to join her. The graceful rhythm of their muscular bodies, the thunder in their hooves as they ran...they mesmerized Emeline. Moving as one, they reminded her of a cresting wave. A sea of fire. And beyond their blazing splendor, all was black. Night had fallen in the woods. In the steady rhythm of Lament's gait, Emeline heard assurances she'd been too frightened to hear before. I have you, Lament's hooves pounded out. I am steady and true. I won't let you fall.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Edgewood “She was a deer making eyes at the wolf that wanted to eat her for lunch. Stupid deer.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, Heartless Hunter “Though you may be frightened, let go.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Caged Queen “I didn’t expect Death to be quite so beautiful.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Caged Queen “Then may Death send his worst. Cold to freeze the love in my heart. Fire to burn my memories to ash. Wind to force me through the gates. Time to wear my loyalty away. I'll wait for you at Death's gate.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Once there was a girl who was drawn to wicked things. Things forbidden, ancient stories. It didn’t matter that the old stories killed her mother. It didn’t matter that they’d killed many before her. The girl let the old stories in. She let them in eat away at her heart and turn her wicked.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “You could die," she whispered. "Everything dies," he whispered back. "I'm afraid of so much more than dying.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Iskari let others define her because she thought she didn't have a choice. Because she thought she was alone and unloved.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “No one needs to ask for a woman’s opinion. It’s expected that she gives it freely.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “The old heroes were called Namsara after a beloved god, he said. So she would be called Iskari, after a deadly one.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Greta used to say,” he said as he played, “that every one of us is born with a song buried deep in our hearts. A song all out own. And our mission in life is to find that song.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Haven’t we been through this? I love danger.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “And with that thought came a loneliness so sharp and cruel, it felt an axe cleaving her heart in two.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Asha glanced up. The look in his eyes made her breath catch. It was looking into the heart of a star: bright and burning.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Death is a thief” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Everything dies,” he whispered back. “I’m afraid of so much more than dying.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Once there was a girl who was drawn to ancient wicked things. Things forbidden, ancient stories.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “The son of a dragon queen dared to love a slave, and it did not end well for anyone.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “The story of a girl who hunted dragons to soothe the hurt in her heart. The story of the dragon who changed her.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Asleep, he looked a moonflower whose petals unfurled only at night, rare and beautiful in the starlight.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Asha felt herself unravel. As if she were a carpet or a tapestry, and his words were claws tearing out all her threads.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “When she remained silent, the slave went back to work. He started humming the tune of a song only to stop, rearrange the notes, then sing them again in a different order. He did this over and over. he was testing the song and it kept failing him. Asha lay back, letting his voice distract her from the teeth-grinding pain of his needle sewing her up. A story rose to mind, unbidden. Rayan strode through his mother's orange grove and stopped sharp. Someone was singing. Someone with the voice of a nightingale.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara 'In het struikland,' zei Roa, 'hoeft er niemand om de mening van een vrouw te vrágen. Men gaat ervan uit dat ze die gewoon zal geven.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Weet je, Jarek, ik kijk echt uit naar je verbintenis. Vooral naar het moment waarop mijn zus tijdens je huwelijksnacht je ballen eraf snijdt en boven de muren hijst. - Dax” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Vlieg maar,' zei ze tegen Kozu. 'Vlieg hier ver vandaan.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “The dragon hissed. Asha narrowed her eyes. Time to end you.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “A fool scan be sure of anything; that doesn’t make her right.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “As realization sunk in, Asha screamed her rage - at Elorma, at the Old One, and at the bloodred moon waning above her. And when she was done screaming, the shadow dragon remained. Head tilted. Eyes fixed on her. As if to say: Where are you going? Can I come too?” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Asha could see that barefoot child inside her. She could hear the stories spilling from her lips as she ran through the moonlit Rift. She could feel that butterfly heart as her steps brought her closer to an ancient evil.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara “Moria bowed low to the king of Firgaard. She did not meet his gaze for fear he would see the raging fire in her yes. She did not speak her name for fear he would hear the sharpened edge of her voice.” ― Kristen Ciccarelli, The Last Namsara