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You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

Maybe I’d always been bro­ken and dark inside.
Maybe some­one who’d been born whole and good would have put down
the ash dag­ger and embraced death rather than what lay before me.
There was blood every­where.
It was an effort to keep a grip on the dag­ger as my blood-soaked hand
trem­bled. As I frac­tured bit by bit while the sprawled corpse of the High
Fae youth cooled on the mar­ble floor.
I couldn’t let go of the blade, couldn’t move from my place before him.
“Good,” Ama­ran­tha purred from her throne. “Again.”
There was anoth­er ash dag­ger wait­ing, and anoth­er Fae kneel­ing. Female.
I knew the words she’d say. The prayer she’d recite.
I knew I’d slaugh­ter her, as I’d slaugh­tered the youth before me.
To free them all, to free Tam­lin, I would do it.
I was the butch­er of inno­cents, and the sav­ior of a land.
“When­ev­er you’re ready, love­ly Feyre,” Ama­ran­tha drawled, her deep
red hair as bright as the blood on my hands. On the mar­ble.
Mur­der­er. Butch­er. Mon­ster. Liar. Deceiv­er.
I didn’t know who I meant. The lines between me and the queen had long
since blurred.
My fin­gers loos­ened on the dag­ger, and it clat­tered to the ground,
splat­ter­ing the spread­ing pool of blood. Flecks splashed onto my worn
boots—remnants of a mor­tal life so far behind me it might as well have
been one of my fever-dreams these few last months.
I faced the female wait­ing for death, that hood sag­ging over her head, her
lithe body steady. Braced for the end I was to give her, the sac­ri­fice she was
to become.
I reached for the sec­ond ash dag­ger atop a black vel­vet pil­low, its hilt icy
in my warm, damp hand. The guards yanked off her hood.