by Hafsah Faizal
Date Published: May 14,2019; Farrar, Straus and Giroux
From Goodreads:
People lived because she killed.
People died because he lived.
Zafira is the Hunter, disguising herself as a man when she braves the cursed forest of the Arz to feed her people. Nasir is the Prince of Death, assassinating those foolish enough to defy his autocratic father, the king. If Zafira was exposed as a girl, all of her achievements would be rejected; if Nasir displayed his compassion, his father would punish him in the most brutal of ways.
Both are legends in the kingdom of Arawiya—but neither wants to be.
War is brewing, and the Arz sweeps closer with each passing day, engulfing the land in shadow. When Zafira embarks on a quest to uncover a lost artifact that can restore magic to her suffering world and stop the Arz, Nasir is sent by the king on a similar mission: retrieve the artifact and kill the Hunter. But an ancient evil stirs as their journey unfolds—and the prize they seek may pose a threat greater than either can imagine.
Set in a richly detailed world inspired by ancient Arabia, We Hunt the Flame is a gripping debut of discovery, conquering fear, and taking identity into your own hands.
Rating: 4 of 5 stars
Hafsah Faizal created a picturesque, tasteful and complex world that I loved from the very first page! Every word of this brilliant book was nothing short of enticing and I never wanted it to end! Honestly, I feel like anything I say would be inadequate to describe perfectly the brilliance that is We Hunt the Flame. All I have to say is this... it's an absolute must-read and if you haven't grabbed this book yet, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE?! Just kidding. But no. Seriously.
Also? I love, love, love the slow burn, sweet romance! I AM SHIPPING IT SO MUCH. Book two please.
'That was life, wasn't it? A collection of moments, a menagerie of people. Everyone stranded everywhere, always.'
'He was a mess of scars like the sky was a mess of stars. From the one stretched down his face, to the craters on his back, to the ink on his arm. For that was what scars were, weren't they? A remembrance of moments dark.'
"What are you doing to me," he said more than asked. His voice was a rasp. The sharp sounds and throaty underscores of the language from his lips made her shiver. "Am I too close?"
'That was life, wasn't it? A collection of moments, a menagerie of people. Everyone stranded everywhere, always.'
'He was a mess of scars like the sky was a mess of stars. From the one stretched down his face, to the craters on his back, to the ink on his arm. For that was what scars were, weren't they? A remembrance of moments dark.'
"What are you doing to me," he said more than asked. His voice was a rasp. The sharp sounds and throaty underscores of the language from his lips made her shiver. "Am I too close?"
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