He trailed through hallways, ducking under arms no longer there, excusing himself as he pressed through conversations long since ended.

The demon kept pulling him unconscious, and in those short bursts of blackness, the dreamer snatched at light, and when he swam back to consciousness, he thrust the dream into reality. He shaped them into flapping creatures and earthbound stars and flaming crowns and golden notes that sang by themselves and mint leaves scattered across the blood-streaked pavement and scraps of paper with jagged handwriting on them: Unguibus et rostro.
But he was dying.

Where the hell is Ronan?" Gansey asked, echoing the words that thousands of humans had uttered since mankind developed speech.

Dreamers are to be classified as weapons.
Ronan already knew he was a weapon ; but he was trying to make up for it.

And here was Ronan, like a heart attack that never stopped.

Gansey looked angry for approximately the length of time it took for a late butterfly to bluster by them in the autumn breeze.