“WOODEN” in italiano

Nesta’s heart thundered as she laid a hand against the cold wooden door.

Hovernia went a deep crimson, practically dropped the last wooden bowl on the table and made a hasty retreat.

”Without replying, Aarin scraped the golden ink from his pen nib back into the pot, screwed on the lid, laid the pen quietly on the wooden ledge at the base of the desk and got down from his high stool.

A few wooden chairs sat around it, and Nesta realized the table was also the dining area.

Rew reached out with his open hand, grasped the wooden hilt of his longsword, and pulled it free of the dirt, spinning as he did and meeting a rushing narjag with his steel.

The air didn’t move, the wooden floor didn’t creak, not a single grain of sand fell from the stone walls or from the mortar between them, but she wasn’t alone.

Someone had built crude wooden steps held up by rickety scaffolding spiralling around the inner circumference.

The blade dipped as she wrapped her hands around it, as if she didn’t expect its weight after so long with the wooden practice swords.

When Viktor tried to get up out of the hard, wooden chair he had been lying in, a pain surged through his ankle.

The wooden floor was broken through almost everywhere, and right beneath was earth, sometimes muddy, sometimes dry, but always infested with rats, scorpions, little venomous black spiders, and centipedes.

They only made it as far as his desk against the wall before she’d grabbed him—right as he’d pushed her down onto the wooden surface and stripped off her pants.