conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Knights of the Borrowed Dark about Ireland, Denizen, Hardwick with the genre: Children's Books, Growing Up & Facts of Life
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gr 58Set in Ireland, this story has all the components needed to keep readers engagedmystery, fantasy, a creepy orphanage, knights, monsters, mysterious creatures, and the battle between good and evil. Denizen Hardwick is an orphan with no family, no past, and little prospects for his future. Everything changes the night that he discovers he has a long-lost aunt. He's whisked away into a secret society where he soon learns that he has special powers and a connection to the Knights who fight against the shadow monsters. Though the tropes will be familiar to fans of Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, the author's world-building, nonstop action, and strong characters make this a memorable and well-developed trilogy starter. VERDICT With an intriguing mix of mystery, horror, fantasy, and adventure, this is sure to find an eager readership.Valentine Muyumba, Indiana State University
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Knights of the Borrowed Dark
  The electronic ticket gates had been disengaged and the group wasn't stopped by security, though the burly guard at the door eyed each Knight as if he were daring them to cause trouble. Denizen wasn't sure if that was brave or naïve.
  Evidently, their visit had been prearranged. Even as they entered, Denizen noted another security guard ushering the other tour groups toward an exit, clearing the place the way you would for a visiting dignitary.
  The rest of the Knights were waiting at the top of the stairs. Jack was there, and he and five others dragged massive black metal cases behind them, each one marked with the sigil of the Order—the hand-and-hammers. Busts stared grimly from plinths—Newton, Goldsmith, Swift—their blank marble eyes burning into Denizen's, the walls carved deep with Latin. It had the reverent silence of a cathedral or a forest—that same sense of something ancient and powerful just a hair's breadth away. Knowledge prowled here, like a tiger in grass.
  One by one, they descended the shaft, the staircase weaving downward like a coil of DNA. The whole tunnel couldn't have been more than a meter across—Denizen was the smallest of them by far and even he was cramped. He had no idea how Jack must have felt.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about resembled, resembled.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Knights of the Borrowed Dark
  The electronic ticket gates had been disengaged and the group wasn't stopped by security, though the burly guard at the door eyed each Knight as if he were daring them to cause trouble. Denizen wasn't sure if that was brave or naïve. 
  Evidently, their visit had been prearranged. Even as they entered, Denizen noted another security guard ushering the other tour groups toward an exit, clearing the place the way you would for a visiting dignitary. 
  The rest of the Knights were waiting at the top of the stairs. Jack was there, and he and five others dragged massive black metal cases behind them, each one marked with the sigil of the Order—the hand-and-hammers. 
  It resembled a library in the same way a mountain resembled a pebble—the same shape, but on a far more massive scale. Busts stared grimly from plinths—Newton, Goldsmith, Swift—their blank marble eyes burning into Denizen's, the walls carved deep with Latin. It had the reverent silence of a cathedral or a forest—that same sense of something ancient and powerful just a hair's breadth away. Knowledge prowled here, like a tiger in grass. 
  One by one, they descended the shaft, the staircase weaving downward like a coil of DNA. The whole tunnel couldn't have been more than a meter across—Denizen was the smallest of them by far and even he was cramped. He had no idea how Jack must have felt.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: four more paragraphs. Start with the sentence 'Jack blinked'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Jack blinked. "You...actually have a point." He sighed. "You really do, at that. But you've only been in this war for six months. And hatred and fear build like rust, Denizen, and they don't just disappear. We've had people taken from us. That's a debt that can't easily be paid."
  Jack frowned. "I know him a little now, and I don't think he has anything other than the safety of his Knights at heart. A war wouldn't do anything for anybody. But that's not what you should be thinking about."
  Jack sighed. "I was never much of a Knight, Denizen. I like making things. I'm not afraid of a fight, never have been, but I didn't cleave to the war the way Corinne did. She was a force of nature, my wife. And she knew the risks of what she did. Grey too. That's what being part of the Order means. You didn't bring doom down on our heads. We were already facing the darkness. It's just... sometimes it wins."
  Jack shrugged. "There's no point to revenge. You either don't get it, in which case the want grows until it collapses your world around you, or you do get it. And then you have it. Great. Show me something you can build from revenge that you can't build from acceptance."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last three paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He wasn't given room for anything else. A whirlwind of hugs, of affection, of contact. He had to hold himself back from fighting it. It wasn't the way he was used to being touched.
  Their kitchen was bright and warm. Little notes to each other. Paintings. They'd built a life here. A life together.
  He dropped the cup. The sound was very loud, and Uriel Croit stared at his fingers—trembling, unable to close. Too numb. Too cold.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Too cold. A whirlwind of hugs, of affection, of contact. He had to hold himself back from fighting it. It wasn't the way he was used to being touched.
  Their kitchen was bright and warm. Little notes to each other. Paintings. They'd built a life here. A life together.
  He dropped the cup. The sound was very loud, and Uriel Croit stared at his fingers—trembling, unable to close. Too numb.He wasn't given room for anything else.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Knights of the Borrowed Dark
  Far below in the yard, children dipped in and out of the shadow cast by his tower office—gossiping in scattered groups, voices raised in excited chatter. All talking about the visitors, of course. This was what happened when you bottled up 250 boys and girls. Last week, a thrush had bounced off a classroom window and the orphans hadn't shut up for days. Had they named it? He wouldn't be surprised.
  His gaze swept the buildings below. Crosscaper Orphanage slouched against the mountainside like it had been dropped there—a graying stack of towers and flat, fat dormitories that shuddered when the wind was too harsh and sweated when it got too warm.
  The director barely heard him. He was staring at the newest addition to the orphanage grounds, standing out against Crosscaper's comforting grayness like a healthy man in a hospital ward. Bright white walls. New windows that shone. A door that didn't squeak but whispered open like the sharing of a secret. Children waited outside, as they had every day since it opened.
  Director Ackerby did not believe in coddling visitors. There was an art to these things. Inspectors were made to wait ten minutes; it didn't do to annoy them, but you also didn't want to make them feel too important. Solicitors were seen immediately (you never knew who might end up footing the bill), and potential parents had to wait half an hour, as a sort of test of their commitment.
  Ackerby liked to keep the lights low. It shaved money off the bills and he had the vague idea that it might be beneficial to the children—exercise for their eyes, perhaps. The visitors had stopped where the light from Ackerby's desk lamp and the glow from the hallway fell short. Their faces were obscured, indistinct.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He'd completely forgotten about his birthday. The realization made him straighten suddenly, though no emotion accompanied it. What was a birthday in this maze of darkness and prowling monsters?
  Simon had become far more focused on things like staying alive and less on the idea of parties and cards.
  The boy's sobbing drifted through the air as Simon gently lifted a stale loaf of bread from its shelf. He had been careful not to take too much, just in case one of the trio came down here and noticed. But from what he could see, they hadn't so much as touched a grain of rice.
  Spending one's days hiding in a cupboard, trying to soundlessly chew bread, gave a person a lot of time to think. Questions had bloomed like mushrooms in the dark, fed on scraps of knowledge he had learned, and as always, they came down to three.
  He checked on the other students sometimes, though listening to them tremble and being unable to help them was just about the most heartbreaking thing in the world.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last three paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Vivian looked out over the bleak landscape—the cresting waves, the hills made silver and haunting by the moon. The view was as familiar to him as the sight of his own face in the mirror, and it was strange to see her be a part of it, though with ragged armor and sword the whole scene could have been something from a millennia-old war.
  She looked him up and down. "Does this change things? Knowing what you know? It doesn't end here. This is just the beginning. There are years of training—for you and Simon, should he join us—there are your studies at Daybreak, a whole life of Knighthood. You could just...you could—"
  She smiled bitterly. "I don't know what I was thinking. Revenge doesn't bring anyone back from the dead."