Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)

by Sarah J. Maas

Queen Maeve of the Fae. Maeve knew everything—as was expected when you were older than dirt.

You didn’t need a weapon at all when you were born one.

She was outweighed, outmuscled, and for the first time in her life, she realized she was utterly outmatched.

Celaena Sardothien, gloriously mortal Celaena, never had to worry about accidentally scorching a playmate, or having a nightmare that might incinerate her bedroom. Or burning all of Orynth to the ground. Celaena had been everything Aelin wasn’t. She had embraced that life, even if Celaena’s accomplishments were death and torture and pain.

“All I want,” he snarled, “is for my people to be free and my queen restored to her throne.” “They burned the antler throne, Aedion. There is no throne for her.” “Then I’ll build one myself from the bones of our enemies.”

His breath caught, harsh enough that she looked over her shoulder. But his eyes weren’t on her face. Or the water. They were on her bare back. Curled as she was against her knees, he could see the whole expanse of ruined flesh, each scar from the lashings. “Who did that to you?”

Oh, he was definitely fussing, and though it warmed her miserable heart, it was becoming rather irritating.

“But I also think you like to suffer. You collect scars because you want proof that you are paying for whatever sins you’ve committed.

But there was eternity and calm in his eyes, a promise of such sweet darkness, and she could not look away. It would be a blessed relief to let go. She need only surrender to the dark, just as he asked. Take it, she wanted to say, tried to say. Take everything.

She pressed her face into Rowan’s chest. His arms were solid as walls, his assortment of weapons just as reassuring.

“For whatever it’s worth, all of this just proves that she doesn’t deserve you. I think you know that, too.”

So she left Rowan in the hall. But it did not stop her from wishing she could keep him.

No, all she could see were the slaves she’d left behind, the ashy mountains and those mass graves they dug every day, the faces of her people, who had worked beside her—her people whom she had left behind. Whom she had let herself forget, had let suffer; who had prayed for salvation, holding out hope that someone, anyone would remember them.

😭

“You have experience—you are needed here. You are the only person who can give the demi-Fae a chance of surviving; you are trusted and respected. So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.”

“I claim you, Rowan Whitethorn. I don’t care what you say and how much you protest. I claim you as my friend.”

The King of Adarlan was either more powerful than she could imagine, or the most foolish man to ever live if he thought he could control these demon princes.

She had lied to him. She had wanted to save lives, yes. But she had gone out there with no intention of saving her own.

Rowan was screaming as the creature pulled her into its arms. As she stopped fighting. As her flames winked out and darkness swallowed her whole.

Her people, waiting for ten years, but no longer. She could see the snow-capped Staghorns, the wild tangle of Oakwald at their feet, and … and Orynth, that city of light and learning, once a pillar of strength—and her home. It would be both again. She would not let that light go out. She would fill the world with it, with her light—her gift. She would light up the darkness, so brightly that all who were lost or wounded or broken would find their way to it, a beacon for those who still dwelled in that abyss. It would not take a monster to destroy a monster—but light, light to drive out darkness. She was not afraid.

She would remake the world—remake it for them, those she had loved with this glorious, burning heart; a world so brilliant and prosperous that when she saw them again in the Afterworld, she would not be ashamed.

And there, beyond the stones, standing between two of those creatures, was Aelin, a strange mark glowing on her brow. Her hair flowed around her, shorter now and bright like her fire. And her eyes—though they were red-rimmed, the gold in her eyes was a living flame.

Rowan reached her, panting and bloody. She did not dishonor him by asking him to flee as he extended his bleeding palm, offering his raw power to harness now that she was well and truly emptied. She knew it would work. She had suspected it for some time now. They were carranam.

Their hands clasped between them, he whispered into her ear, “I claim you, too, Aelin Galathynius.”

“They slaughtered Narrok and his men, and she saved a great number of people—with magic. Fire, they say—power the likes of which the world has not seen since Brannon himself.”

It was a message to the world. Aelin was a warrior, able to fight with blade or magic. And she was done with hiding.

She was as much a queen as Maeve. She was the sovereign of a strong people and a mighty kingdom. She was the heir of ash and fire, and she would bow to no one.

So Celaena said, “I’ll make a trade with you, though.” Maeve’s brows narrowed. Celaena jerked her chin. “Your beloved’s ring—for Rowan’s freedom from his blood oath.” Rowan stiffened. His friends whipped their heads to her. “A blood oath is eternal,” Maeve said tightly. Celaena didn’t think his friends were breathing. “I don’t care. Free him.” Celaena held out the ring again. “Your choice. Free him, or I melt this right here.”

“By my blood that flows in you,” Maeve said. “Through no dishonor, through no act of treachery, I hereby free you, Rowan Whitethorn, of your blood oath to me.”

Maeve said, “You are free of me, Prince Rowan Whitethorn.”

No longer would they be locked away in her heart. No longer would she be ashamed.

But all she could see was the unconditional love in that dying wyvern’s eyes as she unbuckled her harness, stood from the saddle, and leapt off Abraxos.

But then the general said, “What would you have given—just to see her again?” Chaol couldn’t turn around as he said, “It doesn’t matter now.”

Aedion grinned at them all, the Northern Wolf incarnate. If the king was shocked about the ring, he didn’t show it. “All you monsters can burn in hell. Because my queen is coming—and she will spike you to the walls of your gods-damned castle. And I can’t wait to help her gut you like the pigs you are.”

“For some reason, Mala likes me, and agreed that you and I make a formidable pair.”

She lifted her face to the stars. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir of two mighty bloodlines, protector of a once-glorious people, and Queen of Terrasen. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius—and she would not be afraid.