Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)

by Sarah J. Maas

Because Celaena was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir to the throne and rightful Queen of Terrasen.

Maeve, Queen of the Fae. Her aunt. And then came the words she had been dreading for ten years. “Hello, Aelin Galathynius.”

“A merchant came by a few years ago—he told me there was a mortal High King who had set himself up there. But I heard a whisper on the wind recently that said he’d been deposed by a young woman with wine-red hair who now calls herself their High Queen.” Manon bristled. High Queen of the Wastes indeed. She would be the first Manon would kill when she returned to reclaim the land, when she finally saw it with her own eyes, breathed in its smells and beheld its untamable beauty.

“You cannot pick and choose what parts of her to love.”

though she could have sworn she occasionally felt their magic … playing together, her flame taunting his ice, his wind dancing amongst her embers.

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

“What do you suppose,” Aedion breathed, staring into the darkness, “the people on other continents, across all those seas, think of us? Do you think they hate us or pity us for what we do to each other? Perhaps it’s just as bad there. Perhaps it’s worse. But to do what I have to do, to get through it … I have to believe it’s better. Somewhere, it’s better than this.”

That was when they shut up. And when the conductor raised his arms, it was not a symphony that filled the cavernous space. It was the Song of Eyllwe. Then the Song of Fenharrow. And Melisande. And Terrasen. Each nation that had people in those labor camps. And finally, not for pomp or triumph, but to mourn what they had become, they played the Song of Adarlan. When the final note finished, the conductor turned to the crowd, the musicians standing with him. As one, they looked to the boxes, to all those jewels bought with the blood of a continent. And without a word, without a bow or another gesture, they walked off the stage. The next morning, by royal decree, the theater was shut down. No one saw those musicians or their conductor again.

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

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.

She would make for them a kingdom such as there had never been, even if it took until her last breath. She was their queen, and she could offer them nothing less. Aelin Galathynius smiled at her, hand still outreached. “Get up,” the princess said. Celaena reached across the earth between them and brushed her fingers against Aelin’s. And arose.

the gold and red and blue flames utterly hers, this heir of fire. Spying him at last, she smiled faintly. A queen’s smile.

She knew where it was—the third and final Wyrdkey. It had been around her neck the night she fell into the river.

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.

“He could have an army of the dead, inhabited by the Valg.” “An army that does not need to eat or sleep or breathe—an army that will sweep like a plague across your continent, and others. Maybe other worlds, too.”

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

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.