Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)

by Sarah J. Maas

Maybe she had been a fool to love a man who served the king, but Chaol had been what she needed after losing Sam, after surviving the mines.

“You once told me that when you find your mate, you can’t stomach the idea of hurting them physically. Once you’re mated, you’d sooner harm yourself.”

Sometimes, mates can be together intimately before the actual bond snaps into place.”

“There are about two hundred mortal soldiers and three of those creatures in the caves. There’s a hidden network of them all along the shore.”

“They are under the command of someone called General Narrok.

“You were right. The three creatures look like men, but aren’t men. Whatever dwells inside their skin is … disgusting isn’t the right word. It was as if my magic, my blood—my very essence was repelled by them.”

They’re going after the demi-Fae.”

“I think those bodies we found were experiments. To learn the weaknesses and strengths of the demi-Fae, to learn which ones were … compatible with whatever it is they do to warp beings.

Because if they could not be converted and enslaved to Adarlan, then the demi-Fae could be convinced to potentially fight for Wendlyn in a war. They could be the strongest warriors in Wendlyn’s forces—and cause more than a bit of trouble for Adarlan as a result.

with a growing heaviness she could not control, she wished that when she left this continent … she wouldn’t go alone.

Working with him was so effortless. There was no judgment, no need to explain herself.

Rowan made her feel … better. As if she could finally breathe after months of suffocating.

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

But saying that she wished he could return with her to Adarlan, to Terrasen, was pointless. He had no way to break his oath to Maeve, and she had nothing to entice him with even if he could.

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

That was when they noticed that every musician on the stage was wearing mourning black. 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.

A cooling breeze kissed down Celaena’s neck.

The scent of pine and snow wrapped around her, and she turned to find Rowan standing against a nearby tree.

But she was not tired. And she was not done. There was still wildfire in her mind, writhing, endless, damning. She let it dim to embers, let the grief and horror die down, too.

“Do not insult me by asking me to leave. I am fighting. Nehemia would have stayed. My parents would have stayed.”

So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.”

“To whatever end?” She nodded.

And when she grasped the dagger, its weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her, and said, “Fireheart.”

Fireheart, he had called her. Did he know what that name meant to her?

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

Herding the animals to safety were the Little Folk, hardly more than a gleam of night-seeing eyes.

Whatever darkness Narrok and the creatures brought … once you went in, you did not come out.

“You don’t know if it’ll work—” “It will work,” she snarled. “I’m the expendable one, Rowan.” “You are heir to the throne of—” “Right now, I am a woman who has a power that might save lives. Let me do this. Help the others.”

But she didn’t want to hold the line—not when her enemy was so close. Not when the weight of those souls at Calaculla and Endovier pressed on her, screaming as loudly as the soldiers inside the fortress. She had failed all of them. She had been too late. And it was enough.

she drew the sword from her back with her right hand, her left hand enveloped in flame.

Nehemia’s people, butchered. Her own people, butchered. Her people.

But she would—she was going to burn these things into ash and dust.

This was the least she owed those murdered in Endovier and Calaculla—the least she could do, after so long. A monster to destroy monsters.

The hilt of the sword was warm—comforting—in her hand, and the red stone glowed as if with a fire of its own.

The one in the center, the one who had tasted her before, hissed at the sword, “Goldryn.”

“But you are not Athril, beloved of the dark queen,” one of them said. Another said, “And you are not Brannon of the Wildfire.”

Dark Queen- Maeve

But the words caught in her throat as a memory struck, from months ago—a lifetime ago. Of a realm that was in-between, of the thing that lived inside Cain speaking. To her, and—Elena. Elena, daughter of Brannon. You were brought back, it said. All the players in the unfinished game.

A game that had begun at the dawn of time, when a demon race had forged the Wyrdkeys and used them to break into this world, and Maeve had used their power to banish them. But some demons had remained trapped in Erilea and waged a second war centuries later, when Elena fought against them. What of the others, who had been sent back to their realm? What if the King of...

“You are the Valg,” she...

“We are princes of our realm.”

Princes of Hel like in CC

“A realm of eternal dark and ice and wind,” he said. “And we have been waiting a very, very long time to taste your sunshine again.”

“Brannon and the others beat you into oblivion once,” she said, though her lungs were burning. “We can do it again.” Low laughter. “We were not beaten. Only contained. Until a mortal man was foolish enough to invite us back in, to use these glorious bodies.”

Far up the hill, as if they had come racing down from the mountains and had not stopped for food or water or sleep, were a towering man, a massive bird, and three of the largest predators she had ever seen. Five in all. Answering their friend’s desperate call for aid.

two wolves, one black and one moon-white; the powerfully built male; the bird swooping low over them; and a familiar mountain cat racing behind.

Rowan’s friends had come. Good. Good that he would not be alone, that he had people in the world.

Great wings flapped, and then a glowering, dark-eyed male was in front of him, swinging a sword older than the occupants of Mistward. Vaughan merely nodded at him before taking up a position, never one to waste words.

Rowan ran, shoving aside his oldest friend, shouldering past the other towering male who now appeared—Lorcan. Even Lorcan had answered his call. The time for gratitude would come later, and the dark-haired demi-Fae didn’t say anything as Rowan rushed to the battlement gates.

Lorcan is a Demi fae

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.