Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)

by Sarah J. Maas

She was forgetting what Nehemia looked like. The shade of her eyes, the curve of her lips, the smell of her. Her laugh. The roaring in Celaena’s head went quiet, silenced by that familiar nothingness. Do not let that light go out. But Celaena didn’t know how to stop it. The one person she could have told, who might have understood … She was buried in an unadorned grave, so far from the sun-warmed soil that she had loved.

Even her soul felt looser. As if it had been locked up and buried and was only now starting to shake free. Not joy, perhaps not ever, but a glimmer of what she had been before grief had decimated her so thoroughly.

Gods, she was so heavy again. That stupid dream—memory, whatever it was. Today would be an effort.

Yet this was not the end—this was not her end. She had survived loss and pain and torture; she had survived slavery and hatred and despair; she would survive this, too.