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Edda and Briar, two cousins that were as close as sisters,
Lin
Her mother had called her Fireheart.
He’d burn the library, the city, or the whole world to ashes if she asked him. It was their bond, marked by blood and scent and something else she couldn’t place.
But they were all of them ruled by Maeve and her two sisters, whom they called Mora and Mab. Cunning Mora, who bore the shape of a great hawk”—that was Rowan’s mighty bloodline—“Fair Mab, who bore the shape of a swan. And the dark Maeve, whose wildness could not be contained by any single form.”
Mora and Mab had fallen in love with human men, and yielded their immortality.
ILYSM AELIN 😭🥹
that flickering light inside of her guttered. And went out.
Why are you crying, Fireheart?
Fireheart—why do you cry? “Because I am lost,” she whispered onto the earth. “And I do not know the way.”
my heart
And that was when Celaena walked to the old man—and got onto her knees. She apologized, profusely. To Emrys, to Luca, to Malakai.
It claimed to have been born in another world, but had slipped into this one when the gods were looking elsewhere.
during the Valg wars, when demons had opened and closed portals to another world at will?
“Maybe we could find the way back together.”
He held out a hand. “Together, then.”
“Together,” she said, and took his outstretched hand. And somewhere far and deep inside her, an ember began to glow.
“I see now,” Manon said softly, “why my Blueblood sisters still worship you.”
“We can hardly recall the last time the Blueblood priestesses brought their sacrifices to our foothills. We do miss them.”
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.”
“The merchant himself was from there—a former shape-shifter.
ugh i can’t wait for them to reunite. my baby needs her family 😭
“You cannot pick and choose what parts of her to love.”
YASSSSS DORIAN, TELL HIM
“Just as you cannot pick which parts of me you accept.”
Aelin Fireheart
Aelin of the Wildfire
For a breath she wished for a shape-shifter’s heart so she could shed her skin and weave herself into something else, the music or the wind, and blow across the world.
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?”
Rowan was still holding her hand, clasped to his chest.
the carranam.”
When you’re drained, your carranam can yield their power to you,
Lorcan, his commander and the only male who outranked him in Doranelle,
she could have sworn she occasionally felt their magic … playing together, her flame taunting his ice, his wind dancing amongst her embers.
It was blacker than night, and reeked just as badly as it had the first time she’d smelled it, in the catacombs beneath the library, an obsidian, oily pool of blood.
but Rowan made her feel … better. As if she could finally breathe after months of suffocating.
With horrific gentleness, Rowan grasped her hand. “No. The soldiers killed every slave in Calaculla.”
That was when they noticed that every musician on the stage was wearing mourning black.
That was when they shut up.
It was the Song of Eyllwe. Then the Song of Fenharrow. And Melisande. And Terrasen. Each nation that had people in those labor camps.
The next morning, by royal decree, the theater was shut down. No one saw those musicians or their conductor again.
So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.”
“To whatever end?” She nodded.
“Fireheart.”
“I claim you, Rowan Whitethorn. I don’t care what you say and how much you protest. I claim you as my friend.”
You were brought back, it said. All the players in the unfinished game.
Knew that this—this was called sacrifice.
And she had failed.
You were just a baby
the gold and red and blue flames utterly hers, this heir of fire.
“I claim you, too, Aelin Galathynius.”
Sorscha was finishing up a letter to her friend
And crystals, Chaol had once read in Celaena’s magic books, were good conduits for magic. It hadn’t been hard to buy several from the market—each about as long as his finger, white as fresh snow.
