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.

Wendlyn. A land of myths and monsters—of legends and nightmares made flesh.

There were few sounds she enjoyed more than the groans of dying men, but the wind was one of them.

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

The pain in her chest sharpened enough that breathing became difficult. She stood there for a moment, pushing back against it, letting it sink into the fog that smothered her soul, and then trudged out the door.

Manon found herself debating how much trouble she’d get into for shredding the throat of the Yellowlegs heir.

“Ah. I was wondering why no one’s bothered to eat you,” Manon said.

She’d looked at Chaol with that same expression. But their relationship had never been as unburdened, and even if she hadn’t ended things, it never would have been like that. The ring on her finger became a weight.

“The people you love are just weapons that will be used against you.”

The witch and the wyvern looked at each other for a moment that lasted for a heartbeat, that lasted for eternity. “You’re mine,” Manon said to him.

“First of all, human,” Manon interrupted, “don’t give me orders.” Her iron teeth snapped out, and he flinched. “Second, I won’t be training with another wyvern. I’ll train with him.”

Manon is my queen

“I’ve told you vital, world-changing information,” Chaol said through his teeth. “You’ve just told me stories.”

“You’re going to have to decide,” Manon said, not bothering to bare her iron teeth. “Are you her spy or my Second?” No hint of pain or fear or betrayal. Just a slight narrowing of her eyes. “I serve you.” “She’s your Matron.” “I serve you.”

No like I am obsessed with the witches storyline!!!

The stench of their fear was distracting. She’d debated for a good minute whether it would be worth it to gut one of them just to see what the others would do.

“See what you want, Aelin, and seize it. Don’t ask for it; don’t wish for it. Take it.”

“They burned the antler throne, Aedion. There is no throne for her.” “Then I’ll build one myself from the bones of our enemies.”

“If I wanted your advice, I’d ask for it, mortal,” she said, but he was right.

“You touch him again,” Manon said, “and I’ll drink the marrow from your bones.”

“But I had a cousin. He was five years older than me, and we fought and loved each other like siblings.” Aedion.

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

“As for Celaena,” he said again, “you do not have the right to wish she were not what she is. The only thing you have a right to do is decide whether you are her enemy or her friend.”

Dorian clocking Chaol

Ice and fire. Frost and embers. Locked in a battle, pushing and pulling. Beneath it, she could almost taste Rowan’s steel will slamming against her magic—a will that refused to let the fire burn her into nothing.

Manon turned to Abraxos, looking into those eyes. “Let’s go.” She tugged on the reins. But he refused to move—not from fear or terror. He slowly lifted his head—looking to where her grandmother stood—and let out a low, warning growl. A threat.

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.”

STOP IT

But she followed Lady Marion inside, Aedion at her heels as always, and perched on her little throne set beside her father’s. Aedion took up his place flanking her, shoulders back and head high, already her protector and warrior.

It would not take a monster to destroy a monster—but light, light to drive out darkness. She was not afraid.

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.”

He’d known, since the moment he figured out who she was, that while Celaena would always pick him, Aelin would not.

Aelin would pick Rowan though 🫢