Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)

by Sarah J. Maas

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

Thirteen from now until the Darkness embraced them, Manon allowed herself a smile, too.

“We are the Thirteen, from now until the Darkness claims us.”

Manon, eyes still upon the beast, said, “He’s mine.”

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.

As his rider. As his mistress. As his.

Manon named her wyvern Abraxos, after the ancient serpent who held the world between his coils at the behest of the Three-Faced Goddess.

Mala, Lady of Light, Learning, and Fire.

Manon lifted and fell with him, not taking one breath as they cleared the highest snow-capped peak and Abraxos, in joy or rage or for the hell of it, gripped clawfuls of snow and ice and set them scattering behind, the sun lighting them up like a trail of stars.

In this moment I hate Rowan so gods damn much

It would have been nice to have one person who knew the absolute truth about her—and didn’t hate her for it.

I can’t put into words how much my heart breaks here

Aelin of the Wildfire.

“You are one of the Thirteen,” she said to him. “From now until the Darkness cleaves us apart. You are mine, and I am yours. Let’s show them why.”

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.

Aelin was a warrior, able to fight with blade or magic. And she was done with hiding.

Somewhere in Wendlyn, his friend was changing the world. She was fulfilling the promise she’d made him. She had not forgotten him, or any of them still here.

She was the heir of ash and fire, and she would bow to no one.

And then Celaena set the world on fire.

I claim you, Aelin. To whatever end.

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

She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius—and she would not be afraid.