Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)

by Sarah J. Maas

She knew where it was—the third and final Wyrdkey. It had been around her neck the night she fell into the river.

“Aelin.” Was it fear, pain, or both in his eyes? “Tell me what you learned.” “Not while you are bound to her.” “I am bound to her forever.” “I know.” He was Maeve’s slave—worse than a slave. He had to obey every command, no matter how wretched.

It was a long story, and sometimes she grew quiet and cried—and during those times he leaned over to wipe away her tears.

When she finished, Rowan merely passed her more of the tonic. She smiled at him, and he looked at her for a while before he smiled back, a different smile than all the others he’d given her before.

She grinned at Rowan through her tears, and sent the droplet splashing onto his face. Rowan tossed her into the pool. A moment later, laughing, he jumped in himself.

The somewhat shorter hair was the least of the changes. She was now flushed with color, her eyes bright and clear, and though she’d regained the weight she’d lost that winter, her face was leaner. A woman—a woman was smiling back at her, beautiful for every scar and imperfection and mark of survival, beautiful for the fact that the smile was real, and she felt it kindle the long-slumbering joy in her heart.

Rowan cleared his throat, and Celaena gave them one last parting smile before she followed the prince into the trees—to Doranelle, and to Maeve, at last.

To fulfill the bargain he’d made when he sold his freedom to get Aelin to Wendlyn.

“They slaughtered Narrok and his men, and she saved a great number of people—with magic. Fire, they say—power the likes of which the world has not seen since Brannon himself.”

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

but Aedion could have sworn there were tears in the captain’s eyes as he said, “Tell them it’s time to fight back.”

More and more, until there was not a road they had not covered, until there was not one soul who did not know that Aelin Galathynius was alive—and willing to stand against Adarlan.

Worse than that, she’d defeated one of the king’s deadliest generals. No one had done that and lived. Ever.

When Celaena got back, when she returned as she’d sworn she would … Then they would set about changing the world together.

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

Maeve had harmed Rowan before. How many of his scars had she given him? “Stop it,” Celaena growled.

She knew the gold in her eyes had shifted to flame, because when she looked to Maeve, the queen’s face had gone bone-white. And then Celaena set the world on fire.

“Behold my power, Maeve. Behold what I grapple with in the deep dark, what prowls under my skin.”

“I suggest,” Celaena said to the Fae Queen, “that you think very, very carefully before threatening me or my own, or hurting Rowan again.”

Maeve went as still as death while Celaena lifted the ring between two fingers.

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.”

“Very well. I’ve grown rather bored of his company these past few decades, anyway.”

That was all Celaena needed to hear before she tossed the ring to Maeve, before Rowan rushed to her, his hands on her cheeks, his brow against her own.

he whispered again, grinning, and kissed her brow before he dropped to both knees before her.

I claim you, Aelin. To whatever end.

“Together, Fireheart,” he said, pushing back the sleeve of her tunic. “We’ll find a way together.” He looked up from her exposed wrist. “A court that will change the world,” he promised.

“Do you promise to serve in my court, Rowan Whitethorn, from now until the day you die?” She did not know the right words or the Old Language, but a blood oath wasn’t about pretty phrases. “I do. Until my last breath, and the world beyond. To whatever end.”

There were no words to do justice to what passed between them in that moment.

But at dawn, she begged Rowan to retrieve his needles and ink from his pack.

Rowan said nothing as she walked back into the bedroom, hardly gave her more than a passing glance as she removed her robe, bare to the waist, and laid on her stomach on the worktable he’d ordered brought in.

one line for her parents and uncle; one line for Lady Marion; and one line for her court and her people. On the smaller, shorter scars, were the stories of Nehemia and of Sam. Her beloved dead. No longer would they be locked away in her heart. No longer would she be ashamed.