Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)

by Sarah J. Maas

“How old are you?” he asked. “Nineteen,” she said, and he loosed a breath that could have been sadness or relief or maybe both, and told her that made her magic even more impressive. She debated saying that he would be less impressed once he learned of her nickname for him, but winked at him instead.

She knew where it was—the third and final Wyrdkey. It had been around her neck the night she fell into the river. And around the neck of every one of her ancestors, going back to Brannon himself, when he stopped at the Sun Goddess’s temple to take a medallion from Mala’s High Priestess—and then destroyed the entire site to prevent anyone from tracing his steps. The medallion of cerulean blue, with the white sun-stag crowned with immortal flame—the stag of Mala Fire-Bringer. Upon leaving Wendlyn’s shores, Brannon had stolen those same stags away to Terrasen and installed them in Oakwald. Brannon had placed the third sliver of Wyrdkey inside the amulet and never told a soul what he had done with it.

🌳🌱🪵🍃🧝🏼‍♀️🦌

“Once upon a time,” she said to him, to the world, to herself, “in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom … very much.”

🧝🏼‍♀️📜

She said, “It might take a while, but if—when I reclaim my kingdom, the demi-Fae will always have a home there. And you two—and Malakai—will have a place in my household, should you wish it. As my friends.” Emrys’s eyes were gleaming as he nodded, gripping Luca’s hand.

🧝🏼‍♀️👑 Saying goodbye to Emrys and Luca

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

🧝🏼‍♀️🗡️💪🏻👑❤️‍🔥

He’d told her on their journey that there were several other princes in his family, with his father’s brother ruling over them. Fortunately for Rowan, his uncle had three sons, keeping him free of responsibility,

🦅📜

“What did they look like? What did they feel like?” Maeve cupped her palm and looked at it, as if she could see the keys lying there. “Black and glittering, no more than slivers of stone. But they were not stone—they were like nothing on this earth, in any realm. It was like holding the living flesh of a god, like containing the breath of every being in every realm all at once. It was madness and joy and terror and despair and eternity.”

👸🏻📜🗝️

“There are many different races of Valg—creatures that even your darkest nightmares would flee from. They are ruled by the princes, who themselves are made of shadow and despair and hatred and have no bodies to occupy save those that they infiltrate. There aren’t many princes—but I once witnessed an entire legion of Fae warriors devoured by six of them within hours.” A chill went down her spine, and even the wolves’ hackles rose. “But I killed them with my fire and light—” “How do you think Brannon won himself such glory and a kingdom? He was a discarded son of nobody, unclaimed by either parent. But Mala loved him fiercely, so his flames were sometimes all that held the Valg princes at bay until we could summon a force to push them back.”

👸🏻📜🥷🏼

Brannon was born with the bastard’s mark—the mark every unclaimed, unwanted child possessed, marking them as nameless, nobody. Each of Brannon’s heirs, despite their noble lineage, has since been graced with it—the nameless mark.”

👸🏻📜🦌👑

Without all three keys, he is limited. He can only open the portal between our worlds for short periods, long enough to let in perhaps one prince to infiltrate a body he has prepared. But with all three keys, he could open the portal at will—he could summon all the Valg armies, to be led by the princes in their mortal bodies, and …” Maeve looked more intrigued than horrified. “And with all three keys, he might not need to rely on magically gifted hosts for the Valg. There are countless lesser spirits amongst the Valg, hungry for entrance to this world.” “He’d have to make countless collars for them, then.” “He would not need to, not with all three keys. His control would be absolute. And he would not need living hosts—only bodies.” Celaena’s heart stumbled a beat, and Rowan tensed from his spot on the ground. “He could have an army of the dead, inhabited by the Valg.” “An army that does not need to eat or sleep or breathe—an army that will sweep like a plague across your continent, and others. Maybe other worlds, too.”

👸🏻📜🗝️🏰🥷🏼

“Not for all the world would I tell you where the third key is.” “Oh, I know,” Maeve purred.

Gavriel, his tawny eyes carefully empty, and Lorcan, face stone-cold. And in their hands … At the sight of the iron-tipped whip each bore, Celaena forgot to breathe. Lorcan didn’t hesitate as he ripped Rowan’s jacket and tunic and shirt from him. “Until she answers me,” Maeve said, as if she had just ordered a cup of tea. Lorcan unfurled the whip, the iron tip clinking against the stones, and drew back his arm. There was nothing merciful on his rugged face, no glimmer of feeling for the friend on his knees. “Please,” Celaena whispered. There was a crack, and the world fragmented as Rowan bowed when the whip sliced into his back. He gritted his teeth, hissing, but did not cry out. “Please,” Celaena said. Gavriel sent his whip flying so fast Rowan had only a breath to recover. There was no remorse on Gavriel’s lovely face, no sign of the male she’d thanked weeks ago.

👸🏻 making ⚔️🛡️ whip 🦅

Celaena did not dare drag her gaze away from Rowan, who took the whipping as if he had done this before—as if he knew how to pace himself and how much pain to expect. His friends’ eyes were dead, as if they, too, had given and received this manner of punishment. Maeve had harmed Rowan before. How many of his scars had she given him? “Stop it,” Celaena growled.

👸🏻 ⚔️🛡️💔🦅

“Not for all the world, Aelin? But what about for Prince Rowan?”

She opened her mouth, but Rowan lifted his head, teeth bared, his face savage with pain and rage. He knew she could read the word in his eyes, but he still said, “Don’t.”

🦅💪🏻🗡️❤️‍🔥

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.

🧝🏼‍♀️🗡️😤🔥🫶🏼🦅❤️‍🔥

“You wanted a demonstration,” Celaena said quietly. Sweat trickled down her back, but she gripped the magic with everything she had. “One thought from me, and your city will burn.” “It is stone,” Maeve snapped. Celaena smiled. “Your people aren’t.” Maeve’s nostrils flared delicately. “Would you murder innocents, Aelin? Perhaps. You did it for years, didn’t you?” Celaena’s smile didn’t falter. “Try me. Just try to push me, Aunt, and see what comes of it. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Not for me to master my magic, but for you to learn just how powerful I am. Not how much of your sister’s blood flows in my veins—no, you’ve known from the start that I have very little of Mab’s power. You wanted to know how much I got from Brannon.”

🧝🏼‍♀️🗡️😤🔥🫶🏼🦅❤️‍🔥

“You never gave the keys to Brannon. And you didn’t journey with Brannon and Athril to retrieve the keys from the Valg,” Celaena went on, a crown of fire wreathing her head. “You went to steal them for yourself. You wanted to keep them. Once Brannon and Athril realized that, they fought you. And Athril …” Celaena drew Goldryn, its hilt glowing bloodred. “Your beloved Athril, dearest friend of Brannon … when Athril fought you, you killed him. You, not the Valg. And in your grief and shame, you were weakened enough that Brannon took the keys from you. It wasn’t some enemy force who sacked the Sun Goddess’s temple. It was Brannon. He burned any last trace of himself, any clue of where he was going so you would not find him. He left only Athril’s sword to honor his friend—in the cave where Athril had first carved out the eye of that poor lake creature—and never told you. After Brannon left these shores, you did not dare follow him, not when he had the keys, not when his magic—my magic—was so strong.”

👸🏻📜>> 🧝🏼‍♀️🗡️😤🔥🫶🏼🦅❤️‍🔥

“That was why you abandoned your land in the foothills and left it to rot. That was why you built a city of stone surrounded by water: so Brannon’s heirs could not return and roast you alive. That was why you wanted to see me, why you bargained with my mother. You wanted to know what manner of threat I would pose. What would happen when Brannon’s blood mixed with Mab’s line.”

👸🏻📜>> 🧝🏼‍♀️🗡️😤🔥🫶🏼🦅❤️‍🔥

Celaena opened her arms wide, Goldryn burning bright in one hand. “Behold my power, Maeve. Behold what I grapple with in the deep dark, what prowls under my skin.”

👸🏻📜>> 🧝🏼‍♀️🗡️😤🔥🫶🏼🦅❤️‍🔥

“Give me that sword and get out.” She extended a hand toward Goldryn. Celaena shook her head. “I don’t think so. Brannon left it in that cave for anyone but you to find. And so it is mine, through blood and fire and darkness.”

👸🏻📜>> 🧝🏼‍♀️🗡️😤🔥🫶🏼🦅❤️‍🔥

Maeve’s lips thinned. “You will pay for this.” But Celaena stalked to Maeve again, took her hand, and said, “Oh, I don’t think I will.”

👸🏻📜>> 🧝🏼‍♀️🗡️😤🔥🫶🏼🦅❤️‍🔥

The

The vision from the 🥷🏼 at Mystward

“I suggest,” Celaena said to the Fae Queen, “that you think very, very carefully before threatening me or my own, or hurting Rowan again.” “Rowan belongs to me,” Maeve hissed. “I can do what I wish with him.”

👸🏻📜>> 🧝🏼‍♀️🗡️😤🔥🫶🏼🦅❤️‍🔥

All of it—all of it for him. For Rowan, who had known exactly what sword he was picking up that day in the mountain cave, who had thrown it to her across the ice as a future bargaining chip—the only protection he could offer her against Maeve, if she was smart enough to figure it out.

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.”

👸🏻📜>> 🧝🏼‍♀️🫶🏼🦅❤️‍🔥

“By my blood that flows in you,” Maeve said. “Through no dishonor, through no act of treachery, I hereby free you, Rowan Whitethorn, of your blood oath to me.”

Maeve said, “You are free of me, Prince Rowan Whitethorn.”

Rowan rushed to her, his hands on her cheeks, his brow against her own. “Aelin,” he murmured, and it wasn’t a reprimand, or a thank-you, but … a prayer. “Aelin,” 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.”

🥹🧝🏼‍♀️🫶🏼🦅❤️‍🔥 🦅 blood oath to 🧝🏼‍♀️

That was why he had done it now, here—so Celaena could not object, could not try to talk him out of it. It was such a Rowan thing to do, so pigheaded, that she could only grin as she drew the dagger across her wrist, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. She offered her arm to him.

Shoulder to shoulder, they looked at the Fae Queen one last time. But there was only a white barn owl flapping off into the moonlit night.

The first prick stung—holy gods, with the salt and iron, it hurt. She clamped her teeth together, mastered it, welcomed it. That was what the salt was for with this manner of tattoo, Rowan had told her. To remind the bearer of the loss. Good—good, was all she could think as the pain spiderwebbed through her back. Good. And when Rowan made the next mark, she opened her mouth and began her prayers.

🦅 tattooing 🧝🏼‍♀️

In Terrasen she would sing from sunrise to sunset, on her knees in gravel without food or drink or rest. Here she would sing until the markings were done, the agony in her back her offering to the gods.

🧝🏼‍♀️ prayers as 🦅 tattooed her 🌳🌱🪵🍃🦌📜

Rowan did not utter a word while she sang, her voice broken and raw. He remained in the field with her until dawn, as permanent as the markings on her back. Three lines of text scrolled over her three largest scars, the story of her love and loss now written on her: 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.

🧝🏼‍♀️📜🫶🏼🗡️

“Fools, for not knowing what they’ve unleashed,” Asterin murmured, the words carried to Manon on the wind. “Stupid, mortal fools.” Manon hissed her agreement. They flew in formation: Manon at the head, Asterin and Vesta flanking behind, then three rows of three: Imogen framed by the green-eyed demons, Ghislaine flanked by Kaya and Thea, the two Shadows and Lin, then Sorrel solo in the back. A battering ram, balanced and flawless, capable of punching through enemy lines. If Manon didn’t bring them down, then the vicious swords of Asterin and Vesta got them. If that didn’t stop them, the six in the middle were a guaranteed death trap. Most wouldn’t even make it to the Shadows and Lin, who would be fixing their keen eyes on their surroundings. Or to Sorrel, guarding their rear.

🔮👯‍♀️🗡️

save for the Thirteen—who stayed cool and quiet. They did not need to cheer, for they were immortal and infinite and gloriously, wonderfully deadly.

🔮👯‍♀️🗡️

“We call you the White Demon. You’re on our list—the list of all you monsters to kill on sight if we ever run into you. And you …” She opened her eyes and grinned, defiant, furious. “You are at the top of that list. For all that you have done.” “It’s an honor,” Manon said to the Crochan, smiling enough to show her teeth.

🔮📜

The witch laughed, but it turned into a cough that had her heaving until blue blood splattered on the floor, until tears were leaking from her eyes and Manon caught a glimpse of the deep, infected wounds on her chest. When she lifted her head, blood staining the corners of her mouth, she smiled again. “Look all you want. Look at what they did to me, your sisters. How it must pain them to know they couldn’t break me in the end.” Manon stared down at her, at her ruined body. “Do you know what this is, Manon Blackbeak?” the Crochan said. “Because I do. I heard them say what you did during your Games.” Manon wasn’t sure why she was letting the witch talk, but she couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. “This,” the Crochan said for all to hear, “is a reminder. My death—my murder at your hands, is a reminder. Not to them,” she breathed, pinning Manon with that soil-brown stare. “But to you. A reminder of what they made you to be. They made you this way. “You want to know the grand Crochan secret?” she went on. “Our great truth that we keep from you, that we guard with our lives? It is not where we hide, or how to break your curse. You have known all this time how to break it—you have known for five hundred years that your salvation lies in your hands alone. No, our great secret is that we pity you.” No one was speaking now. But the Crochan did not break Manon’s stare, and Manon did not lower her dagger. “We pity you, each and every one of you. For what you do to your children. The...

🎤🔮🗡️📜

“Consider your words carefully, Father.” “Oh?” The king raised a thick, scarred brow. “I had it on good authority that you were planning to run away with this healer. Why would you ever do such a thing?” The prince’s throat bobbed, but he kept his head high. “Because I can’t stand the thought of her spending another minute in this festering shithole that you call a court.” Aedion couldn’t help but admire him for it—for yielding nothing until the king showed his hand. Smart man—brave man. But it might not be enough to get them out of this alive. “Good,” the king said. “Neither can I.”

Dorian trying to stand up to his father for Sorscha

“Don’t you dare,” Dorian growled.

Chaol took a breath, preparing himself for the words that would doom him. But it was Aedion who spoke. “You want a spy? You want a traitor?” the general drawled, and flung his replicated black ring on the floor. “Then here I am. You want to know why the captain and I were meeting? It was because your stupid bastard of a boy-captain figured out that I’d been working with one of the rebels. He’s been blackmailing information out of me for months to give to his father to offer you when the Lord of Anielle needed a favor. And you know what?” Aedion grinned at them all, the Northern Wolf incarnate. If the king was shocked about the ring, he didn’t show it. “All you monsters can burn in hell. Because my queen is coming—and she will spike you to the walls of your gods-damned castle. And I can’t wait to help her gut you like the pigs you are.” He spat at the king’s feet, right on top of the fake ring that had stopped bouncing.

🎤🧔🏼‍♀️😤🗡️

It was flawless—the rage and the arrogance and the triumph. But as he stared each of them down, Chaol’s heart fractured. Because for a flicker, as those turquoise eyes met with his, there was none of that rage or triumph. Only a message to the queen that Aedion would never see. And there were no words to convey it—the love and the hope and the pride. The sorrow at not knowing her as the woman she had become. The gift Aedion thought he was giving her in sparing Chaol’s life.

🧔🏼‍♀️ sacrifice and devotion to 🧝🏼‍♀️

“I was not supposed to love you. But I did. I do. And there is so much I wish … I wish we could have done together, seen together.” The prince just stared at her, then walked to the foot of the dais and dropped to his knees. “Name your price,” he said to his father. “Ask it of me, but let her go. Exile her. Banish her. Anything—say it, and it will be done.”

💔 Sorscha and Dorian

“No.” Chaol thought he had not heard it, the word that cleaved through the air just before the guard’s sword did. One blow from that mighty sword. That was all it took to sever Sorscha’s head. The scream that erupted out of Dorian was the worst sound that Chaol had ever heard. Worse even than the wet, heavy thud of her head hitting the red marble. Aedion began roaring—roaring and cursing at the king, thrashing against his chains, but the guards hauled him away, and Chaol was too stunned to do anything other than watch the rest of Sorscha’s body topple to the ground. And then Dorian, still screaming, was scrambling through the blood toward it—toward her head, as if he could put it back. As if he could piece her together.

🏰 The King killing Sorscha 💔 Sorscha and Dorian

Chaol kept his sword drawn. “I will not go to Anielle,” he growled. “And I will not serve you a moment longer. There is one true king in this room—there always has been. And he is not sitting on that throne.” Dorian stiffened. But Chaol went on. “There is a queen in the north, and she has already beaten you once. She will beat you again. And again. Because what she represents, and what your son represents, is what you fear most: hope. You cannot steal it, no matter how many you rip from their homes and enslave. And you cannot break it, no matter how many you murder.”

🎤 Chaol to the King

Then a crossbow snapped and he realized there had been others in the room—hidden behind impossibly thick shadows. He had only enough time to twist—to see the bolt firing for him with deadly accuracy. Only enough time to see Dorian’s eyes widen, and the whole room plunge into ice.

Dorian exposing his ✨ to save Chaol