Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass #0.1–0.5, 1–7)

by Sarah J. Maas

Filling the skies, stretching into the horizon, flew mighty, armored birds with riders. Ruks. And before them all, sword raised to the sky as that horn blew one last time, the ruby in the blade’s pommel smoldering like a small sun … Before them all, riding on the Lord of the North, was Aelin.

The Lord of the North reared up, jutting Goldryn higher into the sky, and Aelin unleashed a flash of fire through the ruby—the signal the army behind her had awaited. For Terrasen. All of it, for Terrasen. The Lord of the North landed, the immortal flame within his antlers shining bright as he began the charge. The army around and behind her flowed down the hillside, gaining with each step, barreling toward Morath’s back ranks. Barreling toward Orynth. Toward home.

While Aelin threw herself at the rungs lining the catapult’s wheeled base, and began pushing. Turning it. Away from Orynth, from the castle. Precisely as Aelin had told him Sam Cortland had done in Skull’s Bay, the catapult’s mechanisms allowed her to rotate its base. Rowan wondered if the young assassin was smiling now—smiling to see her heaving the catapult into position. All the way to the siege tower at its left. On the second tower, a red-haired figure had fought her way onto the upper level. And was turning the catapult toward the third and final tower. Ansel of Briarcliff. A flash of Ansel’s sword, and the catapult snapped, hurling the boulder it contained. Just as Aelin brought down Goldryn upon the catapult before her. Twin boulders soared. And slammed into the siege towers beside them. Iron groaned; wood shattered. And the two towers began to topple. Where Ansel of Briarcliff had gone to escape the destruction, even Rowan could not follow. Not as Aelin remained atop the first siege tower, and leaped upon the now-outstretched arm of the catapult, jutting over the battlefield below. Not as she shouted to Lysandra, who shifted again, a wyvern rising up from a ghost leopard’s leap. Grabbing the catapult’s outstretched arm in one taloned foot while plucking up Aelin in another. With a mighty flap, Lysandra ripped the catapult from its bolts atop the tower. And twisting, she swung it into the final siege tower. Sending it crashing to the ground. Right onto a horde of M...

It was the golden hair he spotted first. Before the mound of Valg he’d piled high. The gate he’d shut for them. The city he’d secured. A terrible, rushing sort of stillness took over Aedion’s body. He stopped hearing the battle. Stopped seeing the fighting around him, above him. Stopped seeing everything but the fallen warrior, who gazed toward the darkening sky with sightless eyes. His tattooed throat ripped out. His sword still gripped in his hand. Gavriel. His father.

Dammit Kyle.. this is your fault.

So Aelin sketched a bow to Erawan and said with every remaining scrap of bravado she possessed, “We’ve met a few times, but never as we truly are.” She winked at him. Even as her knees quaked, she winked at him. “Pretty as this form is, Erawan, I think I miss Perrington. Just a little bit.” Maeve’s nostrils flared.

As if wondering whether Aelin’s words had struck true. “I hope you are entertained by your prattling idiocy.” “Eternally so,” Aelin said with a mocking bow. “I suppose I’ll be more entertained when I wipe you from the face of the earth.” She sighed skyward. “Gods above, what a sight that will be.” Maeve extended a hand before her, darkness swirling in her cupped palm. “There are no gods left to watch, I’m afraid. And there are no gods left to help you now, Aelin Galathynius.” Aelin smiled, and Goldryn burned brighter. “I am a god.” She unleashed herself upon them.

Chaol at last opened his eyes, the bronze of them so vivid. Alive. Utterly alive. Full of trust, and understanding, and pride. “Go save the world, Yrene,” he whispered, and kissed her brow. Yrene let that kiss sink into her skin, a mark of protection, of love that she’d carry with her into hell and beyond it.

The Queen of Terrasen had come, an army with her, and it would still not be enough.

With a nod to Lorcan and Fenrys, Rowan shifted, a hawk instantly soaring over the walls. Lorcan looked to Fenrys. Found the male bristling. Aware of the change beyond the walls. It was time. “We finish this together,” Fenrys snarled, and shifted as well, a white wolf leaping clean off the battlements and into the city streets below. Toward the gate. Lorcan glanced at the castle, where he knew Elide was watching. He said his silent farewell, sending what remained of his heart on the wind to the woman who had saved him in every way that mattered.

Spirit that could not be broken. You do not yield.

Aelin surveyed the illusion, so artfully wrought. The stone chamber, with its braziers and hook from the ceiling. The stone altar. The open door and roar of the river beyond. She made herself look. To face down that place of pain and despair. It would always leave a mark, a stain on her, but she would not let it define her. Hers was not a story of darkness.

Aelin knew for certain then. Where Erawan had gone. Who had brought him down at last. So Aelin wrenched her sword free of the pile of ashes that had been Maeve. She lifted it high to the night sky, to the stars, and let her cry of victory fill the world. Let the name she shouted ring out, the soldiers on the field, in the city, taking up the call until all of Orynth was singing with it. Until it reached the shining stars of the Lord of the North gleaming above them, no longer needed to guide her way home. Yrene. Yrene. Yrene.

Sartaq ran a hand down her matted hair. “You know what victory means, don’t you?” Nesryn lifted her head, brows narrowing. Behind them, Salkhi patiently stood while the healer’s magic soothed over his eye. “A good night’s rest, I hope,” she said.

giant wolves and their riders amongst them. He should go. Should leave this place. And yet he stared at the dark stain. All that remained. Ten years of suffering and torment and fear, and the stain was all that remained. He turned the sword in his hand, its weight heavier than it had been. The sword of truth. What had the truth been in the end? What was the truth, even now?

Her golden eyes lifted to his. Weary, heavy—yet glowing. “Hello, princeling,” she breathed. A smile bloomed on his mouth. “Hello, witchling.” He scanned the skies beyond her for the Thirteen, for Asterin Blackbeak, undoubtedly roaring her victory to the stars. Manon said quietly, “You will not find them. In this sky, or any other.” His heart strained as he understood. As the loss of those twelve fierce, brilliant lives carved another hole within him. One he would not forget, one he would honor. Silently, he crossed the balcony. Manon did not back away as he slid his arms around her. “I am sorry,” he said into her hair. Tentatively, slowly, her hands drifted across his back. Then settled, embracing him. “I miss them,” she whispered, shuddering. Dorian only held her tighter, and let Manon lean on him for as long as she needed, Abraxos staring toward that blasted bit of earth on the plain, toward the mate who would never return, while the city below celebrated.

“Terrasen is my home,” Aelin said. It was the only answer in her heart. Darrow smiled—just a bit. “So it is.” He bowed his head. Then his body. “Welcome,” he said, then added as he rose, “Your Majesty.” But Aelin looked to Evangeline, the girl still beaming. Win me back my kingdom, Evangeline. Her order to the girl, all those months ago. And she didn’t know how Evangeline had done it. How she had changed this old lord before them. Yet there was Darrow, gesturing to the gates, to the castle behind him. Evangeline winked at Aelin, as if in confirmation. Aelin just laughed, taking the girl by the hand, and led that promise of Terrasen’s bright future into the castle.

Elide laughed, smacking his shoulder. And then laughed again, louder. Lorcan set her down. “What?” Elide’s mouth bobbed as she tried to stop her laughing. “It’s just … I’m Lady of Perranth. If you marry me, you will take my family name.” He blinked. Elide laughed again. “Lord Lorcan Lochan?” It sounded just as ridiculous coming out.

Yrene swallowed. “What if, once I have settled in Adarlan, and had this babe … When the time is right, what if I established my own Torre here?” Hafiza cocked her head, as if listening to the cadence of the statement while it echoed into her heart. “A Torre Cesme in the North.” Yrene went on, “In Adarlan. In Rifthold. A new Torre to replenish what Erawan destroyed. To teach the children who might not realize they have the gift, and those who will be born with it.” Because many of the Fae streaming in from the battlefield were descendants of the healers who had gifted the Torre women with their powers—long ago. Perhaps they would wish to help again. Hafiza smiled anew. “I like that idea very much, Yrene Westfall.” With that, the Healer on High walked back into the fray of healing and pain. But Yrene remained standing there, a hand drifting to the slight swelling in her belly. And she smiled—broad and unfalteringly—at the future that opened before her, bright as the oncoming dawn.

As she guided her wyvern to the bit of blasted earth on the battlefield. Right to its heart. And smiling through her tears, laughing in joy and sorrow, Manon laid that precious flower from the Wastes upon the ground. In thanks and in love. So they would know, so Asterin would know, in the realm where she and her hunter and child walked hand in hand, that they had made it. That they were going home.

“Did anyone bother to sleep?” Only Fenrys lifted his hand. Aedion frowned at the dark stain on the stones. “We’re putting a rug over it,” Aelin told him. Lysandra laughed. “Something tacky, I hope.” “I’m thinking pink and purple. Embroidered with flowers. Just what Erawan would have loved.” The Fae males gaped at them, Ren blinking. Elide ducked her head as she chuckled. Rowan snorted again. “At least this court won’t be boring.” Aelin put a hand on her chest, the portrait of outrage. “You were honestly worried it would be?” “Gods help us,” Lorcan grumbled. Elide elbowed him.

Aelin walked toward the witch, then past her. Right to where Abraxos sat, gazing toward Theralis. The blasted patch of earth. Her heart strained at the sight of it. The wyvern and the earth and the witch behind her. But Aelin sat down beside the wyvern. Brushed a hand over his leathery head. He leaned into her touch. “There will be a monument,” she said to Abraxos, to Manon. “Should you wish it, I will build a monument right there. So no one shall ever forget what was given. Who we have to thank.”

Do you offer your life, your body, your soul to the service of Terrasen? She answered in the Old Language, as she had also practiced with Rowan last night until her tongue turned leaden. I offer all that I am and all that I have to Terrasen. Then speak your vows. Aelin’s heart raced, and she knew Rowan could hear it, but she bowed her head and said, I, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, swear upon my immortal soul to guard, to nurture, and to honor Terrasen from this day until my very last. Then so it shall be, Darrow responded, and reached out a hand.

Aelin looked to Darrow, still waiting. “Where were we?” The old lord smiled slightly and gestured to the throne. “The last piece of this ceremony.” “Then lunch,” Fenrys muttered, sighing.

Aelin walked forward. Took Yrene Westfall by the hand to guide her to the front. Then Manon Blackbeak. Elide Lochan. Lysandra. Evangeline. Nesryn Faliq. Borte and Hasar and Ansel of Briarcliff. All the women who had fought by her side, or from afar. Who had bled and sacrificed and never given up hope that this day might come. “Walk with me,” Aelin said to them, the men and males falling into step behind. “My friends.” The bells still ringing, Aelin nodded to the guards at the castle gates. They opened at last, and the roar from the gathered crowds was loud enough to rattle the stars. As one, they walked out. Into the cheering city. Into the streets, where people danced and sang, where they wept and clasped their hands to their hearts at the sight of the parade of waving, smiling rulers and warriors and heroes who had saved their kingdom, their lands. At the sight of the newly crowned queen, joy lighting her eyes. A new world. A better world.

“Just don’t let them bring the wyverns home,” Hasar groused. “I never want to see another wyvern for as long as I live.” Kashin patted her on the head. Hasar snapped her teeth at him.

For a moment, Aelin and Yrene just stared at each other. “We’re a long way from Innish,” Yrene whispered. “But lost no longer,” Aelin whispered back, voice breaking as they embraced. The two women who had held the fate of their world between them. Who had saved it.

Aelin let out a long sigh. “Will you let me cry in bed for the rest of today like a pathetic worm,” she asked at last, “if I promise to get to work on rebuilding tomorrow?” Rowan arched a brow, joy flowing through him, free and shining as a stream down a mountain. “Would you like me to bring you cakes and chocolate so your wallowing can be complete?” “If you can find any.”

She frowned, her eyes dampening. “I’m going to have a terrible headache from all this crying, and you’re not helping.” Rowan laughed, and kissed her again. “Very queenly.” She hummed. “I am, if anything, the consummate portrait of royal grace.” He chuckled against her mouth. “And humility. Let’s not forget that.” “Oh yes,” she said, winding her arms around his neck. His blood heated, sparking with a power greater than any force a god or Wyrdkey could summon. But Rowan pulled away, just far enough to rest his brow against hers. “Let’s get you to your chambers, Majesty, so you can commence your royal wallowing.”

She went still, her hands slackening at her sides, as she beheld what the dawn had revealed. “Rowan,” she whispered. From the rustle of sheets, she knew he was instantly awake. Stalking toward her, even as he shoved on his pants. But Aelin didn’t turn as he rushed onto the balcony. And halted, too. In silence, they stared. Bells began pealing; people shouted. Not with fear. But in wonder. A hand rising to her mouth, Aelin scanned the broad sweep of the world. The mountain wind brushed away her tears, carrying with it a song, ancient and lovely. From the very heart of Oakwald. The very heart of the earth. Rowan twined his fingers in hers and whispered, awe in every word, “For you, Fireheart. All of it is for you.” Aelin wept then. Wept in joy that lit her heart, brighter than any magic could ever be. For across every mountain, spread beneath the green canopy of Oakwald, carpeting the entire Plain of Theralis, the kingsflame was blooming.

Assassin’s blade

“Breakfast,” she said slowly. “I’m hungry.” Sam opened his mouth, and she waited for the retort, but it never came. He bowed deeply. “As you wish,” he said. They swapped particularly vulgar gestures before she stalked down the hallway.

But she’d been eighteen and desperate, and had gladly taken a job that offered only a few coppers and a miserable little bed in a broom closet beneath the stairs.

Better than what Harry got lol

As a prodigiously gifted healer blessed with no small amount of magic, her mother had always said it wasn’t right to charge people for what she’d been given for free by Silba, the Goddess of Healing.

The girl was staring at her, quiet and still as a cat.

The girl’s eyes flashed to hers. They were ringed with gold—stunning. Even with the bruises, the girl was alluring. Like wildfire, or a summer storm swept in off the Gulf of Oro.

This girl wasn’t like wildfire—she was wildfire. Deadly and uncontrollable. And slightly out of her wits.

Of course she was worthy. She was Celaena Sardothien, gods be damned.

The last thing she remembered was a pang of guilt at the sight of her blood staining Arobynn’s exquisite red carpet.

She’d get that letter. Even if she had to hold a dagger to his throat while he wrote it.

Bitch this is the WHOLE REASON YOURE HERE. Let some of that defiance and anger goooooo

Celaena had a sudden moment of clarity then, as her hair ripped from her braid and the wind tore at her clothes. Of all the girls in all the world, here she was on a spit of beach in the Red Desert, astride an Asterion horse, racing faster than the wind. Most would never experience this—she would never experience anything like this again. And for that one heartbeat, when there was nothing more to it than that, she tasted bliss so complete that she tipped her head back to the sky and laughed.

Celaena set down her pot of rouge. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll draw a mustache on you.”

“This is a madhouse,” she muttered, her gaze rising to the girls on the swings as they floated through the room. They arched their backs so far that it was a miracle their breasts stayed in their corsets.

“Then let me call you Mine for a dance or two.” She grinned, but someone was suddenly between them, a tall, powerfully built person. Sam. He ripped the stranger’s hand off her wrist. “She’s spoken for,” he growled,

I’ve already told you that if I stay here, if I have to live with Arobynn, I’ll snap his damned neck.” “But why? Why can’t you let it go?” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Because I love you!” Her mouth fell open. “I love you,” he repeated, shaking her again. “I have for years.

When she felt the brush of his tongue against hers, she was so full of lightning she thought she might die from the rush of it. She wanted more. She wanted all of him.

He brushed his lips against hers. “I love you,” he breathed against her mouth. “And from today onward, I want to never be separated from you. Wherever you go, I go. Even if that means going to Hell itself, wherever you are, that’s where I want to be. Forever.”

“I can wait,” he said thickly, kissing her collarbone. “We have all the time in the world.” Maybe he was right. And spending all the time in the world with Sam … That was a treasure worth paying anything for.

Sam’s eyes opened, and, finding her watching him, he gave her a sleepy smile. It hit her like a punch to the gut. Yes—for him, she could someday give up being Adarlan’s Assassin, give up the notoriety and fortune.

And the city would have to have a library, too. A great, wonderful library. Or a bookshop with a knowledgeable owner who could make sure her thirst for books was always sated.

She been trying to read for the past two hours—trying and failing. Even an utterly sinful romance novel hadn’t held her interest.