Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3) by Sarah J. Maas

Night-black eyes shifted toward him. “Unusual, indeed.”

Dorian tensed. Only Celaena and Chaol knew the truth about his magic—and Chaol had shut him out so completely that Dorian didn’t feel like attempting to explain himself to his friend. But this castle was full of spies and sycophants who wanted nothing more than to use whatever knowledge they could to advance their position. Including selling out their Crown Prince. Who knew who’d seen him in the hallways or the library, or who had discovered that stack of books he’d hidden in Celaena’s rooms? He’d since moved them down to the tomb, where he went every other night—not for answers to the questions that plagued him but just for an hour of pure silence.

His father resumed eating. He’d been in his father’s private chambers only a few times in his life. They could be a manor house of their own, with their library and dining room and council chamber. They occupied an entire wing of the glass castle—a wing opposite from Dorian’s mother. His parents had never shared a bed, and he didn’t particularly want to know more than that.

He found his father watching him, the morning sun through the curved wall of glass making every scar and nick on the king’s face even more gruesome. “You’re to entertain Aedion Ashryver today.”

Dorian kept his composure as best he could. “Dare I ask why?”

“Since General Ashryver failed to bring his men here, it appears he has some spare time while awaiting the Bane’s arrival. It would be beneficial to you both to become better acquainted—especially when your choice of friends of late has been so… common.”

The cold fury of his magic clawed its way up his spine. “With all due respect, Father, I have two meetings to prepare for, and—”

“It’s not open for debate.” His father kept eating. “General Ashryver has been notified, and you will meet him outside your chambers at noon.”

Dorian knew he should keep quiet, but he found himself asking, “Why do you tolerate Aedion? Why keep him alive—why make him a general?” He’d been unable to stop wondering about it since the man’s arrival.

His father gave a small, knowing smile. “Because Aedion’s rage is a useful blade, and he is capable of keeping his people in line. He will not risk their slaughter, not when he has lost so much. He has quelled many a would-be rebellion in the North from that fear, for he is well aware that it would be his own people—the civilians—who suffered first.”

He shared blood with a man this cruel. But Dorian said, “It’s still surprising that you’d keep a general almost as a captive—as little more than a slave. Controlling him through fear alone seems potentially dangerous.”

Indeed, he wondered if his father had told Aedion about Celaena’s mission to Wendlyn—homeland of Aedion’s royal bloodline, where Aedion’s cousins the Ashryvers still ruled. Though Aedion trumpeted about his various victories over rebels and acted like he practically owned half the empire himself… How much did Aedion remember of his kin across the sea?

His father said, “I have my ways of leashing Aedion should I need to. For now, his brazen irreverence amuses me.” His father jerked his chin toward the door. “I will not be amused, however, if you miss your appointment with him today.”

And just like that, his father fed him to the Wolf.



Despite Dorian’s offers to show Aedion the menagerie, the kennels, the stables—even the damned library—the general only wanted to do one thing: walk through the gardens. Aedion claimed he was feeling restless and sluggish from too much food the night before, but the smile he gave Dorian suggested otherwise.

Aedion didn’t bother talking to him, too preoccupied with humming bawdy tunes and inspecting the various women they passed. He’d dropped the half-civilized veneer only once, when they’d been striding down a narrow path flanked by towering rosebushes—stunning in the summer, but deadly in the winter—and the guards had been a turn behind, blind for the moment. Just enough time for Aedion to subtly trip Dorian into one of the thorny walls, still humming his lewd songs.

A quick maneuver had kept Dorian from falling face-first into the thorns, but his cloak had ripped, and his hand stung. Rather than give the general the satisfaction of seeing him hiss and inspect his cuts, Dorian had tucked his barking, freezing fingers into his pockets as the guards rounded the corner.

They spoke only when Aedion paused by a fountain and braced his scarred hands on his hips, assessing the garden beyond as though it were a battlefield. Aedion smirked at the six guards lurking behind, his eyes bright—so bright, Dorian thought, and so strangely familiar as the general said, “A prince needs an escort in his own palace? I’m insulted they didn’t send more guards to protect you from me.”

“You think you could take six men?”

The Wolf had let out a low chuckle and shrugged, the scarred hilt of the Sword of Orynth catching the near-blinding sunlight. “I don’t think I should tell you, in case your father ever decides my usefulness is not worth my temperament.”

Some of the guards behind them murmured, but Dorian said, “Probably not.”

And that was it—that was all Aedion said to him for the rest of the cold, miserable walk. Until the general gave him an edged smile and said, “Better get that looked at.” That was when Dorian realized his right hand was still bleeding. Aedion just turned away. “Thanks for the walk, Prince,” the general said over his shoulder, and it felt more like a threat than anything.