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

Good.

She did not look them in the eyes, nor did she acknowledge the bleeding from her nose and the pressure in her ears. She merely called in a shield of fire around her left forearm and begin swinging that ancient sword.

Whether Rowan lingered to see her break his first order, then his next, then his next, she didn’t know.

The three creatures kept coming at her, swift and controlled, as if they’d had eons to practice swordplay, as if they were all of one mind, one body. Where she deflected one, another was there; where she punched one with flame and steel, another was ducking beneath it to grab her. She could not let them touch her, could not let herself meet their gaze.

The shield around the barrier burned hot at her back, the darkness of the creatures stinging and biting at it, but she held firm. She had not lied to Rowan about that—about protecting the wall.

One of them swept its blade at her—not to kill. To incapacitate.

It was second nature, somehow, that flames leapt down her blade as she struck back, willing fire into the sword itself. When it met the black iron of the creature, blue sparks danced, so bright that she dared look into the creature’s face to glimpse—surprise. Horror. Rage.

The hilt of the sword was warm—comforting—in her hand, and the red stone glowed as if with a fire of its own.

The three creatures stopped in unison, their sensual mouths pulling back from their too-white teeth in a snarl. The one in the center, the one who had tasted her before, hissed at the sword, “Goldryn.”

The darkness paused, and she used its distraction to patch her shields, a chill snaking up her spine even as the flames warmed her. She lifted the sword higher and advanced another step.

“But you are not Athril, beloved of the dark queen,” one of them said. Another said, “And you are not Brannon of the Wildfire.”

“How do you—” But the words caught in her throat as a memory struck, from months ago—a lifetime ago. Of a realm that was in-between, of the thing that lived inside Cain speaking. To her, and—Elena. Elena, daughter of Brannon. You were brought back, it said. All the players in the unfinished game.

A game that had begun at the dawn of time, when a demon race had forged the Wyrdkeys and used them to break into this world, and Maeve had used their power to banish them. But some demons had remained trapped in Erilea and waged a second war centuries later, when Elena fought against them. What of the others, who had been sent back to their realm? What if the King of Adarlan, in learning of the keys, had also learned where to find them? Where to… harness them?

Oh gods. “You are the Valg,” she breathed.

The three things inside those mortal bodies smiled. “We are princes of our realm.”

“And what realm is that?” She poured her magic into the shield behind her.

The Valg prince in the center seemed to reach toward her without moving an inch. She sent a punch of flame at him, and he curled back. “A realm of eternal dark and ice and wind,” he said. “And we have been waiting a very, very long time to taste your sunshine again.”

The King of Adarlan was either more powerful than she could imagine, or the most foolish man to ever live if he thought he could control these demon princes.

Blood dripped onto her tunic from her nose. Their leader purred, “Once you let me in, girl, there shall be no more blood, or pain.”

She sent another wall of flame searing at them. “Brannon and the others beat you into oblivion once,” she said, though her lungs were burning. “We can do it again.”

Low laughter. “We were not beaten. Only contained. Until a mortal man was foolish enough to invite us back in, to use these glorious bodies.”

Were the men who had once occupied them still inside? If she cut off their heads—that torque of Wyrdstone—would the creatures vanish, or be unleashed in another form?

This was far, far worse than she had expected.

“Yes,” the leader said, taking a step toward her and sniffing. “You should fear us. And embrace us.”

“Embrace this,” she snarled, and flung a hidden dagger from her vambrace at his head.

He was so swift that it scraped his cheek rather than wedging itself between its eyes. Black blood welled and flowed; he raised a moon-white hand to examine it. “I shall enjoy devouring you from the inside out,” he said, and the darkness lunged for her again.



The battle was still raging inside the fortress, which was good, because it meant they hadn’t all died yet. And Celaena was still swinging Goldryn against the three Valg princes—though it grew heavier by the moment, and the shield behind her was beginning to fray. She had not had time to tunnel down into her power, or to consider rationing it.

The darkness that the Valg brought with them continued to strike the wall, so Celaena threw up shield after shield, fire flaming through her blood, her breath, her mind. She gave her magic free rein, only asking it to keep the shield behind her alive. It did so, gobbling up her reserves.

Rowan had not come back to help. But she told herself he would come, and he would help, because it was not weakness to admit she needed him, needed his help and—

Her lower back cramped, and it was all she could do to keep her grip on the legendary blade as the leader of the Valg princes swiped for her neck. No.

A muscle twinged near her spine, twisting until she had to bite down a scream as she deflected the blow. It couldn’t be a burnout. Not so soon, not after practicing so much, not—