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

A hole tore through the shield behind her, and the darkness slammed into the barrier, making the magic ripple and shriek. She flung a thought toward it, and as the flame patched it up, her blood began to pound.

The princes were closing in again. She growled, sending a wall of white-hot flame at them, pushing them back, back, back while she took a deep breath.

But blood came coughing out instead of air.

If she ran inside the gates, how long would the shield last before it fell to the princes and their ancient darkness? How long would any of those inside last? She didn’t dare look behind to see who was winning. It didn’t sound good. There were no cries of victory, only pain and fear.

Her knees quaked, but she swallowed the blood in her mouth and took another breath.

She had not imagined it would end like this. And maybe it was what she deserved, after turning her back on her kingdom.

One of the Valg princes ripped a hand through the wall of flame separating them, the darkness shielding his flesh from being melted off. She was about to send another blast at him when a movement from the trees caught her eye.

Far up the hill, as if they had come racing down from the mountains and had not stopped for food or water or sleep, were a towering man, a massive bird, and three of the largest predators she had ever seen.

Five in all.

Answering their friend’s desperate call for aid.

They hurtled through the trees and over stones: two wolves, one black and one moon-white; the powerfully built male; the bird swooping low over them; and a familiar mountain cat racing behind. Heading for the darkness looming between them and the fortress.

The black wolf skidded to a halt as they neared the darkness, as if sensing what it could do. The screaming in the fortress rose. If the newcomers could destroy the soldiers, the survivors could take the tunnel and flee before the dark consumed everything.

Sweat stung Celaena’s eyes, and pain sliced into her so deep that she wondered if it was permanent. But she had not lied to Rowan about saving lives.

So she did not stop to doubt or consider as she flung the remnants of her power toward Rowan’s five friends, a bridge of flame through the darkness, cleaving it in two.

A path toward the gates behind her.

To their credit, Rowan’s friends did not hesitate as they raced for it, the wolves leading the way, the bird—an osprey—close behind. She poured her power into the bridge, gritting her teeth against the agony as the five rushed past, not sparing her a glance. But the golden mountain cat slowed as he charged through the gates behind her, as her chest seized and she coughed, her blood bright on the grass.

“He’s inside,” she choked out. “Help him.”

The great cat lingered, assessing her, and the wall, and the princes fighting against her flame. “Go,” she wheezed. The bridge through the darkness collapsed, and she staggered back a step as that black power slammed into her, the shield, the world.

The blood was roaring so loudly in her ears that she could barely hear when the mountain cat raced for the fortress. Rowan’s friends had come. Good. Good that he would not be alone, that he had people in the world.

She coughed blood again, splattering it on the ground—on the legs of the Valg prince.

She barely moved before he slammed her into her own flames, and she hit the magical wall beneath, as hard and unforgiving as if it were made of stone. The only way into the fortress was through the ward-gates. She swiped with Goldryn, but the blow was feeble. Against the Valg, against this horrible power that the King of Adarlan possessed, the army at his disposal… it was all useless. As useless as the vow she’d made to Nehemia’s grave. As useless as an heir to a broken throne and a broken name.

The magic was boiling her blood. The darkness—it would be a relief compared to the hell smoldering in her veins. The Valg prince advanced, and part of her was screaming—screaming at herself to get up, to keep fighting, to rage and roar against this horrible end. But moving her limbs, even breathing, had become a monumental effort.

She was so tired.



The fortress was a hell of yelling and fighting and gore, but Rowan kept swinging his blades, holding his position at the tunnel mouth as soldier after soldier poured in. The scout leader, Bas, had let them in, Luca had told Rowan. The other demi-Fae who had conspired with Bas wanted the power the creatures offered—wanted a place in the world. From the devastation in the bleeding boy’s eyes, Rowan knew that Bas had already met his end. He hoped Luca hadn’t been the one to do it.

The soldiers kept coming, highly trained men who were not afraid of the demi-Fae, or of the little magic that they bore. They were armed with iron and did not differentiate between young and old, male and female, as they hacked and slaughtered.

Rowan was not drained, not in the least. He had fought for longer and in worse conditions. But the others were flagging, especially as soldiers continued flooding the fortress. Rowan yanked his sword from the gut of a falling soldier, dagger already slicing across the neck of the next, when growling shook the stones of the fortress. Some of the demi-Fae froze, but Rowan nearly shuddered with relief as twin wolves leapt down the staircase and closed their jaws around the necks of two Adarlanian soldiers.

Great wings flapped, and then a glowering, dark-eyed male was in front of him, swinging a sword older than the occupants of Mistward. Vaughan merely nodded at him before taking up a position, never one to waste words.