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

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. They are not born evil. But you force them to kill and hurt and hate until there is nothing left inside of them—of you. That is why you are here tonight, Manon. Because of the threat you pose to that monster you call grandmother. The threat you posed when you chose mercy and saved your rival’s life.” She gasped for breath, tears flowing unabashedly as she bared her teeth. “They have made you into monsters. Made, Manon. And we feel sorry for you.”

“Enough,” the Matron said from behind. But the whole room was silent, and Manon slowly raised her eyes to her grandmother’s.

In them, Manon beheld a promise of the violence and pain that would come if she disobeyed. Beyond that, there gleamed nothing but satisfaction. As if the Crochan had spoken true, but only the Blackbeak Matron knew she had done so.

The Crochan’s eyes were still bright with a courage Manon could not comprehend.

“Do it,” the Crochan whispered. Manon wondered if anyone else understood that it was not a challenge, but a plea.

Manon angled her dagger again, flipping it in her palm. She did not look at the Crochan, or her grandmother, or anyone as she gripped the witch by the hair and yanked back her head.

And then spilled her throat on the floor.



Legs dangling off a cliff edge, Manon sat on a plateau atop a peak in the Ruhnns, Abraxos sprawled at her side, smelling the night-blooming flowers on the spring meadow.

She’d had no choice but to take the Crochan’s cloak, to dump her old one atop the body once it fell, once the witches gathered around to rip her apart.

They have made you into monsters.

Manon looked at her wyvern, the tip of his tail waving like a cat’s. No one had noticed when she left the celebration. Even Asterin was drunk on the Crochan’s blood, and had lost sight of Manon slipping through the crowd. She told Sorrel, though, that she was going to see Abraxos. And her Third, somehow, had let her go alone.

They’d flown until the moon was high and she could no longer hear the shrieks and cackles of the witches in the Omega. Together they sat on the last of the Ruhnns, and she gazed across the endless flat expanse between the peaks and the western sea. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, was a home that she had never known.

Crochans were liars and insufferably preachy. The witch had probably enjoyed giving her little speech—making some grand last stand. We feel sorry for you.

Manon rubbed at her eyes and braced her elbows on her knees, peering into the drop below.

She would have dismissed her, wouldn’t have thought twice about it, if it hadn’t been for that look in Keelie’s eyes as she fell, fighting with every last scrap of strength to save her Petrah. Or for Abraxos’s wing, sheltering Manon against icy rain.

The wyverns were meant to kill and maim and strike terror into the hearts of their enemies. And yet…

And yet. Manon looked toward the star-flecked horizon, leaning her face into a warm spring breeze, grateful for the steady, solid companion lounging behind her. A strange feeling, that gratitude for his existence.

Then there was that other strange feeling that pushed and pulled at her, making her replay the scene in the mess hall again and again.

She had never known regret—not true regret, anyway.

But she regretted not knowing the Crochan’s name. She regretted not knowing who the new cloak on her shoulders had belonged to—where she had come from, how she had lived.

Somehow, even though her long life had been gone for ten years…

Somehow, that regret made her feel incredibly, heavily mortal.





Chapter 63


Aedion let out a low whistle and offered Chaol the bottle of wine between them on the rooftop of Celaena’s apartment. Chaol, not feeling at all like drinking, shook his head.

“I wish I had been there to see it.” He gave Chaol a wolfish smile. “I’m surprised you’re not condemning me for saying that.”

“Whatever creatures the king sent with Narrok, I do not think they were innocent men,” Chaol said. “Or really men at all anymore.”

She had done it—had made such a statement that even days later, Aedion was still celebrating. Quietly, of course.

Chaol had come here tonight planning to tell Aedion and Ren what he knew of the spell the king had used and how they might destroy it. But he hadn’t yet. He still wondered what Aedion would do with that knowledge. Especially once Chaol left for Anielle in three days.

“When she gets home, you need to lie low in Anielle,” Aedion said, swigging from the bottle. “Once it comes out who she was all these years.”

And it would, Chaol knew. He was already preparing to get Dorian and Sorscha out of the castle. Even if they had done nothing wrong, they had been her friends. If the king knew that Celaena was Aelin, it could be just as deadly as if he discovered that Dorian had magic. When she came home, everything would change.

Yes, Aelin would come home. But not to Chaol. She would come home to Terrasen, to Aedion and Ren and the court that was regathering in her name. She would come home to war and bloodshed and responsibility. Part of him still could not fathom what she’d done to Narrok, the battle cry she’d issued from across the sea. He could not accept that part of her, so bloodthirsty and unyielding. Even as Celaena, it had been hard to swallow at times, and he had tried to look past it, but as Aelin … He’d known, since the moment he figured out who she was, that while Celaena would always pick him, Aelin would not.