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

His father snatched back the letter, tucking it into his tunic. “She will be most saddened to hear that.” And he knew his father, well aware of Chaol’s lie, would tell his mother exactly what he’d said. For a heartbeat, his blood roared in his ears, the way it always had when he’d witnessed his father belittling his mother, reprimanding her, ignoring her.

He took a steadying breath. “Four months, then I’ll go. Set the date and it’ll be done.”

“Two months.”

“Three.”

A slow smile. “I could go to the king right now and ask for your dismissal instead of waiting three months.”

Chaol clenched his jaw. “Name your price, then.”

“Oh, there’s no price. But I think I like the idea of you owing me a favor.” That dead smile returned. “I like that idea very much. Two months, boy.”

They did not bother with good-byes.



Sorscha was called up to the Crown Prince’s chambers just as she was settling in to brew a calming tonic for an overworked kitchen girl. And though she tried not to seem too eager and pathetic, she found a way to very, very quickly dump the task on one of the lower-level apprentices and make the trek to the prince’s tower.

She’d never been here, but she knew where it was—all the healers did, just in case. The guards let her pass with hardly a nod, and by the time she’d ascended the spiral staircase, the door to his chambers was already open.

A mess. His rooms were a mess of books and papers and discarded weapons. And there, sitting at a table with hardly a foot of space cleared for him, was Dorian, looking rather embarrassed—either at the mess, or at his split lip.

She managed to bow, even as that traitorous heat flooded her again, up her neck and across her face. “Your Highness summoned me?”

A cleared throat. “I—well, I think you can see what needs repairing.”

Another injury to his hand. This one looked like it was from sparring, but the lip… getting that close to him would be an effort of will. Hand first, then. Let that distract her, anchor her.

She set down her basket of supplies and lost herself in the work of readying ointments and bandages. His scented soap caressed her nose, strong enough to suggest he’d just bathed. Which was a horrible thing to think about as she stood beside his chair, because she was a professional healer, and imagining her patients naked was not a—

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?” the prince said, peering up at her.

“It’s not my place to ask—and unless it’s relevant to the injury, it’s nothing I need to know.” It came out colder, harder than she meant. But it was true.

Efficiently, she patched up his hand. The silence didn’t bother her; she’d sometimes spent days in the catacombs without speaking to anyone. She’d been a quiet child before her parents had died, and after the massacre in the city square, she’d become even more so. It wasn’t until she’d come to the castle that she found friends—found that she sometimes liked talking. Yet now, with him… well, it seemed that the prince didn’t like silence, because he looked up at her again and said, “Where are you from?”

Such a tricky question to answer, since the how and why of her journey to this castle were stained by the actions of his father. “Fenharrow,” she said, praying that would be the end of it.

“Where in Fenharrow?”

She almost cringed, but she had more self-control than that after five years of tending gruesome injuries and knowing that one flicker of disgust or fear on her face could shatter a patient’s control. “A small village in the south. Most people have never heard of it.”

“Fenharrow is beautiful,” he said. “All that open land, stretching on forever.”

She did not remember enough of it to recall whether she had loved the flat expanse of farmland, bordered on the west by mountains and on the east by the sea.

“Did you always want to be a healer?”

“Yes,” she said, because she was entrusted to heal the heir to the empire and could show nothing but absolute certainty.

A slash of a grin. “Liar.”

She didn’t mean to, but she met his gaze—those sapphire eyes so bright in the late afternoon sun streaming through the small window. “I did not mean any offense, Your—”

“I’m prying.” He tested the bandages. “I was trying to distract myself.”

She nodded, because she had nothing to say and could never come up with anything clever anyway. She drew out her tin of disinfecting salve. “For your lip, if you don’t mind, Your Highness, I want to make sure there’s no dirt or anything in the wound so it—”

“Sorscha.” She tried not to let it show, what it did to her to have him remember her name. Or to hear him say it. “Do what you need to do.”

She bit her lip, a stupid nervous habit, and nodded as she tilted his chin up so she could better see his mouth. His skin was so warm. She touched the wound and he hissed, his breath caressing her fingers, but didn’t pull back or reprimand or strike her as some of the other courtiers did.

She applied the salve to his lip as quickly as she could. Gods, his lips were soft.

She hadn’t known he was the prince the day she first saw him, striding through the gardens, the captain in tow. They were barely into their teenage years, and she was an apprentice in hand-me-down clothes, but for a moment, he’d looked at her and smiled. He’d seen her when no one else had for years, so she found excuses to be in the upper levels of the castle. But she’d wept the next month when she spied him again, and two apprentices had whispered about how handsome the prince was—Dorian, heir to the throne.