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

Then came the conversation with her grandmother. It wasn’t so much a conversation as it was a slap in the face, then a verbal beating that—a day later—still made Manon’s ears ring.

She’d humiliated her grandmother and every Blackbeak in history by picking that “runty scrap of meat,” regardless of his victory. It was a fluke that he’d killed Titus, her grandmother ranted. Abraxos was the smallest of any of the mounts, and on top of that, because of his size, he had never flown a day in his life. They had never let him out of the warrens.

They didn’t even know if he could fly after his wings had taken a beating for so long, and the handlers were of the opinion that should Abraxos attempt the Crossing, he’d splatter himself and Manon on the Gap floor. They claimed no other wyverns would ever accept his dominance, not as a Wing Leader. Manon had ruined all of her grandmother’s plans.

All these facts were shouted at her again and again. She knew that if she even wanted to change mounts, her grandmother would force her to keep Abraxos, just to humiliate her when she failed. Even if it got her killed in the process.

Her grandmother hadn’t been in the pit, though. She hadn’t looked into Abraxos’s eyes and seen the warrior’s heart beating in him. She hadn’t noticed that he’d fought with more cunning and ferocity than any of the others. So Manon held firm and took the slap to the face, and the lecture, and then the second slap that left her cheek throbbing.

Manon’s face was still aching when she reached the pen in which Abraxos now made his home. He was curled by the far wall, silent and still when so many of the creatures were pacing or shrieking or growling.

Her escort, the overseer, peered through the bars. Asterin lurked in the shadows. After the whipping last night, her Second wasn’t going to let her out of her sight anytime soon.

Manon hadn’t apologized for the whipping. The rules were the rules, and her cousin had failed. Asterin deserved the lashing, just as Manon deserved the bruise on her cheek.

“Why’s he curled up like that?” Manon asked the man.

“Suspect it’s ’cause he’s never had a pen to himself. Not this big, anyway.”

Manon studied the penned-in cavern. “Where did they keep him before?”

The man pointed at the floor. “With the other baiters in the sty. He’s the oldest of the baiters, you know. Survived the pits and the stys. But that doesn’t mean he’s suitable for you.”

“If I wanted your opinion on his suitability, I’d ask for it,” Manon said, eyes still on Abraxos as she approached the bars. “How long to get him in the skies?”

The man rubbed his head. “Could be days or weeks or months. Could be never.”

“We begin training with our mounts this afternoon.”

“Not going to happen.” Manon raised her brows. “This one needs to be trained alone first. I’ll get our best trainers on it, and you can use another wyvern in the meantime to—”

“First of all, human,” Manon interrupted, “don’t give me orders.” Her iron teeth snapped out, and he flinched. “Second, I won’t be training with another wyvern. I’ll train with him.”

The man was pale as death as he said, “All your sentinels’ mounts will attack him. And the first flight will spook him so bad that he’ll fight back. So unless you want your soldiers and their mounts to tear each other apart, I suggest you train alone.” He trembled and added, “Milady.”

The wyvern was watching them. Waiting. “Can they understand us?”

“No. Some spoken commands and whistles, but no more than a dog.”

Manon didn’t believe that for one moment. It wasn’t that he was lying to her. He just didn’t know any better. Or maybe Abraxos was different.

She’d use every moment until the War Games to train him. When she and her Thirteen were crowned victors, she’d make each and every one of the witches who doubted her, her grandmother included, curse themselves for fools. Because she was Manon Blackbeak, and she’d never failed at anything. And there would be nothing better than watching Abraxos bite off Iskra’s head on the battlefield.





Chapter 24


It was far too easy to lie to his men about the bruises and cuts on his face when Chaol returned to the castle—an unfortunate incident with a drunk vagrant in Rifthold. Enduring the lies and the injuries was better than being carrion. Chaol’s bargain with Aedion and the rebels had been simple: information for information.

He’d promised more information about their queen, as well as about the king’s black rings, in exchange for what they knew regarding the king’s power. It had kept him alive that night, and every night afterward, when he’d waited for them to change their minds. But they never came for him, and tonight, he and Aedion waited until well past twelve before slipping into Celaena’s old rooms.

It was the first time he’d dared return to the tomb since that night with Celaena and Dorian, and the skull-shaped bronze knocker, Mort, didn’t move or speak at all. Even though Chaol wore the Eye of Elena at his throat, the knocker remained frozen. Perhaps Mort only answered to those with Brannon Galathynius’s blood in their veins.

So he and Aedion combed through the tomb, the dusty halls, scouring every inch for signs of spies or ways to be discovered. When they were at last satisfied that no one could overhear them, Aedion said, “Tell me what I’m doing down here, Captain.”