Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2) by Sarah J. Maas

There, on the top of the family tree, was Gavin Havilliard, the mortal prince who had taken his war band into the depths of the Ruhnn Mountains to challenge the Dark Lord Erawan. The war had been long and brutal, and in the end, only a third of the men who had ridden in with Gavin came out of those mountains. But Gavin also emerged from that war with his bride—the princess Elena, the half-Fae daughter of Brannon, Terrasen’s first king. It was Brannon himself who gave Gavin the territory of Adarlan as a wedding gift—and a reward for the prince and princess’s sacrifices during the war. And since then, no Fae blood had bred into their line. Dorian followed the tree down and down. Just longforgotten families whose lands were now called by different names.

Dorian sighed, set down the book, and browsed through the stack. If Elena had gifted the line with her power, then perhaps answers could be found elsewhere …

He was surprised to see the book sitting there, given how his father had destroyed that noble house ten years ago. But there it was: a history of the Galathynius line, starting with the Fae King Brannon himself. Dorian flipped through the pages, his brows raised high. He’d known the line was blessed with magic, but this …

It was a powerhouse. A bloodline so mighty that other kingdoms had lived in terror of the day the Lords of Terrasen would come to claim their lands.

But they never had.

While they’d been gifted, they’d never once pushed their borders—even when wars came to their doorstep. When foreign kings had threatened them, the retribution had been swift and brutal. But always, no matter what, they kept to their borders. Kept the peace.

As my father should have done.

Despite all their power, though, the Galathynius family had fallen, and their noble lords with them. In the book he held, no one had bothered to mark the houses his father had exterminated, or the survivors sent into exile. Without the heart or the knowledge to do it himself, Dorian closed the book, grimacing as all those names burned in his vision. What sort of throne would he inherit someday?

If the heir of Terrasen, Aelin Galathynius, had lived, would she have become a friend, an ally? His bride, perhaps?

He’d met her once, in the days before her kingdom became a charnel house. The memory was hazy, but she’d been a precocious, wild girl—and had set her nasty, brutish older cousin on him in order to teach Dorian a lesson for spilling tea on her dress. Dorian rubbed his neck. Of course, as fate would have it, her cousin wound up becoming Aedion Ashryver, his father’s prodigy general and the fiercest warrior in the north. He’d met Aedion a few times over the years, and at each encounter with the haughty young general, he’d gotten the distinct impression that Aedion wanted to kill him.

And with good reason.

Shuddering, Dorian replaced the book and stared at the bookcase, as if it would yield any answers. But he already knew there was nothing here that could help him.

When the time comes, I will help you.

Did Nehemia know what dwelt inside him? She had acted so strangely that day at the duel, drawing symbols in the air and then fainting. And then there had been the moment when that mark had burned on Celaena’s brow …

A clock chimed somewhere in the library, and he glanced down the aisle. He should go. It was Chaol’s birthday, and he should at least say hello to his friend before Celaena whisked him off. Of course he hadn’t been invited. And Chaol hadn’t tried to suggest that Dorian was welcome, either. What did she plan to do, exactly?

The temperature in the library dropped, a frozen draft blowing in from a distant corridor.

Not that he cared. He’d meant it when he swore to Nehemia that he was done with Celaena. And maybe he should have told Chaol that he could have her. Not that she’d ever belonged to him—or that she’d even tried to suggest that he belonged to her.

He could let go. He had let go. He’d let go. Let go. Let—

Books flew from their shelves, dozens upon dozens bursting into flight, and this time, they slammed into him as he staggered back toward the end of the row. He shielded his face, and when the sound of leather and paper stopped, Dorian braced a hand on the stone wall behind him and gaped.

Half of the books in the row had been tossed off their shelves and scattered about, as if thrown by some invisible force.

He rushed to them, shoving volumes back onto their shelves in no order whatsoever, working as fast as he could before one of the crotchety royal librarians came hobbling over to see what the noise was about. It took him a few minutes to put them all back, his heart pounding so hard he thought he’d be sick again.

His hands trembled—and not just with fear. No, there was some force still running through him, begging him to unleash it again, to open himself up …

Dorian crammed the last book back onto the shelf and took off at a run.

He could tell no one. Trust no one.

When he reached the main hall of the library, he slowed to a walk, feigning a lazy carelessness. He even managed to smile at the old, withered librarian who bowed to him as he passed. Dorian gave him a friendly wave before striding out the towering oak doors.

He could trust no one.

That witch at the carnival—she hadn’t recognized him as the prince. Still, her gift had rung true, at least when talking to Chaol. It was a risk, but perhaps Baba Yellowlegs had the answers he needed.



Celaena wasn’t nervous. She had nothing—absolutely nothing—to be worried about. It was just a dinner. A dinner she’d spent weeks arranging whenever she had a spare moment while spying on those men in Rifthold. A dinner at which she’d be alone. With Chaol. And after last night …