Heir of Fire

She lifted her face to the stars. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir of two mighty bloodlines, protector of a once-­glorious people, and Queen of Terrasen.

She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius—­and she would not be afraid.

She was not afraid.

She would remake the world—­remake it for them, those she had loved with this glorious, burning heart; a world so brilliant and prosperous that when she saw them again in the Afterworld, she would not be ashamed. She would build it for her people, who had survived this long, and whom she would not abandon. She would make for them a kingdom such as there had never been, even if it took until her last breath.

She was their queen, and she could offer them nothing less.

Aelin Galathynius smiled at her, hand still outreached. “Get up,” the princess said.

Celaena reached across the earth between them and brushed her fingers against Aelin’s.

And arose.

“Do not insult me by asking me to leave. I am fighting. Nehemia would have stayed. My parents would have stayed.”

“They also had the luxury of knowing that their bloodline did not end with them.”

She gritted her teeth. “You have experience—you are needed ­here. You are the only person who can give the demi-­Fae a chance of surviving; you are trusted and respected. So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to what­ever end.” And if the creatures devoured her body and soul, then she would not mind. She had earned that fate.

For a long moment, he said nothing. But his brows narrowed slightly. “To what­ever end?”

She nodded. He had not needed to mention the massacres, had not needed to try to console her. He knew—­he understood without her having to say a word—­what it was like.

Her magic thrummed in her blood, wanting out, wanting more. But it would wait—­it had to wait until it was time. Until she had Narrok and his creatures in her sight.

She realized that Rowan saw each of those thoughts and more as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He extended it to her, its long blade gleaming as if he’d been secretly polishing and caring for it these months.

And when she grasped the dagger, its weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her, and said, “Fireheart.”

Why are you crying, Fireheart?

It had been ten years—­ten long years since she had heard her mother’s voice. But she heard it then over the force of her weeping, as clear as if she knelt beside her. Fireheart—­why do you cry?

“Because I am lost,” she whispered onto the earth. “And I do not know the way.”

She would make for them a kingdom such as there had never been, even if it took until her last breath.

She was their queen, and she could offer them nothing less.

People sometimes ­can’t tell friend from foe when they’re handling that much magic.

obliterate the Wyrdkeys the King of Adarlan had used to build his terrible empire. She’d gladly destroy herself to carry it out.

Just her, just him. Just as it should be; no loss of life beyond their own

“They burned the antler throne, Aedion. There is no throne for her.”

“Then I’ll build one myself from the bones of our enemies.”

for the first time in her life, she realized she was utterly outmatched.

She lifted her face to the stars. She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir of two mighty bloodlines, protector of a once-glorious people, and Queen of Terrasen.

She was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius—and she would not be afraid.