Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas follows Celaena Sardothien in Wendlyn, where she grapples with her Fae heritage and the loss of Nehemia. Forced to confront her past, she trains with Fae warrior Rowan Whitethorn to control her fire magic and embraces her destiny as Aelin Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen, to fight the King of Adarlan.
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Gods,itwasboilinginthisuselessexcuseforakingdom.
OrmaybeitfeltthatwaybecauseCelaenaSardothienhadbeenloungingon
the lip of the terra-cotta roof since midmorning, an arm flung over her eyes,
slowlybakinginthesunliketheloavesofflat-breadthecity’spoorestcitizens
leftontheirwindowsillsbecausetheycouldn’taffordbrickovens.
And gods, she was sick of flatbread—teggya, they called it. Sick of the
crunchy,onionytasteofitthatevenmouthfulsofwatercouldn’twashaway.If
sheneverateanotherbiteofteggyaagain,itwouldbetoosoon.
Mostly because it was all she’d been able to afford when she landed in
Wendlyn two weeks ago and made her way to the capital city, Varese, just as
she’dbeenorderedbyhisGrandImperialMajestyandMasteroftheEarth,the
KingofAdarlan.
She’dresortedtoswipingteggyaandwineoffvendors’cartssincehermoney
ran out, not long after she’d taken one look at the heavily fortified limestone
castle,attheeliteguards,atthecobaltbannersflappingsoproudlyinthedry,hot
windanddecidednottokillherassignedtargets.
So it had been stolen teggya … and wine. The sour red wine from the
vineyardsliningtherollinghillsaroundthewalledcapital—atasteshe’dinitially
spat out but now very, very much enjoyed. Especially since the day when she
decidedthatshedidn’tparticularlycareaboutanythingatall.
Shereachedfortheterra-cottatilesslopingbehindher,gropingfortheclay
jugofwineshe’dhauledontotheroofthatmorning.Patting,feelingforit,and
then—
Sheswore.Whereinhellwasthewine?
The world tilted and went blindingly bright as she hoisted herself onto her
elbows.Birdscircledabove,keepingwellawayfromthewhite-tailedhawkthat
hadbeen perched atop a nearby chimney all morning, waitingto snatch up its
nextmeal.Below,themarketstreetwasabrilliantloomofcolorandsound,full
of braying donkeys, merchants waving their wares, clothes both foreign and
familiar,andtheclackingofwheelsagainstpalecobblestones.Butwhereinhell
wasthe—
Ah.There.Tuckedbeneathoneoftheheavyredtilestokeepcool.Justwhere
she’dstashedithoursbefore,whenshe’dclimbedontotheroofofthemassive
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