BOOKS BY SARAH J. MAAS
The Throne of Glass series
THE THRONE OF GLASS SERIES
‘Celaena is as much an epic hero as Frodo or Jon Snow’ BESTSELLING AUTHOR
‘Part of the joy of a great fantasy series is the gradual discovery of the world, so carefully and lovingly constructed by the author.
This series delivers that pleasure in spades …’
THRONE OF GLASS
‘Enthralling, thrilling and beautiful’
‘It’ll give you a whole new world to fall in love with’
CROWN OF MIDNIGHT
‘The plot is riddled with intrigue, and the fighting comes thick and fast.
‘Left me gaping in shock, my heart battered and my knuckles white’
HEIR OF FIRE
‘This series just gets better and better’
‘I was afraid to put the book down!’
‘I laughed, I bawled my eyes out and I never wanted this to end …
The plot will leave you reeling and breathless for more’
QUEEN OF SHADOWS
‘Impossible to put down’
‘Packed with brooding glances, simmering sexual tension, twisty plot
turns, lush world building, and snarky banter’
‘Readers will be daydreaming about this book long after it’s over’
The bone drums had been pounding across the jagged slopes of the Black Mountains since sundown.
From the rocky outcropping on which her war tent groaned against the dry wind, Princess Elena Galathynius had monitored the dread-lord’s army all afternoon as it washed across those mountains in ebony waves. And now that the sun had long since vanished, the enemy campfires flickered across the mountains and valley below like a blanket of stars.
So many fires—so many, compared to those burning on her side of the valley.
She did not need the gift of her Fae ears to hear the prayers of her human army, both spoken and silent. She’d offered up several herself in the past few hours, though she knew they would go unanswered.
Elena had never considered where she might die—never considered that it might be so far from the rocky green of Terrasen. That her body might not be burned, but devoured by the dread-lord’s beasts.
There would be no marker to tell the world where a Princess of Terrasen had fallen. There would be no marker for any of them.
“You need rest,” a rough male voice said from the tent entrance behind her.
Elena looked over her shoulder, her unbound silver hair snagging on the intricate leather scales of her armor. But Gavin’s dark gaze was already on the two armies stretching below them. On that narrow black band of demarcation, too soon to be breached.
For all his talk of rest, Gavin hadn’t removed his own armor upon entering their tent hours before. Only minutes ago had his war leaders finally shoved out of the tent, bearing maps in their hands and not a shred of hope in their hearts. She could scent it on them—the fear. The despair.
Gavin’s steps hardly crunched on the dry, rocky earth as he approached her lonely vigil, near-silent thanks to his years roaming the wilds of the South. Elena again faced those countless enemy fires.
He said hoarsely, “Your father’s forces could still make it.”
A fool’s hope. Her immortal hearing had picked up every word of the hours of debate raging inside the tent behind them. “This valley is now a death trap,” Elena said.
And she had led them all here.
Gavin did not answer.
“Come dawn,” Elena went on, “it will be bathed in blood.”
The war leader at her side remained silent. So rare for Gavin, that silence. Not a flicker of that untamed fierceness shone in his uptilted eyes, and his shaggy brown hair hung limp. She couldn’t remember the last time either of them had bathed.
Gavin turned to her with that frank assessment that had stripped her bare from the moment she’d first met him in her father’s hall nearly a year ago. Lifetimes ago.
Such a different time, a different world—when the lands had still been full of singing and light, when magic hadn’t begun to flicker in the growing shadow of Erawan and his demon soldiers. She wondered how long Orynth would hold out once the slaughter here in the South had ended. Wondered if Erawan would first destroy her father’s shining palace atop the mountain, or if he would burn the royal library—burn the heart and knowledge of an age. And then burn its people.
“Dawn is yet hours away,” said Gavin, his throat bobbing. “Time enough for you to make a run for it.”
“They’d tear us to shreds before we could clear the passes—”
“Not us. You.” The firelight cast his tan face in flickering relief. “You alone.”
“I will not abandon these people.” Her fingers grazed his. “Or you.”
Gavin’s face didn’t stir. “There is no avoiding tomorrow. Or the bloodshed. You overheard what the messenger said—I know you did. Anielle is a slaughterhouse. Our allies from the North are gone. Your father’s army is too far behind. We will all die before the sun is fully risen.”
“We’ll all die one day anyway.”
“No.” Gavin squeezed her hand. “I will die. Those people down there—they will die. Either by sword or time. But you…” His gaze flicked to her delicately pointed ears, the heritage of her father. “You could live for centuries. Millennia. Do not throw it away for a doomed battle.”
“I would sooner die tomorrow than live for a thousand years with a coward’s shame.”
But Gavin stared across the valley again. At his people, the last line of defense against Erawan’s horde.
“Get behind your father’s lines,” he said roughly, “and continue the fight from there.”
She swallowed hard. “It would be no use.”
Slowly, Gavin looked at her. And after all these months, all this time, she confessed, “My father’s power is failing. He is close—decades now—from the fading. Mala’s light dims inside him with every passing day. He cannot stand against Erawan and win.” Her father’s last words before she’d set out on this doomed quest months ago:
Gavin’s face leeched of color. “You choose now to tell me this?”
“I choose now, Gavin, because there is no hope for me, either—whether I flee tonight or fight tomorrow. The continent will fall.”
Gavin shifted toward the dozen tents on the outcropping. His friends.
“None of us are walking away tomorrow,” he said.
And it was the way his words broke, the way his eyes shone, that had her reaching for his hand once more. Never—not once in all their adventures, in all the horrors that they had endured together—had she seen him cry.
“Erawan will win and rule this land, and all others, for eternity,” Gavin whispered.
Soldiers stirred in their camp below. Men and women, murmuring, swearing, weeping. Elena tracked the source of their terror—all the way across the valley.
One by one, as if a great hand of darkness wiped them away, the fires of the dread-lord’s camp went out. The bone drums beat louder.
He had arrived at last.
Erawan himself had come to oversee the final stand of Gavin’s army.
“They are not going to wait until dawn,” Gavin said, a hand lurching to where Damaris was sheathed at his side.
But Elena gripped his arm, the hard muscle like granite beneath his leather armor.
Perhaps the gods were still listening. Perhaps her mother’s fiery soul had convinced them.
She took in Gavin’s harsh, wild face—the face that she had come to cherish above all others. And she said, “We are not going to win this battle. And we are not going to win this war.”
His body quivered with the restraint to keep from going to his war leaders, but he gave her the respect of listening. They’d both given each other that, had learned it the hard way.
With her free hand, ...