It was dark. Darker than the kind the Valg princes summoned, darker than the cells in the bowels of Endovier. And she couldn't summon a single ember to defend herself from it. She'd tried.

She'd tried fighting.

She'd tried calling for help, her voice cracking.

No one had come. And she was afraid.

The words, I will not be afraid, had no effect on the suffocating darkness.

My name is Aelin Ashryver-Galathynius, and I will not be afraid.

She trembled, tears and sweat sticking the iron mask to her face.

My name was Celaena Sardothien. She would not be afraid.

It was so dark, so painfully dark. She - the heir to Mala Light-Bringer - was shut in the dark. Even the goddess at her shoulder was powerless against it. Mala had left her. Just as everyone else had.

She had always been afraid of the dark. Even before her parents were slaughtered in the middle of the night, and inky blackness seemed to coat the room, she had been afraid of the dark. Afraid that the dark would vanquish the embers dancing at her fingertips and leave her alone, with nothing but her fears for company.

My mother called me Fireheart.

Fireheart.

But here, in this suffocating iron box, she had no fire in her heart.

Aelin Galathynius, The Queen who was Promised, heir to two mighty bloodlines, blessed by Mala Light-Bringer... lay shivering in her iron coffin, alone and afraid.