ASH BORN

Gods, it was boiling in this useless excuse for a kingdom.

Or maybe it felt that way because Celaena Sardothien had been lounging on the lip of

the terra-cotta roof since midmorning, an arm flung over her eyes, slowly baking in the

sun like the loaves of flat-bread the city’s poorest citizens left on their windowsills

because they couldn’t afford brick ovens.

And gods, she was sick of flatbread—teggya, they called it.