There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a woman set the world on fire—literally, in Aelin’s case, and metaphorically in Nesta’s. For so long, female characters in fantasy were only ‘strong’ in a way that still made them palatable. They could be warriors, but not too angry. They could be powerful, but only if they still had the emotional bandwidth to coddle the men around them and provide a space for them to express their emotions.

Enter Sarah J. Maas’s heroines—Nesta, Manon, Feyre, and Aelin—women who are powerful, furious, and, most importantly, unwilling to apologise for it.

I didn’t realise how much I needed these characters until I read them. Until then, I’d spent years absorbing the idea that the ideal woman is always accommodating, always measured, always choosing the high road. For a long time, women were expected to fight their battles quietly. Strength was acceptable, but only if it was tempered by diplomacy, patience, and a refusal to make anyone too uncomfortable. Taking the high road wasn’t just encouraged—it was often the only option.

Take Eleanor Roosevelt, for example. She was one of the most influential women of her time, a relentless advocate for human rights and social change. But she had to fight carefully. She challenged racism and sexism, but always in a way that was measured, strategic, and, most importantly, palatable. She was brilliant, but she didn’t rage. She worked within the system, even when she must have wanted to tear it down.

Even the ‘strong’ ones in literature—Katniss Everdeen, Hermione Granger—aren’t really allowed to be angry for too long. Not in a way that makes people uncomfortable. Certainly not in a way that might involve claws, fire, or a well-placed dagger.

But female rage? Proper, unapologetic, world-shaking female rage? That’s something else entirely. And the reason we love these women is because we see ourselves in them.

Why We Love the Angry Women of Fantasy

Nesta in A Court of Silver Flames is, arguably, Maas’s most divisive heroine. She is bitter, withdrawn, sharp-tongued. She lashes out, burns bridges, and refuses to accept help. But she is also dealing with trauma in the only way she knows how—by taking up space. She is angry because she has been hurt, and instead of making herself smaller, she lets that anger fuel her.

And then there’s Feyre. Unlike Nesta, whose rage is sharp and immediate, earlier in the series Feyre’s rage burns slow—but when it erupts, it’s unstoppable. She doesn’t just lash out; she dismantles. When she returns to the Spring Court, it’s not as a victim, but as a quiet, calculating force of destruction. She doesn’t storm in with swords and fire—she plays the long game, pulling apart Tamlin’s court from the inside, unravelling him piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the ruins of what once held her captive. It’s vengeance served cold, the kind of retribution that isn’t about chaos, but about control. And throughout the series, her anger isn’t just righteous—it’s transformative. Feyre’s fury takes her from a powerless girl trapped in someone else’s world to a ruler who chooses her own fate. And that? That is power.

And then there’s Aelin. Aelin, who is the perfect blend of brilliance and absolute chaos, and always a step ahead. She doesn’t just fight her enemies—she dismantles them. She plays the long game, pulling strings that no one even notices until it’s too late. She smirks in the face of those who underestimate her because, let’s be honest, they always do. And then she burns them to the ground (sometimes literally because subtlety is not her brand).

Manon is another level entirely. If Aelin is fire, Manon is steel—cold, brutal, efficient. She doesn’t rage in the way Nesta or Feyre do; she doesn’t need to. She simply is—unapologetically, terrifyingly powerful. The woman rides a wyvern, commands an army, and treats affection like an unfortunate side effect of being alive. And yet, somehow, we adore her for it.

We love them because they refuse to be ‘good girls.’ They don’t bow. They don’t soften themselves. And when they do show vulnerability, it is on their terms. They are utterly themselves, and they make no excuses for it.

Sex, Power, and Women Who Refuse to Settle

Another reason these women stand out – They don’t just demand respect and power—they demand pleasure. In so many stories, female characters are expected to be passive in love, waiting to be chosen, grateful for whatever scraps of affection they receive. Not here. Nesta, Feyre, Aelin, and Manon don’t just accept passion when it’s offered—they own it. They prioritise their own pleasure, their own desires, and refuse to settle for men who can’t meet them on equal footing.

Nesta, in particular, refuses to play coy about what (or who) she wants, while Manon approaches intimacy with the same ruthless efficiency she applies to war. Feyre, after being trapped in a relationship where she was stifled, takes control of her own body and choices without apology. And Aelin—well, Aelin displays frankly superhuman levels of self-restraint at times, which is admirable but also slightly infuriating. (Girl, we are begging you to just let loose a little sooner.) But when she finally chooses, it’s entirely on her terms.

They don’t exist to satisfy men; they make men prove themselves worthy. And in doing so, they reclaim something that so many female characters have been denied—the right to be just as bold, just as demanding, and just as satisfied as their male counterparts.

Why Female Rage Feels So Cathartic

In books, we root for these women because, deep down, we wish we could be more like them. We wish we could let loose the kind of rage that levels cities and burns down hypocrisy. Because in real life, when women get angry, we’re told we’re overreacting. We’re ‘difficult.’ We’re ‘too much.’

We watch Feyre fight back against a world that underestimates her because we, too, have been underestimated. We cheer when Aelin smirks in the face of men who would control her because we’ve sat through meetings where our ideas were ignored until a man repeated them (literally happened to me this week). We understand Nesta’s bitterness because we’ve all, at some point, swallowed our rage just to keep the peace.

And it’s not just fiction. Historically, women who refused to conform—who dared to take up space, to lead, to call out hypocrisy—have been demonised.

Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians, outwitted Vikings and ruled in an age when women weren’t supposed to lead. She was a warrior and strategist who expanded her kingdom while her male counterparts lost ground. And yet, her achievements were and continue to be downplayed in favour of her father and brother.

Queen Nzinga of Ndongo and Matamba, a 17th-century ruler in modern-day Angola, was a master diplomat and warrior who spent decades resisting Portuguese colonisation. She negotiated, manipulated, and fought when necessary. She didn’t just survive in a world designed to crush her—she thrived.

Lakshmibai, the Rani of Jhansi, led a rebellion against British colonial rule in India. She rode into battle herself, defying every expectation of what a ‘respectable’ woman should do. When she died, a British officer reportedly said she was the most dangerous leader they had faced.

Then there’s Boudicca, who took on the Roman Empire with sheer, unstoppable fury. When she led her rebellion, the Romans underestimated her, just like so many men underestimate women who dare to fight back. She burned cities, cut through legions, and made history. The archaeological legacy of her fiery rage is literally still being discovered.

All these women had one thing in common: they refused to play the role that society had assigned to them.

Some Men Fear Powerful Women. Others Just… Disappoint Us.

It’s not always about power, though. Sometimes, the disappointment is more mundane. Sometimes, it’s not about being torn down for being strong—it’s about watching the men around you shrink from even the smallest challenges.

Because here’s the thing: not all men are actively trying to suppress female power. Some are just… weak. Cowardly. They take the easy way out. They break promises. They betray people who love them. They let women shoulder the burden of fixing everything, then resent them for it. And that disappointment—the slow realisation that some men will always take the path of least resistance—is its own kind of rage-inducing.

That’s another reason books like ACOTAR and Throne of Glass resonate. Because the men in them—Rhysand, Cassian, Rowan—aren’t perfect, but they step up. They don’t shrink in the face of powerful women. They rise to meet them.

Owning the Rage

There’s something freeing about finally allowing yourself to be angry. About not brushing it off or making excuses. About sitting in that feeling and saying actually, no, this isn’t okay.

Maybe that’s why we gravitate toward characters like Nesta and Aelin—not because we aspire to be them exactly, but because they give us permission to feel what we feel. To take up space. To demand better.

And if history has taught us anything, it’s that women who do that tend to change the world.

Ali x