Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

Before he faced the dark queen who had torn into his innermost self, stealing his mate long before she had been locked in an iron coffin. And after he was done with her, after that, then he’d take on the cold-blooded gods themselves, hell-bent on destroying what might remain of his mate.

And sometimes, he spoke along the bond between them, sending his soul on the wind to wherever she was held captive, entombed. I will find you.

That’s where they’d put her. Stored her. In a stone temple built for some forgotten god. As she would likely be forgotten. It was better than the alternative: to be remembered for her utter failure.

Another curse to bear, as heavy as the one placed upon her long before her birth. To sacrifice her very self to right an ancient wrong. To pay another’s debt to the gods who had found their world, become trapped in it. And then ruled it.

Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom

A prince of ice and wind. A prince who had been hers, and she his. Long before the bond between their souls became known to them.

The prince whose scent was kissed with pine and snow, the scent of that kingdom she had loved with her heart of wildfire.

They were blurring. The lies and truths and memories. Sleep and the blackness in the iron coffin. The days bound to the stone altar in the center of the room, or hanging from a hook in the ceiling, or strung up between chains anchored into the stone wall. It was all beginning to blur, like ink in water.

The ships had sailed up the Florine, right to Orynth’s doorstep, banners of every color flapping in the brisk wind off the Staghorns: the cobalt and gold of Wendlyn, the black and crimson of Ansel of Briarcliff, the shimmering silver of the Whitethorn royals and their many cousins. The Silent Assassins, scattered throughout the fleet, had no banner, though none was needed to identify them—not with their pale clothes and assortment of beautiful, vicious weapons.

All hope of preventing that horrible fate now lay with Dorian Havilliard and Manon Blackbeak. Where they’d gone these months, what had befallen them, Aedion hadn’t heard a whisper. Which he supposed was a good sign. Their survival lay in secrecy.

Aedion threw open his arms just before she launched herself on him.

Gavriel bit into the apple, his canines flashing. Aedion Ashryver’s father—the resemblance was uncanny, though the similarities stopped at appearance. In the brief few days she’d spent with Aedion, he’d proved himself the opposite of the soft-spoken, thoughtful male.

She’d gone so Elide wouldn’t be taken. Had not hesitated to offer herself in Elide’s stead.

Pawns—that’s all Elide and Aelin and the others were to them.

There was nothing kind in the prince’s face. Nothing warm. Only cold-blooded predator. Hell-bent on finding the queen who held his heart.

The world was bathed in fire. Fire, not darkness.

One blink for yes. Two for no. Three for Are you all right? Four for I am here, I am with you. Five for This is real, you are awake.

Aelin braced herself. Took plunging breaths that would bring her far away from here. From her body. She’d never let them break her. Never swear that blood oath. For Terrasen, for her people, whom she had left to endure their own torment for ten long years. She owed them this much.

Perhaps no longer Shadows, but rather the two faces of the moon. One dark, one light. One of many changes to the Thirteen.

Manon resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder to where the King of Adarlan stood amongst the rest of her Thirteen, entertaining Vesta by summoning flame, water, and ice to his cupped palm. A small display of a terrible, wondrous magic.

A child not of war, but of peace. But those were foreign words on her tongue. Love. Peace.

But it made no difference if he cared. About them. About himself, he supposed. Caring hadn’t done him any favors. Hadn’t done Sorscha any favors.

Death—that was his gift. All he seemed able to offer those around him. He was little better than his father in that regard.

He’d broken something. Something precious beyond measure. He’d never cared until now.

I lowkey feel bad for lorcan

Perhaps if they found her, if there was still enough left of Aelin to salvage after Cairn’s ministrations, he’d find a way to live with himself. To endure this … person he’d become. It might take him another five hundred years to do so.

Children. His children. Their children. With another mere weeks from being born. His family. The family he might have, the future he might have. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Aelin.

7% in and im bawling

Aelin had been his, and he had been hers, from the start. Longer than that.

And tell him thank you—for walking that dark path with me back to the light. It had been his honor. From the very beginning, it had been his honor, the greatest of his immortal life. An immortal life they would share together—somehow. He’d allow no other alternative. Rowan silently swore it to the stars. He could have sworn the Lord of the North flickered in response.

To funnel her healing power into him so he might walk when her magic was not too drained, their very lives had been entwined.

So brow to brow and soul to soul, they stood there amid the bitter wind and lashing waves, and waited to see what the ruks might discover.

She didn’t tell the Healer on High that she wasn’t entirely sure how much longer she’d be a help—not yet. Hadn’t whispered a word of that doubt to anyone, even Chaol. Yrene’s hand drifted across her abdomen and lingered.

“That is your charge, your sole duty.” He braced a hand on the rim of the shield, tapping it for emphasis. “To defend, Aelin. To protect.”

Aedion had won, anyway. As he won everything, through sheer will and arrogance.

So Lysandra kept killing, the blood of her enemy like spoiled wine on her tongue.

Perhaps it had all been for nothing. The Queen Who Was Promised. Promised to die, to surrender herself to fulfill an ancient princess’s debt. To save this world.

Fireheart, why do you cry? And from far away, deep within her, Aelin whispered toward that ray of memory, Because I am lost. And I do not know the way.

You must be brave a little while longer, and remember … Her mother placed a phantom hand over Aelin’s heart. It is the strength of this that matters. No matter where you are, no matter how far, this will lead you home.

Over and over and over, as if it were a hammer against an anvil. The others whirled to him. That raging, fiery song charged closer. Through him. Down the mating bond. Down into his very soul. A bellow of fury and defiance.

But Nox Owen—the kindness in his face was true. His words were true. Another ally Aelin had wrangled for them, this time unwittingly.

But it wasn’t the reflection she wanted to see. But rather the square behind her. Surveying it outright might raise too many questions, but if she was merely staring into a compact mirror, no more than a self-conscious girl trying to fix her frazzled appearance …

Elide is smart as hell

He had killed his way across the world; he had gone to war and back more times than he cared to remember. And despite it all, despite the rage and despair and ice he’d wrapped around his heart, he’d still found Aelin.

They’d walked this dark path together back to the light. He would not let the road end here.

Fenrys bellowed at the dark chain binding him. He shredded into it, biting and tearing with every scrap of defiance he possessed. Let it kill him, wreck him. He would not serve. Not another heartbeat. He would not obey. He would not obey. And slowly, Fenrys got to his feet.

To where Lorcan ran for her. He signaled again. To me, to me. Whether Aelin recognized it, or him, she still raced his way.

Aelin let out another sob, and then moaned, “Fenrys.”

And behind them, Aelin continued as well. So Rowan followed her, as he would follow her until his last breath, and beyond it.

He had come for her. Rowan. Rowan Whitethorn. Now Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, her husband and king-consort. Her mate.

Aelin. That’s who she was.

“You should have gone to Terrasen. It needs you.” “I need you more.” He didn’t balk from the stark honesty roughening his voice. “And Terrasen will need you, too. Not Lysandra masquerading as you, but you.”

“I’m so tired, Rowan.” His heart strained again. “I know, Fireheart.”