Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

Yet Rowan lowered his head. “I hope you found peace, my brother. And in the Afterworld, I hope you find her again.” Rowan stooped, grunting at the pain in his thigh, and hauled Gavriel over his good shoulder. And then he climbed. Up the siege ladder still anchored beside the western gate. Onto the walls. Each step heavier than the last. Each step a memory of his friend, an image of the kingdoms they had seen, the enemies they had fought, the quiet moments that no song would ever mention. Yet the songs would mention this—that the Lion fell before the western gate of Orynth, defending the city and his son. If they survived today, if they somehow lived, the bards would sing of it.

Still Aelin remained there for a moment longer, just beyond the gates to her city. Her home. Still she pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the heart thundering beneath, feeling the dust of every road she had traveled these ten years to return here. For this moment. For this purpose. So she whispered it to herself, one last time. The story. Her story. Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom …

One flame against the darkness gathered. One flame to light the night.

Her name was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And she would not be afraid.

Lorcan glanced at the castle, where he knew Elide was watching. He said his silent farewell, sending what remained of his heart on the wind to the woman who had saved him in every way that mattered.

She had sworn an oath. To Terrasen. To Nehemia. To Rowan.

Spirit that could not be broken. You do not yield.

She made herself look. To face down that place of pain and despair. It would always leave a mark, a stain on her, but she would not let it define her. Hers was not a story of darkness.

Life—life was pain. Pain, and joy. Joy because of the pain.

Elide’s vision stung and blurred, and Manon wiped away the tear that escaped. “Live, Elide,” was all the witch said to her before striding out of the hall once more. “Live.”

“Ask me to stay,” was all he said. Her heart began racing. “Stay,” she whispered.

As she guided her wyvern to the bit of blasted earth on the battlefield. Right to its heart. And smiling through her tears, laughing in joy and sorrow, Manon laid that precious flower from the Wastes upon the ground. In thanks and in love. So they would know, so Asterin would know, in the realm where she and her hunter and child walked hand in hand, that they had made it. That they were going home.

I, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, swear upon my immortal soul to guard, to nurture, and to honor Terrasen from this day until my very last.

Rowan followed her, as he had his entire life, long before they had ever met, before their souls had sparked into existence. “To whatever end, Fireheart.” He glanced sidelong at her. “Can I give you a suggestion for what we should rebuild first?” Aelin smiled, and eternity opened before them, shining and glorious and lovely. “Tell me tomorrow.”