Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

Dorian dared a step forward. “Am I human?” Gavin’s sapphire eyes softened—just barely. “I’m not the person who can answer that.”

Rough hands gripped her, Cairn shouting, raging shrieks of You little bitch, but she didn’t hear them. Not as a trickle of blood snaked down Maeve’s cheek. Black blood. As dark as night. As dark as the eyes that the queen fixed on her, a hand rising to her cheek.

“You don’t need to bother proving my value to him,” Yrene said, her icy eyes pinned on his father. “I know precisely how talented I am. I don’t require his blessing.”

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.

Aelin. That’s who she was.

An unbroken Fire-Bringer. Aelin of the Wildfire. She would show the world that lie as well. Make them believe it. Maybe she’d one day believe it, too.

Fenrys blinked once in answer. A code. They’d made up some silent code to communicate when he’d been ordered to remain in his wolf form. Aelin’s smile remained, just barely, as she walked to the golden-haired male, his bronze skin ashen. She opened her arms in silent offer. To let him decide if he wished for contact. If he could endure it. Just as Rowan would let her decide if she wished to touch him. A small sigh broke from Fenrys before he folded Aelin into his arms, a shudder rippling through him. Rowan couldn’t see her face, perhaps didn’t need to, as her hands gripped Fenrys’s jacket, so tightly they were white-knuckled.

Not a child of war. But of peace.

“Aelin, allow me to introduce—” “Yrene Towers,” the queen breathed as his wife stepped to his side. The two women stared at each other. Yrene’s mouth quivered as she opened the silver locket and pulled out a piece of paper. Hands trembling, she extended it to the queen. Aelin’s own hands shook as she accepted the scrap. “Thank you,” Yrene whispered.

“The stygian spiders, the kharankui, answer to their Valg queen. The only Valg queen. To Maeve.”

Then Hasar hissed, “We’ll make the bitch pay for that, too, won’t we?” Aelin met the princess’s dark stare. “Yes, we will.”

Then the ancient witch knelt in the snow. “What was stolen has been restored; what was lost has come home again. I hail thee, Manon Crochan, Queen of Witches.”

“I don’t make bargains with bastards,” Chaol said, smiling again as he entered the hall beyond. “I’m certainly not going to start with you.”

Dorian smiled and brought Morath’s towers crashing down.

An aerial legion to challenge the Ironteeth. The Crochans had returned at last.

Manon returned the gesture, bowing her head as she did. “We are the Thirteen,” she said. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”

Dorian lifted a hand, his face grave as death, even as his eyes widened at the sight of her. But Aelin sensed it then. What Dorian carried. The Wyrdkeys. All three of them.

It was not Asterin. It was not any of the Thirteen. But Petrah Blueblood.

“Be the bridge, be the light. When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home

His Fireheart had lied. And he would now watch her die.

A choking scream tore out of her as the last of the Lock sealed. As the Lock became forged once more, as real as her own flesh. As Aelin’s magic completely vanished.

No longer the Queen Who Was Promised. But the Queen Who Walked Between Worlds.

She passed through a world of snowcapped mountains under shining stars. Passed over one of those mountains, where a winged male stood beside a heavily pregnant female, gazing at those very stars. Fae. They were Fae, but this was not her world. She flung out a hand, as if she might signal them, as if they might somehow help her when she was nothing but an invisible speck of power— The winged male, beautiful beyond reason, snapped his head toward her as she arced across his starry sky. He lifted a hand, as if in greeting. A blast of dark power, like a gentle summer night, slammed into her. Not to attack—but to slow her down. A wall, a shield, that she tore and plunged through. But it slowed her. That winged male’s power slowed her, just enough.

An ordinary gift. A Fire-Bringer no more. But Aelin all the same.

Before them all, riding on the Lord of the North, was Aelin.

Aelin had come. Had escaped Maeve, and had come.

Wide-eyed, the three Fae warriors blinked. “That’s where Aelin is,” was all Fenrys said.

Flames ran down the blade. One flame against the darkness gathered. One flame to light the night. Aelin raised her shield, and flames encircled it, too. Burning bright, burning undaunted. A vision of old, reborn once more. The cry went down the castle battlements, through the city, along the walls. The queen had come home at last. The queen had come to hold the gate.

Fenrys vanished from where he knelt, and reappeared—right behind Maeve. Goldryn burned bright as he plunged it through her back. Into the dark heart within.

Tentatively, slowly, her hands drifted across his back. Then settled, embracing him. “I miss them,” she whispered, shuddering.

But Aelin looked to Evangeline, the girl still beaming. Win me back my kingdom, Evangeline. Her order to the girl, all those months ago. And she didn’t know how Evangeline had done it. How she had changed this old lord before them. Yet there was Darrow, gesturing to the gates, to the castle behind him. Evangeline winked at Aelin, as if in confirmation.

Elide’s mouth bobbed as she tried to stop her laughing. “It’s just … I’m Lady of Perranth. If you marry me, you will take my family name.” He blinked. Elide laughed again. “Lord Lorcan Lochan?” It sounded just as ridiculous coming out. Lorcan blinked at her, then howled. She’d never heard such a joyous sound.

Yrene’s throat tightened. “I know.” “And you,” Hafiza went on, taking her hand, “will not return with us.” Her eyes burned, but Yrene whispered, “No, I won’t.” Hafiza squeezed Yrene’s fingers, her hand warm. Strong as steel. “I shall have to find myself a new heir apparent, then.” “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Whatever for?” Hafiza chuckled. “You have found love, and happiness, Yrene. There is nothing more that I could ever wish for you.”

Manon blinked. And blinked again as Bronwen extended a fist toward Manon and opened it. Inside lay a pale purple flower, small as Manon’s thumbnail. Beautiful and delicate. “A bastion of Crochans just made it here—a bit late, but they heard the call and came. All the way from the Wastes.” Manon stared and stared at that purple flower. “They brought this with them. From the plain before the Witch-City.”

Aelin gazed down the long aisle. As if weighing every step she would take to the dais. To her throne. The entire world seemed to pause with her, lingering on that threshold. Shining brighter than the snow outside, Aelin lifted her chin and began her final walk home.

Aelin ascended the three steps and knelt upon the top one. The only time in her reign that she would ever bow. The only thing she would ever kneel before. Her crown. Her throne. Her kingdom.

A new world. A better world.

Then Manon said, “It is only a few days by wyvern from the Wastes to Rifthold.” Her eyes were wary, and yet—yet that was a slight smile. “I think Bronwen and Petrah will be able to lead if I occasionally slip away. To help the rukhin.” He saw the promise in her eyes, in that hint of a smile. Both of them still grieving, still broken in places, but in this new world of theirs … perhaps they might heal. Together. “You could just marry each other,” Yrene said, and Dorian whipped his head to her, incredulous. “It’d make it easier for you both, so you don’t need to pretend.”

Aelin wept then. Wept in joy that lit her heart, brighter than any magic could ever be. For across every mountain, spread beneath the green canopy of Oakwald, carpeting the entire Plain of Theralis, the kingsflame was blooming.