Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7)

by Sarah J. Maas

Her kingdom. Her home. She would see it again. It was not over.

Aelin’s hand drifted to her heart and rested there. It is the strength of this that matters, her mother had said, long ago. Wherever you go, Aelin, no matter how far, this will lead you home. No matter where she was. No matter how far. Even if it took her beyond all known worlds. Aelin’s fingers curled, palm pressing into the pounding heart beneath. This will lead you home. The archway to Erilea inched closed. World-walker. Wayfarer. Others had done it before. She would find a way, too. A way home. No longer the Queen Who Was Promised. But the Queen Who Walked Between Worlds. She would not go quietly. She was not afraid. So Aelin ripped out her power. Ripped out a chunk of what Mala had given her, a force to level a world,

She passed through a world where a great city had been built along the curve of a river, the buildings impossibly tall and glimmering with lights.

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.

The scent of Dorian’s and Chaol’s tears replaced the salt of Endovier as Aelin stared up at Rowan and smiled. Rowan held her to his chest and wept in the light of the rising sun. A weak hand landed on his back, running over the tattoo he’d inked. As if tracing the symbols he’d hidden there, in a desperate, wild hope. “I came back,” she rasped.

She looked at Rowan, then Chaol, and Dorian, their faces so haggard in the rising light of day.

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

He hadn’t let go of her once. Not once, since she’d come back.

So many worlds. More than she could contemplate. Would her dreams forever be haunted by them? To have glimpsed them, but been unable to explore—would that longing take root?

Aelin remained close to Rowan as they approached their court. Fenrys scanned her from head to toe, nostrils flaring as he scented her. He staggered a step closer, horror creeping across his face.

“I don’t know how she didn’t walk out and leave everyone to rot. I would have.” “Never underestimate the power of guilt when it comes to Aelin Galathynius,” Dorian said, and sighed.

Dorian smiled at that. He adored his friend’s wife already. Likely would have married her, too, if he’d had the chance.

“I’d gathered as much,” Aelin said drily, “when Hasar called me a stupid cow.” It had taken all of Elide’s restraint not to lunge for the princess. And from the growl that had come from the Fae males, even Lorcan, gods above, she knew it had been just as difficult for them.

He hadn’t stopped his tears from falling, even when they’d turned to steam before they hit her body, and there had been tears on her own face,

For Terrasen. All of it, for Terrasen.

But here, today … Aelin had given them no order, no command other than the very first they’d sworn to obey: to protect Terrasen. So they would. And together, they would do so, cadre once more. They would fight for this kingdom—their new court. Their new home. He could see it in Fenrys’s eyes as he cut a soldier in two with a deep slice to the middle. Could see that vision of a future on Lorcan’s raging face as the warrior wielded magic and blade to rip through the enemy ranks.

It steeled him as much as the thought of his mate, still fighting ahead.

No longer slaves. No longer raging and broken. A home. This would be their home. Their future. Together.

But a true home, and a queen who saw them as males and not weapons … Something worth fighting for. No enemy could withstand it.

Aelin had come. It was enough.

Fenrys, face splattered with black blood, shouted, “Where is she?”

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

And there she was.

In the deepening blues of descending night, amid the snow beginning to fall, Aelin Galathynius had appeared before the sealed southern gate. Had appeared before Erawan and Maeve. Her unbound hair billowed in the wind like a golden banner, a last ray of light with the dying of the day. Silence fell. Even the screaming stopped as all turned toward the gate. But Aelin did not balk. Did not run from the Valg queen and king who halted as if in delight at the lone figure who dared face them. Lysandra let out a strangled sob. “She—she has no magic left.” The shifter’s voice broke. “She has nothing left.” Still Aelin lifted her sword. 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 wall...

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

Not one more step. Not one more step toward Orynth would she allow them to make.

For those in the city she loved so greatly to get away. To run, and live to fight tomorrow.

She had made it home. It was enough. The words echoed with her every breath. Sharpened her vision, steeled her spine. A crown of flame appeared atop her head, swirling and unbreakable.

Home. This was to be his home. Already was, if Aelin were with him. He would defend it.

“Let’s make it count.”

Lorcan looked to Fenrys. Found the male bristling. Aware of the change beyond the walls. It was time.

Maeve glanced to the blazing sword. “Clever of you, to imbue the sword with your own gifts. No doubt done before you yielded everything to the Wyrdgate.” “A precaution, should I not return,” Aelin panted. “A weapon to kill Valg.”

I name you Elentiya, “Spirit That Could Not Be Broken.”

Her hands curled into fists. Iron groaned. Spirit that could not be broken. You do not yield. She would endure it again, if asked. She would do it. Every brutal hour and bit of agony.

She would not allow this waste of existence to do so now. Her shaking eased, her body going still. Waiting. Maeve blinked at her. Just once. Aelin sucked in a breath—sharp and cool. She did not want it to be over. Any of it. Cairn faded into the wind. Then the chains vanished with him. Aelin sat up in the coffin. Maeve backed away all of a step. Aelin surveyed the illusion, so artfully wrought. The stone chamber, with its braziers and hook from the ceiling. The stone altar. The open door and roar of the river beyond.

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. This would not be the story. She would fold it into herself, this place,

this fear, but it would not be the whole story. It would not be her story. “How,” Maeve simply asked. Aelin knew a world and a battlefield raged beyond them. But she let herself linger in the stone chamber. Climbed from the iron coffin. Maeve only stared at her. “You should have known better,” Aelin said, the lingering embers within her shining bright. “You, who feared captivity and did all this to avoid it. You should have known better than to trap me. Should have known I’d find ...

brothers drove you, destroyed you. If there was ever anything wor...

Aelin’s lips pulled back from her teeth. “You hurt my mate. Hurt the woman you tricked him into thinking was his mate. Killed her, and broke him.”

Those words she’d snarled to Maeve in Eyllwe rang between them: I will kill you. And she would. For what Maeve had done, to her, to Rowan and Lyria, to Fenrys and Connall and so many others, she’d wipe her from memory.

Just enough for her to get a breath down. To lift her head and see the tattooed hand that now stretched down for her. Reaching for her—an offer to rise. Rowan. Behind him, two others appeared. Lorcan and Fenrys, the latter in wolf form.

And then they began screaming. Rowan began screaming.

A queen had said that to him. In their secret, silent language. During the unspeakable hours of torment, they had said that to each other. Not alone. He had not been alone then, and neither had she.

“I’d say,” Aelin panted, speaking above the glorious roar of magic through her, the unbreakable song of her and Rowan, “that you haven’t wronged us the most at all.”

But Aelin looked to Evangeline, the girl still beaming. Win me back my kingdom, Evangeline. Her order to the girl, all those months ago.

“But I will be glad,” Dorian went on, “to gain another queen whom I can call friend.”

Rowan arched a brow, joy flowing through him, free and shining as a stream down a mountain.

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.”

Rowan twined his fingers in hers and whispered, awe in every word, “For you, Fireheart. All of it is for you.” 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.