Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7) by Sarah J. Maas

No, a host was not rallying behind them. No, no one had tracked them. Yes, Manon had spoken to the Ironteeth and asked them to join. Yes, they had gotten in and out alive. Yes, she had spoken as both Ironteeth and Crochan.

At least, Asterin had told him so on the long flight back here. Speaking to Manon, discussing their next steps … He didn’t bother. Not yet.

And when Asterin herself had gone quiet, he’d fallen deep into thought. Mulled over all he’d seen in the Ferian Gap, every twisted hall and chamber and pit that reeked of pain and fear.

What his father and Erawan had built. The sort of kingdom he’d inherited.

The Wyrdkeys stirred, whispering. Dorian ignored them and ran a hand over Damaris’s hilt. The gold remained warm despite the bitter cold.

A sword of truth, yes, but also reminder of what Adarlan had once been. What it might become again.

If he did not falter. Did not doubt himself. For whatever time he had left.

He could make it right. All of it. He could make it right.

Damaris heated in silent comfort and confirmation.

Dorian left the small crowd of Crochans and strode to a sliver of land overlooking a deadly plunge to a snow-and-rock-strewn chasm.

Brutal mountains rippled away in every direction, but he cast his gaze to the southeast. To Morath, looming far beyond sight.

He’d been able to shift into a raven that night in the Eyllwe forest. Now he supposed he only needed to learn how to fly.

He reached inward, to that eddy of raw power. Warmth bloomed in him, bones groaning, the world widening.

He opened his beak, and a throaty caw cracked from him.

Stretching out his sooty wings, Dorian began to practice.





CHAPTER 53

Someone had set fire to her thigh.

Not Aelin, because Aelin was gone, sealed in an iron sarcophagus and taken across the sea.

But someone had burned her down to the bone, so thoroughly that the slightest of movements on wherever she lay—a bed? A cot?—sent agony searing through her.

Lysandra cracked open her eyes, a low groan working its way up her parched throat.

“Easy,” a deep voice rumbled.

She knew that voice. Knew the scent—like a clear brook and new grass. Aedion.

She dragged her eyes, heavy and burning, toward the sound.

His shining hair hung limp, matted with blood. And those turquoise eyes were smudged with purple beneath—and utterly bleak. Empty.

A rough tent stood around them, the sole light provided by a lantern swinging in the bitter wind that crept in through the flaps. She’d been piled high with blankets, though he sat on an overturned bucket, still in his armor, with nothing to warm him.

Lysandra peeled her tongue off the roof of her mouth and listened to the world beyond the dim tent.

Chaos. Shouting. Some men screaming.

“We yielded Perranth,” Aedion said hoarsely. “We’ve been on the run for two days now. Another three days, and we’ll reach Orynth.”

Her brows narrowed slightly. She’d been unconscious for that long?

“We had to put you in a wagon with the other wounded. Tonight’s the first we’ve dared to stop.” The strong column of his throat bobbed. “A storm struck to the south. It’s slowed Morath down—just enough.”

She tried to swallow against the dryness in her throat. The last she remembered, she’d been facing those ilken, never so aware of the limitations of a mortal body, of how even Aelin, who seemed so tall as she swaggered through the world, was dwarfed by the creatures. Then those claws had ripped into her leg. And she’d managed to make a perfect swing. To take one of them down.

“You rallied our army,” he said. “We lost the battle, but they didn’t run in shame.”

Lysandra managed to pull a hand from beneath the blankets, and strained for the jug of water set beside the bed. Aedion was instantly in motion, filling a cup.

But as her fingers closed around it, she noted their color, their shape.

Her own hands. Her own arm.

“You … shifted,” Aedion said, noting her widened eyes. “While the healer was sewing up your leg. I think the pain … You shifted back into this body.”

Horror, roaring and nauseating, roiled through her. “How many saw?” Her first words, each as rough and dry as sandpaper.

“Don’t worry about it.”

She gulped down the water. “They all know?”

A solemn nod.

“What did you tell them—about Aelin?”

“That she has been off on a vital quest with Rowan and the others. And that it is so secret we do not dare speak of it.”

“Are the soldiers—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he repeated. But she could see it in his face. The strain.

They had rallied to their queen, only to realize it had been an illusion. That the might of the Fire-Bringer was not with them. Would not shield them against the army at their heels.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed.

Aedion took the empty cup of water before he gripped her hand, squeezing gently. “I am sorry, Lysandra. For all of it.” His throat bobbed again. “When I saw the ilken, when I saw you against them …”

Useless. Lying bitch. The words he’d thrown at her, raged at her, dragged her further from the haze of pain. Sharpened her focus.

“You did this,” he said, voice lowering, “for Terrasen. For Aelin. You were willing to die for it, gods above.”