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

She’d only faced the ships in Skull’s Bay, and even that had been over relatively quickly. And against the ilken who’d swarmed them in the Stone Marshes, it had been more an extermination than anything. Not what awaited them tomorrow. Not what her friends had fought on the Narrow Sea while she and Manon had been in the mirror, then with Maeve on the beach.

Rowan considered. “They’re just as messy, but in different ways.”

“I’d rather fight on land,” Fenrys grumbled.

“Because no one likes the smell of wet dog?” Aelin asked over her shoulder.

Fenrys laughed. “Exactly because of that.” At least he was smiling again.

Rowan’s mouth twitched, but his eyes were hard as he surveyed the enemy army. “Tomorrow’s battle will be just as brutal,” he said. “But the plan is sound.”

They’d be on the battlements with Chaol, readying for any desperate maneuvers Morath might attempt when they found themselves being herded and crushed by the khagan’s army. Elide would be with Yrene and the other healers in the Great Hall, helping the injured.

Where Lorcan and Gavriel would be, Aelin could only assume. Both had peeled off upon arriving, the latter taking watch somewhere, and the former likely brooding. But they’d probably be fighting right alongside them.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Gavriel slipped into the room. “The army looks quiet enough,” he said by way of greeting, then unceremoniously dropped to the floor beside Fenrys and hauled the platter of chicken toward him. “The men are rife with fear, though. Days of defending these walls have worn on them.”

Rowan nodded, not bothering to tell the Lion they’d just discussed this as Gavriel ripped into the food. “We’ll have to make sure they don’t balk tomorrow, then.”

Indeed.

“I was wondering,” Elide said to none of them in particular after a moment. “Since Maeve is an imposter, who would rule Doranelle if she was banished with all the other Valg?”

“Or burned to a crisp,” Fenrys muttered.

Aelin might have smiled grimly, but Elide’s question settled into her.

Gavriel slowly set down the chicken.

Rowan’s arm dropped from Aelin’s shoulders. His pine-green eyes were wide. “You.”

Aelin blinked. “There are others from Mab’s line. Galan, or Aedion—”

“The throne passes through the maternal line—to a female only. Or it should have,” Rowan said. “You’re the sole female with a direct, undiluted claim to Mab’s bloodline.”

“And your household, Rowan,” Gavriel said. “Someone in your household would have a claim on Mora’s half of the throne.”

“Sellene. It would go to her.” Even as a prince, Rowan’s own heritage connecting him to Mora’s bloodline had thinned to the point of being in name only. Aelin was more closely related to Elide, probably to Chaol, too, than she was to Rowan, despite their distant ancestry.

“Well, Sellene can have it,” Aelin said, wiping her hands of dust that was not there. “Doranelle’s hers.”

She wouldn’t set foot in that city again, Maeve or no. She wasn’t sure if that made her a coward. She didn’t dare reach for her magic’s comforting rumble.

“The Little Folk truly knew,” Fenrys mused, rubbing his jaw. “What you were.”

They had always known her, the Little Folk. Had saved her life ten years ago, and saved their lives these past few weeks. They had known her, and left gifts for her. Tribute, she’d thought, to Brannon’s Heir. Not to …

Gavriel murmured, “The Faerie Queen of the West.”

Silence.

Aelin blurted, “Is that an actual title?”

“It is now,” Fenrys muttered. Aelin shot him a look.

“With Sellene as the Fae Queen of the East,” Rowan mused.

No one spoke for a good minute.

Aelin sighed up at the ceiling. “What’s another fancy title, I suppose?”

They didn’t answer, and Aelin tried not to let the weight of that title settle too heavily. All it implied. That she might not only look after the Little Folk on this continent, but with the cadre, begin a new homeland for any Fae who might wish to join them. For any of the Fae who had survived the slaughter in Terrasen ten years ago and might wish to return.

A fool’s dream. One that she would likely not come to see. To create.

“The Faerie Queen of the West,” Aelin said, tasting the words on her tongue.

Wondering how long she’d get to call herself such.

From the heavy quiet, she knew her companions were contemplating the same. And from the pain in Rowan’s eyes, the rage and determination, she knew he was already calculating if it might somehow spare her from the sacrificial altar.

But that would come later. After tomorrow. If they survived.



There was a gate, and eternity lay beyond its black archway.

But not for her. No, there would be no Afterworld for her.

The gods had built another coffin, this time crafting it of that dark, glimmering stone.

Stone her fire could never melt. Never pierce. The only way to escape was to become it—dissolve into it like sea-foam on a beach.

Every breath was thinner than the previous one. They had not put any holes in this coffin.

Beyond her confines, she knew a second coffin sat beside hers. Knew, because the muffled screams within still reached her here.