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

Dorian smiled again. “Don’t you have better things to do right now, Your Majesty?”

He honestly thought she might unsheathe those iron teeth and rip out his throat. Half of him wanted her to try. He even went so far as to run one of those phantom hands along her jaw. “You think I don’t know why you don’t want me to go to Morath?”

He could have sworn she trembled. Could have sworn she arched her neck, just a little bit, leaning into that phantom touch.

Dorian ran those invisible fingers down her neck, trailing them along her collarbones.

“Tell me to stay,” he said, and the words had no warmth, no kindness. “Tell me to stay with you, if that’s what you want.” His invisible fingers grew talons and scraped over her skin. Manon’s throat bobbed. “But you won’t say that, will you, Manon?” Her breathing turned jagged. He continued to stroke her neck, her jaw, her throat, caressing skin he’d tasted over and over. “Do you know why?”

When she didn’t answer, Dorian let one of those phantom talons dig in, just slightly.

She swallowed, and it was not from fear.

Dorian leaned in close, tipping his head back to stare into her eyes as he purred, “Because while you might be older, might be deadly in a thousand different ways, deep down, you’re afraid. You don’t know how to ask me to stay, because you’re afraid of admitting to yourself that you want it. You’re afraid. Of yourself more than anyone else in the world. You’re afraid.”

For several heartbeats, she just stared at him.

Then she snarled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” and stalked away.

His low laugh ripped after her. Her spine stiffened.

But Manon did not turn back.



Afraid. Of admitting that she felt any sort of attachment.

It was preposterous.

And it was, perhaps, true.

But it was not her problem. Not right now.

Manon stormed through the readying camp where tents were being taken down and folded, hearths being packed. The Thirteen were with the wyverns, supplies stowed in saddlebags.

Some of the Crochans had frowned her way. Not with anger, but something like disappointment. Discontent. As if they thought parting ways was a poor idea.

Manon refrained from saying she agreed. Even if the Thirteen followed, the Crochans would find a way to lose them. Use their power to bind the wyverns long enough to disappear.

And she would not lower herself, lower the Thirteen, to become dogs chasing after their masters. They might be desperate for aid, might have promised it to their allies, but she would not debase herself any further.

Manon halted at Glennis’s camp, the only hearth with a fire still burning. A fire that would always remain kindled.

A reminder of the promise she’d made to honor the Queen of Terrasen. A single, solitary flame against the cold.

Manon rubbed at her face as she slumped onto one of the rocks lining the hearth.

A hand rested on her shoulder, warm and slight. She didn’t bother to slap it away.

Glennis said, “We’re departing in a few minutes. I thought I’d say good-bye.”

Manon peered up at the ancient witch. “Fly well.”

It was really all there was left to say. Manon’s failure was not due to Glennis, not due to anyone but herself, she supposed.

You’re afraid.

It was true. She had tried, but not really tried to win the Crochans. To let them see any part of her that meant something. To let them see what it had done to her, to learn she had a sister and that she had killed her. She didn’t know how, and had never bothered to learn.

You’re afraid.

Yes, she was. Of everything.

Glennis lowered her hand from Manon’s shoulder. “May your path carry you safely through war and back home at last.”

She didn’t feel like telling the crone there was no home for her, or the Thirteen.

Glennis turned her face toward the sky, sighing once.

Then her white brows narrowed. Her nostrils flared.

Manon leapt to her feet.

“Run,” Glennis breathed. “Run now.”

Manon drew Wind-Cleaver and did no such thing. “What is it.”

“They’re here.” How Glennis had scented them on the wind, Manon didn’t care.

Not as three wyverns broke from the clouds, spearing for their camp.

She knew those wyverns, almost as well as she knew the three riders who sent the Crochans into a frenzy of motion.

The Matrons of the Ironteeth Witch-Clans had found them. And come to finish what Manon had started that day in Morath.





CHAPTER 56

The three High Witches had come alone.

It didn’t stop the Crochans from rallying, brooms swiftly airborne—a few of them trembling with what could only be recognition.

Manon’s grip on Wind-Cleaver tightened at the slight tremor in her hand as the three witches landed at the edge of Glennis’s fire, their wyverns crushing tents beneath them.

Asterin and Sorrel were instantly beside her, her Second’s murmur swallowed by the crack of breaking tents. “The Shadows are airborne, but they signaled no sign of another unit.”

“None of their covens?”

“No. And no sign of Iskra or Petrah.”

Manon swallowed. The Matrons truly had come alone. Had flown in from wherever they’d been gathered, and somehow found them.