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

Manon’s swords blocked blow after blow, but she made no move to advance. To push back, though Dorian saw several chances to do so.

Manon took the slashings that left her arm and side bleeding. But she yielded no further ground. A wall against which the Yellowlegs Matron could not advance. The crone let out a snarl, attacking again and again, senseless and raging.

Dorian saw the trap the moment it happened.

Saw the side that Manon left open, the bait laid on a silver platter.

Worked into a fury, the Yellowlegs Matron didn’t think twice before she lunged, claws out.

Manon was waiting.

Lost in her bloodlust, the Yellowlegs Matron’s horrible face lit with triumph as she went for the easy killing blow that would rip out Manon’s heart.

The Blackbeak Matron barked in warning, but Manon was already moving.

Just as those curved claws tore through leather and skin, Manon twisted to the side and brought down Wind-Cleaver upon the Yellowlegs Matron’s outstretched neck.

Blue blood sprayed upon the snow.

Dorian did not look away this time at the head that tumbled to the ground. At the brown-robed body that fell with it.

The two remaining Matrons halted. None of the Crochans behind Dorian so much as spoke as Manon stared down pitilessly at the bleeding torso of the Yellowlegs Matron.

No one seemed to breathe at all as Manon plunged Bronwen’s sword into the icy earth beneath and bent to take the crown of stars from the Yellowlegs witch’s fallen head.

He had never seen a crown like it.

A living, glowing thing that glittered in her hand. As if nine stars had been plucked from the heavens and set to shine along the simple silver band.

The crown’s light danced over Manon’s face as she lifted it above her head and set it upon her unbound white hair.

Even the mountain wind stopped.

Yet a phantom breeze shifted the strands of Manon’s hair as the crown glowed bright, the white stars shining with cores of cobalt and ruby and amethyst.

As if it had been asleep for a long, long time. And now awoke.

That phantom wind pulled Manon’s hair to the side, silver strands brushing across her face.

And beside him, around him, the Thirteen touched two fingers to their brow in deference.

In allegiance to the queen who stared down the two remaining High Witches.

The Crochan Queen, crowned anew.

The sacred fire leaped and danced, as if in joyous welcome.

Manon scooped up Bronwen’s sword, lifting it and Wind-Cleaver, and said to the Blueblood Matron, the witch appearing barely a few years older than Manon herself, “Go.”

The Blueblood witch blinked, eyes wide with what could only be fear and dread.

Manon jerked her chin toward the wyvern waiting behind the witch. “Tell your daughter all debts between us are paid. And she may decide what to do with you. Take that other wyvern out of here.”

Manon’s grandmother bristled, iron teeth flashing as if she’d bark a counter-command to the Blueblood Matron, but the witch was already running for her wyvern.

Spared by the Crochan Queen on behalf of the daughter who had given Manon the gift of speaking to the Ironteeth.

Within seconds, the Blueblood Matron was in the skies, the Yellowlegs witch’s wyvern soaring beside her.

Leaving Manon’s grandmother alone. Leaving Manon with swords raised and a crown of stars glowing upon her brow.

Manon was glowing, as if the stars atop her head pulsed through her body. A wondrous and mighty beauty, like no other in the world. Like no one had ever been, or would be again.

And slowly, as if savoring each step, Manon stalked toward her grandmother.



Manon’s lips curved into a small smile while she advanced on her grandmother.

Warm, dancing light flowed through her, as unfaltering as what had poured into her heart these past few bloody minutes.

She did not balk. Did not fear.

The crown’s weight was slight, like it had been crafted of moonlight. Yet its joyous strength was a song, undimming before the sole High Witch left standing.

So Manon kept walking.

She left Bronwen’s sword a few feet away. Left Wind-Cleaver several feet past that.

Iron nails out, teeth ready, Manon paused barely five steps from her grandmother.

A hateful, wasted scrap of existence. That’s what her grandmother was.

She had never realized how much shorter the Matron stood. How narrow her shoulders were, or how the years of rage and hate had withered her.

Manon’s smile grew. And she could have sworn she felt two people standing at her shoulder.

She knew no one would be there if she looked. Knew no one else could see them, sense them, standing with her. Standing with their daughter against the witch who had destroyed them.

Her grandmother spat on the ground, baring her rusted teeth.

This death, though …

It was not her death to claim.

It did not belong to the parents whose spirits lingered at her side, who might have been there all along, leading her toward this. Who had not left her, even with death separating them.

No, it did not belong to them, either.

She looked behind her. Toward the Second waiting beside Dorian.

Tears slid down Asterin’s face. Of pride—pride and relief.

Manon beckoned to Asterin with an iron-tipped hand.

Snow crunched, and Manon whirled, angling to take the brunt of the attack.

But her grandmother had not charged. Not at her.