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

So Dorian ventured back down the hall. Down another set of stairs, his little legs barely able to move fast enough. Toward the kitchens, hot and bright with the light of the great hearth.

Lady Elide had worked here—had known these people. Not Valg, but people conscripted into service. People who would undoubtedly talk about the comings and goings of this keep. Just as they had at the palace in Rifthold.

The various servants and cooks were indeed waiting. Staring toward the stairs on the opposite side of the cavernous kitchen. As was the lean, green-eyed tabby cat across the room.

Dorian made himself as small as possible. But the beast paid him no mind, its attention fixed on the stairs. As if it knew, too.

And then steps—quick and hushed. Two women entered, empty trays in their hands. Both wan and trembling.

A man who had to be the head cook asked the women, “Did you see anything?”

One of the women shook her head. “They weren’t in the council room yet. Thank the gods.”

Her partner’s hands wobbled as she set down her tray. “They will be soon, though.”

“Lucky you got out before they came,” someone said. “Or you might have found yourself part of lunch, too.”

Lucky, indeed. Dorian lingered, but the kitchen resumed its rhythms, satisfied two of its own had made it back safely.

The council room—perhaps the same Manon had described. Where Erawan preferred to have his meetings. And if Erawan himself was headed there …

Dorian scuttled out, heeding that mental map Manon had crafted. A fool—only a fool would willingly go to see Erawan. Risk it.

Perhaps he had a death wish. Perhaps he truly was a fool. But he wanted to see him. Had to see him, this creature who had ruined so many things. Who stood poised to devour their world.

He had to look at him, this thing who had ordered him enslaved, who had butchered Sorscha. And if he was fortunate—maybe he’d kill him.

He could remain in this form and strike. But it would be so much more satisfying to return to his own body, to draw Damaris, and end him. To let Erawan see the pale band around his throat and know who killed him, that he hadn’t broken him yet.

And then Dorian would find that key.

The silence showed him the way, perhaps more so than the mental map he’d memorized.

Halls emptied out. The air became thick, cold. As if Erawan’s corruption leaked from him.

There were no guards, human or Valg, standing watch before the open doors.

No one to mark the hooded figure who strode in, black cape flowing.

Dorian hurried, skittering after that figure just as the doors shut. His magic swelled, and he willed it to calm, to coil, an asp poised to strike.

One blow to get Erawan down, then he’d shift and draw Damaris.

The figure halted, cloak swaying, and Dorian dashed for the nearest shadow—by the crack between the door and floor.

The chamber was ordinary, save for a table of black glass in its center. And the golden-haired, golden-eyed man seated at it.

Manon had not lied: Erawan had indeed shed Perrington’s skin for something far fairer.

Though still dressed in finery, Dorian realized as the Valg king rose, his gray jacket and pants immaculately tailored. No weapons lay at his side. No hint of the Wyrdkey.

But he could feel Erawan’s power, the wrongness leaking from him. Could feel it, and remember it, the way that power had felt inside him, curdling his soul.

Ice cracked in his veins. Quick—he had to be quick. Strike now.

“This is an unexpected delight,” Erawan said, his voice young and yet not. He gestured to the spread of food—fruits and cured meats. “Shall we?”

Dorian’s magic faltered as two moon-pale, slender hands rose from the folds of the black cloak and pushed back the cowl.

The woman beneath was not beautiful, not in the classical way. Yet with her jet-black hair, her dark eyes, her red lips … She was striking. Mesmerizing.

Those red lips curved, revealing bone-white teeth.

Cold licked down Dorian’s spine at the pointed, delicate ears peeking above the curtain of dark hair. Fae. The woman—female was Fae.

She removed her cloak to reveal a flowing gown of deepest purple before she settled herself across the table from Erawan. Not an ounce of hesitation or fear checked her graceful movements. “You know why I have come, then.”

Erawan smiled as he sat, pouring a goblet of wine for the female, then for himself. And all thoughts of killing vanished from Dorian’s head as the Valg king asked, “Is there any other reason you would deign to visit Morath, Maeve?”





CHAPTER 69

Orynth had not been this quiet since the day Aedion and the remnants of Terrasen’s court had marched to Theralis.

Even then, there had been a hum to the ancient city erected between the mouth of the Florine and the edge of the Staghorns, Oakwald a ripple of wood to the west.

Then, the white walls had still been shining.

Now they lay stained and grayish, as bleak as the sky, while Aedion, Lysandra, and their allies strode through the towering metal doors of the western gate. Here, the walls were six feet thick, the blocks of stone so heavy that legend claimed Brannon had conscripted giants from the Staghorns to heave them into place.

Aedion would give anything for those long-forgotten giants to find their way to the city now. For the ancient Wolf Tribes to come racing down the towering peaks behind the city, the lost Fae of Terrasen with them. For any of the old myths to emerge from the shadows of time, as Rolfe and his Mycenians had done.