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

Indeed, Manon’s lips curved in cool amusement as she said to Darrow, “We have come to ensure that you don’t, mortal.”

Darrow hissed, “Then why has your master sent you to speak with us?”

Asterin laughed again.

“We have no master,” Manon Blackbeak said, and it was indeed a queen’s voice that she spoke with, her golden eyes bright. “We come to honor a friend.”

There was no sign of Dorian amongst the Thirteen, but Aedion was reeling enough that he didn’t have the words to ask.

“We came,” Manon said, loud enough that all on the city walls could hear, “to honor a promise made to Aelin Galathynius. To fight for what she promised us.”

Darrow said quietly, “And what was that?”

Manon smiled then. “A better world.”

Darrow took a step back. As if disbelieving what stood before him, in defiance of the legion that swept toward their city.

Manon only looked to Aedion, that smile lingering. “Long ago, the Crochans fought beside Terrasen, to honor the great debt we owed the Fae King Brannon for granting us a homeland. For centuries, we were your closest allies and friends.” That crown of stars blazed bright upon her head. “We heard your call for aid.” Lysandra began weeping. “And we have come to answer it.”

“How many,” Aedion breathed, scanning the skies, the mountains. “How many?”

Pride and awe filled the Witch-Queen’s face, and even her golden eyes were lined with silver as she pointed toward the Staghorns. “See for yourself.”

And then, breaking from between the peaks, they appeared.

Red cloaks flowing on the wind, they filled the northern skies. So many he could not count them, nor the swords and bows and weapons they bore upon their backs, their brooms flying straight and unwavering.

Thousands. Thousands of them descended upon Orynth. Thousands of them now swept over the city, his soldiers gaping upward at the stream of fluttering red, undaunted and untroubled by the enemy force darkening the horizon. One by one by one, they alit upon the empty castle battlements.

An aerial legion to challenge the Ironteeth.

The Crochans had returned at last.





CHAPTER 82

Every Crochan who could fly and wield a sword had come.

For days, they had raced northward, keeping deep to the mountains, then cutting low over Oakwald before making a wide circuit to avoid Morath’s detection.

Indeed, as Manon and the Thirteen perched on the city walls, the Crochans streaming overhead while they made their way to whatever landing place they might find on the castle battlements, it was still hard to believe they had made it.

And without an hour to spare.

The farther north they had flown, the more Crochans had fallen into the lines. As if the crown of stars Manon wore was a lodestone, summoning them to her.

Every mile, more appeared from the clouds, the mountains, the forest. Young and old, wise-eyed or fresh-faced, they came.

Until five thousand trailed behind Manon and the Thirteen.

“They’ve completely stopped,” breathed the shape-shifter beside Aedion, pointing toward the battlefield.

Far out, Morath’s host had halted.

Utterly halted. As if in doubt and shock.

“Your grandmother is with them,” Asterin murmured to Manon. “I can feel it.”

“I know.” Manon turned to the young general-prince. “We shall handle the Ironteeth.”

His turquoise eyes were bright as the day above them as he gestured to the plain. “By all means, go right ahead.”

Manon’s mouth quirked to the side, then she jerked her chin to the Thirteen. “We shall be on your castle’s battlements. I leave one of my sentinels here with you, should you need to send word.” A nod to Vesta, and the red-haired witch made no move to fly as the others peeled off toward the great, towering palace. Manon had never seen its like—even the former glass castle in Rifthold had been nothing compared to it.

Manon smiled at the old man who had hissed at her, showing all her teeth. “You’re welcome,” she said, and with a snap of the reins, was airborne.



Morath had halted completely.

As if reassessing their strategy now that the Crochans had appeared from the mists of legend. Not hunted nearly as close to extinction as they’d believed, it seemed.

It left Manon and the army she’d raised the chance to catch their breath, at least.

And a night to sleep, if fitfully. She’d met with the mortal leaders during dinner, when it became apparent that Morath would not be finishing them off today.

Five thousand Crochans would not win this war. They would not stop a hundred thousand soldiers. But they could keep the Ironteeth legions at bay—keep them from sacking the city and letting in the demon hordes.

Long enough for whatever small miracle, Manon didn’t know. She hadn’t dared ask, and none of the mortals had posed the question, either.

Could the city outlast a hundred thousand soldiers hammering its walls and gates? Perhaps.

But not with the witch tower still operational on the plain. She had little doubt that it was currently being repaired, a new wyvern being hitched up. Perhaps that was why they had halted—to give themselves time to get that tower up again. And blast the Crochans into oblivion.

Only the dawn would reveal what the Ironteeth chose to do. What they’d accomplished.