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

The maneuver was perfect. More flawless than any they’d done. A lethal phalanx that speared through the enemy’s ranks. Aiming right for the tower.

Seconds. They had seconds until that young witch summoned the power and unleashed the Yielding in a blast of blackness.

The Thirteen punched through the Ironteeth, spreading wide, pushing them to the side.

Clearing a path right to the tower as Asterin swept in from the back, aiming for the uppermost level.

Imogen went down first.

Then Lin.

And Ghislaine, her wyvern swarmed by their enemy.

Then Thea and Kaya, together, as they had always been.

Then the green-eyed demon twins, laughing as they went. Then the Shadows, Edda and Briar, arrows still firing. Still finding their marks.

Then Vesta, roaring her defiance to the skies.

And then Sorrel. Sorrel, who held the way open for Asterin, a solid wall for Manon’s Second as she soared in. A wall against whom the waves of Ironteeth broke and broke.

The young witch inside the tower began glowing black, steps from the pit.

Beside Manon, Lysandra and Aedion wrapped their arms around each other. Ready for the end heartbeats away.

And then Asterin was there. Asterin was barreling toward that open stretch of air, for the tower itself, bought with the lives of the Thirteen. With their final stand.

Manon could only watch, watch and watch and watch, shaking her head as if she could undo it, as Asterin removed her leathers, the shirt beneath.

As Asterin rose in the saddle, freed of the buckles, a dagger in hand as her wyvern aimed straight for the tower.

Manon’s grandmother turned then. Away from the pit, the acolyte about to leap inside and destroy them all.

Asterin hurled her dagger.

The blade flew true.

It plunged into the acolyte’s back, sending the witch sprawling to the stones. A foot away from the drop to the pit.

Asterin drew the twin swords from the sheaths at her hips and slammed her wyvern into the side of the tower. The crack of bone on rock echoed across the world.

But Asterin was already leaping. Already arching through the air, swords raised, wyvern tumbling away beneath, Narene’s body broken on impact.

Manon began screaming then.

Screaming, endless and wordless, as that thing in her chest, as her heart, shattered.

As Asterin landed in the witch tower’s open archway, swords swinging at the witches who rushed to kill her. They might as well have been blades of grass. Might as well have been mist, for how easily Asterin cut them down, one after another, driving forward, toward the Matron who had branded the letters on stark display across Asterin’s abdomen.

UNCLEAN

Twirling, twisting, blades flying, Asterin slaughtered her way toward Manon’s grandmother.

The High Witch of the Blackbeak Clan backed away, shaking her head. Her mouth moved, as if she breathed, “Asterin, no—”

But Asterin was already there.

And it was not darkness, but light—light, bright and pure as the sun on snow, that erupted from Asterin.

Light, as Asterin made the Yielding.

As the Thirteen, their broken bodies scattered around the tower in a near-circle, made the Yielding as well.

Light. They all burned with it. Radiated it.

Light that flowed from their souls, their fierce hearts as they gave themselves over to that power. Became incandescent with it.

Asterin tackled the Blackbeak Matron to the ground, Manon’s grandmother little more than a shadow against the brightness. Then little more than a scrap of hate and memory as Asterin exploded.

As she and the Thirteen Yielded completely, and blew themselves and the witch tower to smithereens.





CHAPTER 90

Manon sank to the stones of the castle battlements and did not move for a long, long while.

She didn’t hear those who spoke to her, who touched her shoulder. Didn’t feel the cold.

The sun arced and descended.

At some point, she lay down upon the stones, curled against the wall. When she awoke, a wing had covered her, and warm breath whispered across her head as Abraxos dozed.

She had no words in her. Nothing but a ringing silence.

Manon got to her feet, easing past the wing that had shielded her.

The dawn was breaking.

And where that witch tower had stood, where the army had been, only blasted earth remained.

Morath had drawn back. Far back.

The city and walls still stood.

She roused Abraxos with a hand to his side.

He couldn’t fly, not yet, so they walked together.

Down the battlement steps. Out through the castle gates and into the city streets beyond.

She didn’t care that others followed. More and more of them.

The streets were filled with blood and rubble, all of it gilded by the rising sun.

She didn’t feel the warmth of that sun on her face while they walked through the southern gate and onto the plain beyond. She didn’t care that someone had opened the gate for them.

At her side, Abraxos nudged aside piles of Valg soldiers, clearing a path for her. For all those who trailed in their wake.

It was so quiet. Inside her, and on the plain.

So quiet, and empty.

Manon crossed the still battlefield. Didn’t stop until she reached the center of the blast radius. Until she stood in its heart.

Not a trace of the tower. Or those who had been in it, around it. Even the stones had been melted into nothing.

Not a trace of the Thirteen, or their brave, noble wyverns.