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

“Like hell it is,” Dorian said, sapphire eyes flashing. “The same blood, the same debt, flows in my veins.”

Chaol’s hands curled at his sides as he fought to keep his mouth shut. Rowan seemed to be doing the same as the two rulers squared off.

Aelin’s face remained unmoved—distant. “You’re so eager to die?”

Dorian didn’t retreat. “Are you?”

Silence. Utter silence in the clearing.

Then Aelin shrugged, as if the weight of entire worlds didn’t hang in the balance. “Regardless of who will put the keys back into the gate, this is a fate that belongs to all of us. So all of us should decide.” Her chin lifted. “Do we continue on to war, hope we make it to Orynth in time, and then destroy the keys? Or do we destroy the keys now, and then you continue northward.” A pause, horrible and unbearable. “Without me.”

Rowan was shaking, whether with restraint or in dread, Chaol couldn’t tell.

Aelin said, unwavering and calm, “I would like to put it to a vote.”



A vote.

Rowan had never heard of anything so absurd.

Even as part of him glowed with pride that she had chosen now, here, as the moment when that new world she had promised would rise.

A world in which a few did not hold all the power, but many. Beginning with this, this most vital choice. This unbearable fate.

All of them had moved farther down the road, and it was not lost on Rowan that they stood at a crossroads. Or that Dorian and Aelin and Chaol stood in the heart of that crossroads, merely a few miles from the salt mines. Where so much of this had begun, just over a year ago.

There was a dull roar in Rowan’s ears as the debate raged.

He knew he should fall on his knees and thank Dorian for retrieving the third key. But he hated the king all the same.

He hated this path they’d been put on, a thousand years ago. Hated that this choice lay before them, when they had already fought so much, given so much.

Prince Kashin was saying, “We march on a hundred thousand enemy troops, possibly more. That number will not change when the Wyrdgate is closed. We will need the Fire-Bringer to cut through them.”

Princess Hasar shook her head. “But there is the possibility of that army’s collapse should Erawan vanish. Cut off the beast’s head and the body could die.”

“That’s a big risk to take,” Chaol said, his jaw tight. “Erawan’s removal from all this might help, or it might not. An enemy army this big, full of Valg who might be eager to fill his place, could be impossible to stop at this point.”

“Then why not use the keys?” Nesryn asked. “Why not bring the keys north and use them, destroy the army, and—”

“The keys cannot be wielded,” Dorian cut in. “Not without destroying the bearer. We’re not entirely sure a mortal could withstand the power.” He nodded toward Aelin, silent and watchful while it took all of Rowan’s training not to hurl up his guts. “Just putting them back in the gate requires everything.” He added tightly, “From one of us.”

Rowan knew he should be arguing against this, should be bellowing.

Dorian went on, “I should do it.”

“No.” The word broke from Chaol—and Aelin. Her first word since this debate had begun.

But it was Fenrys who asked Chaol, voice deadly soft, “You’d rather my queen die than your king?”

Chaol stiffened. “I’d rather neither of my friends die. I’d rather none of this happen.”

Before Fenrys could snarl his answer, Yrene cut in. “So when the Lock is forged and the Wyrdgate is sealed, the gods will be gone?”

“Good riddance,” Fenrys muttered.

But Yrene stiffened at the casual dismissal, and put a hand over her heart. “I love Silba. Dearly. When she is gone from this world, will my powers cease to exist?” She gestured to the gathered group.

“Doubtful,” Dorian said. “That cost, at least, was never demanded.”

“What of the other gods in this world?” Nesryn asked, frowning. “The thirty-six of the khaganate. Are they not gods as well? Will they be sent away, or just these twelve?”

“Perhaps our gods are of a different sort,” Princess Hasar mused.

“Can they not help us, then?” Yrene asked, sorrow for the goddess who had blessed her still darkening her golden eyes. “Can they not intervene?”

“There are indeed other forces at work in this world,” Dorian said, touching Damaris’s hilt. The god of truth—that’s who had blessed Gavin’s sword. “But I think if those forces had been able to aid us in this manner, they would have done so already.”

Aelin tapped her foot on the ground. “Expecting divine handouts is a waste of our time. And not the topic at hand.” She fixed her burning stare on Dorian. “We are also not debating who shall pay the cost.”

“Why.” Rowan’s low question was out before he could halt it.

Slowly, his mate turned toward him. “Because we’re not.” Sharp, icy words. She cut Dorian a look, and the King of Adarlan opened his mouth. “We’re not,” she snarled.

Dorian opened his mouth again, but Rowan caught his eye. Held his stare and let him read the words there. Later. We shall debate this later.