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

He’d make it his end. When she went, he’d go.

But then he’d felt it. As the sun rose, he’d felt it, that surge down the frayed mating bond.

A blast of heat and light that welded the broken strands.

He didn’t dare to breathe. To hope.

Even as Aelin collapsed to her knees where the Wyrdmarks had been.

Rowan was instantly there, reaching for her limp body.

A heartbeat echoed in his ears, into his own soul.

And that was her chest, rising and falling. And those were her eyes, opening slowly.

The scent of Dorian’s and Chaol’s tears replaced the salt of Endovier as Aelin stared up at Rowan and smiled.

Rowan held her to his chest and wept in the light of the rising sun.

A weak hand landed on his back, running over the tattoo he’d inked. As if tracing the symbols he’d hidden there, in a desperate, wild hope. “I came back,” she rasped.



She was warm, but … cold, somehow. A stranger in her own body.

Aelin sat up, groaning at the ache along her bones.

“What happened?” Dorian asked, held upright by the arm Chaol had around his waist.

Aelin cupped her palms before her. A small lick of flame appeared within them.

Nothing more.

She looked at Rowan, then Chaol, and Dorian, their faces so haggard in the rising light of day.

“It’s gone,” she said quietly. “The power.” She turned her hands, the flame rolling over them. “Only an ember remains.”

They didn’t speak.

But Aelin smiled. Smiled at the lack of that well within her, that churning sea of fire. And what did remain—a significant gift, yes, but nothing beyond the ordinary.

All that remained of what Mala had given her, in thanks for Elena.

But—

Aelin reached inward, toward that place inside her soul.

She put a hand to her chest. Put a hand there and felt the heart beating within.

The Fae heart. The cost.

She had given all of herself. Had given up her life.

The human life. Her mortality. Burned away, turned to nothing but dust between worlds.

There would be no more shifting. Only this body, this form.

She told them so. And told them what had occurred.

And when she was done, when Rowan remained holding her, Aelin held out her hand once more, just to see.

Perhaps it had been a final gift of Mala’s, too. To preserve this piece of her that now formed in her hand—this droplet of water.

Her mother’s gift.

What Aelin had saved until the end, had not wanted to part with until the very last dregs of her were given to the Lock, to the Wyrdgate.

Aelin held out her other hand, and the kernel of flame sputtered to life within it.

An ordinary gift. A Fire-Bringer no more.

But Aelin all the same.





CHAPTER 100

A prodding kick from Kyllian had Aedion awake before dawn.

He groaned as he stretched out on the cot in the Great Hall, the space still dim. Countless other soldiers slumbered around him, their heavy breathing filling the room.

He squinted at the small lantern that Kyllian held above him.

“It’s time,” Kyllian said, his eyes weary and red-rimmed.

They’d all looked better. Been better.

But they were still alive. A week after the Thirteen had sacrificed themselves and pushed back Morath’s tide, they were alive. The witches’ lives had bought them a full day of rest. One day, and then Morath had marched on Orynth’s walls again.

Aedion slung the heavy fur cloak he’d been using for a blanket over his shoulders, wincing at the throbbing ache in his left arm. A careless wound, when he’d taken his attention off his shield for a moment and a Valg foot soldier had managed to slice him.

But at least he wasn’t limping. And at least the wound the Valg prince had given him had healed.

Slinging his shield over that same shoulder, he scooped up his sword and belted it at his waist as he picked his way through the labyrinth of sleeping, exhausted bodies. A nod to Kyllian had the man striding for the city walls.

But Aedion turned left upon leaving the Great Hall, aiming for the north tower.

It was a lonely, cold walk to the room he sought. As if the entire castle were a tomb.

He knocked lightly on the wooden door near the top of the tower, and it immediately opened and shut, Lysandra slipping into the hall before Evangeline could stir in her bed.

In the flickering light of Aedion’s candle, the shadows etched on Lysandra’s face from a week of fighting from sunup to sundown were starker, deeper. “Ready?” he asked softly, turning back down the stairs.

It had become their tradition—for him to see Lysandra upstairs at night, then come to meet her in the morning. The only bright point in their long, horrible days. Sometimes, Evangeline accompanied them, narrating her time running messages and errands for Darrow. Sometimes, it was only the two of them trudging along.

Lysandra was silent, her graceful gait heavier with each step they descended.

“Breakfast?” Aedion asked as they neared the bottom.

A nod. The eggs and cured meats had given way to gruel and hot broth. Two nights ago, Lysandra had flown off in wyvern form after the fighting had ceased for the day, and returned an hour later with a hart clutched in each taloned foot.

That precious meat had been gone too soon.

They hit the bottom of the tower stairwell, and Aedion made to aim for the dining hall when she stopped him with a hand on his arm. In the dimness, he turned toward her.