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

“Are you hurt?” Sartaq. The prince’s eyes were wide, his face bloodied, as he scanned her from head to toe. Behind him, Kadara panted on the battlements, her feathers as bloody as her rider.

Sartaq gripped her shoulders. “Are you hurt?” She’d never seen such panic in his face.

Nesryn only pointed to the now-still enemy, unable to find the words.

But others did. One word, one name, over and over. Yrene.

Healers raced up the battlements, aiming for both ruks, and Nesryn allowed herself to slide her arms around Sartaq’s waist. To press her face against his armored chest.

“Nesryn.” Her name was a question and a command. But Nesryn only held him tightly. So close. They had come so, so close to utter defeat.

Yrene. Yrene. Yrene, the soldiers and people of the city shouted.

Sartaq ran a hand down her matted hair. “You know what victory means, don’t you?”

Nesryn lifted her head, brows narrowing. Behind them, Salkhi patiently stood while the healer’s magic soothed over his eye. “A good night’s rest, I hope,” she said.

Sartaq laughed, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “It means,” he said against her skin, “that we are going home. That you are coming home—with me.”

And even with the battle freshly ended, even with the dead and wounded around them, Nesryn smiled. Home. Yes, she would go home with him to the southern continent. And to all that waited there.



Aelin, Rowan, Lorcan, and Fenrys lingered on the plain outside the city gates until they were certain the fallen army was not going to rise. Until the khagan’s troops went between the enemy soldiers, nudging and prodding. And received no answer.

But they did not behead. Did not sever and finish the job.

Not for those with the black rings, or black collars.

Those whom the healers might yet save.

Tomorrow. That would come tomorrow.

The moon had reached its peak when they wordlessly decided that they had seen enough to determine Erawan’s army would never rise again. When the ruks, Crochans, and rebel Ironteeth had vanished, chasing the last of the aerial legion into the night.

Then Aelin turned toward the southern gate to Orynth.

As if in answer, it groaned open to meet her.

Two arms flung wide.

Aelin looked to Rowan, their crowns of flame still burning, undimmed. Took his hand.

Heart thundering through every bone in her body, Aelin took a step toward the gate. Toward Orynth. Toward home.

Lorcan and Fenrys fell into step behind them. The latter’s wounds still leaked down his face, but he had refused Aelin and Rowan’s offers to heal him. Had said he wanted a reminder. They hadn’t dared to ask of what—not yet.

Aelin lifted her chin high, shoulders squaring as they neared the archway.

Soldiers already lined either side.

Not the khagan’s soldiers, but men and women in Terrasen armor. And civilians amongst them, too—awe and joy in their faces.

Aelin looked at the threshold of the gate. At the ancient, familiar stones, now caked in blood and gore.

She sent a whisper of flame skittering over them. The last dregs of her power.

When the fire vanished, the stones were again clean. New. As this city would be made anew, brought to greater heights, greater splendors. A beacon of learning and light once more.

Rowan’s fingers tightened around hers, but she did not look at him as they crossed the threshold, passing through the gate.

No, Aelin only looked at her people, smiling broadly and freely, as she entered Orynth, and they began to cheer, welcoming her home at long last.





CHAPTER 117

Aedion had fought until the enemy soldier before him had slumped to his knees as if dead.

But the man, a black ring on his finger, was not dead at all.

Only the demon inside him.

And when soldiers of countless nations began to cheer, when word spread that a Torre Cesme healer had defeated Erawan, Aedion simply turned from the battlements.

He found him by scent alone. Even in death, the scent lingered, a path that Aedion followed through the wrecked streets and throngs of celebrating, weeping people.

A lone candle had been lit in the empty barracks room where they’d set his body atop a worktable.

It was there that Aedion knelt before his father.

How long he stayed there, head bowed, he didn’t know. But the candle had nearly burned down to its base when the door creaked open, and a familiar scent flitted in.

She said nothing as she approached on silent feet. Nothing as she shifted and knelt beside him.

Lysandra only leaned into him, until Aedion put his arm around her, tucking her in tight.

Together, they knelt there, and he knew her grief was as real as his. Knew her grief was for Gavriel, but also for his own loss.

The years he and his father would not have. The years he’d realized he wanted to have, the stories he wished to hear, the male he wished to know. And never would.

Had Gavriel known that? Or had he fallen believing his son wished nothing to do with him?

He couldn’t endure it, that potential truth. Its weight would be unbearable.

When the candle sputtered out, Lysandra rose, and took him with her.

A grand burial, Aedion silently promised. With every honor, every scrap of stately regalia that could be found in the aftermath of this battle. He’d bury his father in the royal graveyard, amongst the heroes of Terrasen. Where he himself would be buried one day. Beside him.