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

It was the least he could do. To make sure his father knew in the Afterworld.

They stepped into the street, and Lysandra paused to wipe away his tears. To kiss his cheeks, then his mouth. Loving, gentle touches.

Aedion slid his arms around her and held her tightly under the stars and moonlight.

How long they stood in the street, he didn’t know. But then a throat cleared nearby, and they peeled apart to turn toward its source.

A young man, no older than thirty, stood there.

Staring at Lysandra.

Not a messenger, or a soldier, though he wore the heavy clothes of the rukhin. There was a self-possessed purpose to him, a quiet sort of strength in his tall frame as he swallowed.

“Are you—are you Lady Lysandra?”

Lysandra angled her head. “I am.”

The man took a step, and Aedion suppressed the urge to push her behind him. To draw his sword on the man whose gray eyes widened—and shone with tears.

Who smiled at her, broad and joyous.

“My name is Falkan Ennar,” he said, putting a hand on his chest.

Lysandra’s face remained the portrait of wary confusion.

Falkan’s smile didn’t waver. “I have been looking for you for a very, very long time.”

And then it came out, Falkan’s tears flowing as he told her.

Her uncle. He was her uncle.

Her father had been much older than him, but ever since Falkan had learned of her existence, he’d been searching for her. Ten years, he’d hunted for his dead brother’s abandoned child, visiting Rifthold whenever he could. Never realizing that she might have his gifts, too—might not wear any of his brother’s features.

But Nesryn Faliq had found him. Or they’d found each other. And then they had figured it out, a bit of chance in this wide world.

His fortune as a merchant was hers to inherit, if she would like.

“Whatever you wish,” Falkan said. “You shall never want for anything again.”

Lysandra was crying, and it was pure joy on her face as she flung her arms around Falkan and embraced him tightly.

Aedion watched, silent and ripped open. Yet happy for her—he would always be happy for her, for any ray of light she found.

Lysandra pulled away from Falkan, though. Still smiling bright, more lovely than the night sky above. She laced her fingers with Aedion’s and squeezed tight as she answered her uncle at last, “I already have everything I need.”



Hours later, still sitting on the balcony where Erawan had been blasted away into nothing, Dorian didn’t quite believe it.

He kept staring at that spot, the dark stain on the stones, Damaris jutting up from it. The only trace left.

His father’s name. His own name. The weight of it settled into him, not a wholly unpleasant thing.

Dorian flexed his bloodied fingers. His magic lay in scraps, the tang of blood lingering on his tongue. An approaching burnout. He’d never had one before. He supposed he’d better become accustomed to them.

On shaking legs, Dorian yanked Damaris from the stones. The blade had turned black as onyx. A swipe of his fingers down the fuller revealed it was a stain that would not be cleansed.

He needed to get off this tower. Find Chaol. Find the others. Start helping the injured. And the unconscious soldiers on the plain. The ones who had not been possessed had already fled, pursued by the strange Fae who had appeared, the giant wolves and their riders amongst them.

He should go. Should leave this place.

And yet he stared at the dark stain. All that remained.

Ten years of suffering and torment and fear, and the stain was all that remained.

He turned the sword in his hand, its weight heavier than it had been. The sword of truth.

What had the truth been in the end? What was the truth, even now?

Erawan had done this, slaughtered and enslaved so many, so he might see his brothers again. He wanted to conquer their world, punish it, but he’d wanted to be reunited with them. Millennia apart, and Erawan had not forgotten his brothers. Longed for them.

Would he have done the same for Chaol? For Hollin? Would he have destroyed a world to find them again?

Damaris’s black blade didn’t reflect the light. It didn’t gleam at all.

Dorian still tightened his hand around the golden hilt and said, “I am human.”

It warmed in his hand.

He peered at the blade. Gavin’s blade. A relic from a time when Adarlan had been a land of peace and plenty.

And it would be that way once more.

“I am human,” he repeated, to the stars now visible above the city.

The sword didn’t answer again. As if it knew he no longer needed it.

Wings boomed, and then Abraxos was landing on the balcony. A white-haired rider atop him.

Dorian stood, blinking, as Manon Blackbeak dismounted. She scanned him, then the dark stain on the balcony stones.

Her golden eyes lifted to his. Weary, heavy—yet glowing. “Hello, princeling,” she breathed.

A smile bloomed on his mouth. “Hello, witchling.” He scanned the skies beyond her for the Thirteen, for Asterin Blackbeak, undoubtedly roaring her victory to the stars.

Manon said quietly, “You will not find them. In this sky, or any other.”

His heart strained as he understood. As the loss of those twelve fierce, brilliant lives carved another hole within him. One he would not forget, one he would honor. Silently, he crossed the balcony.