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

“What’s that letter?” she asked, washing her hands, then her face, in the ewer by the window. Beyond the glass, the city was silent—sleeping, after a long day of rebuilding. The wild men of the Fangs had even remained to help, an act of kindness that Chaol would ensure did not go unrewarded. Already, he had looked into where he might expand their territory—and the peace between them and Anielle.

Chaol swallowed. “It’s from my mother.”

Yrene paused, her face still dripping. “Your … Why haven’t you opened it?”

He shrugged. “Not all of us are courageous enough to take on Dark Lords, you know.”

Yrene rolled her eyes, dried her face, and plopped down on the bed beside him. “Do you want me to read it first?”

He did. Damn him, but he did. Wordlessly, Chaol handed it to her.

Yrene said nothing as she opened the sealed parchment, her golden eyes darting over the inked words. Chaol tapped a finger on his knee. After a long day of healing, he knew better than to try to pace. Had barely made it back here with the cane before he’d sunk to the bed.

Yrene put a hand to her throat as she turned the page, read the back.

When she lifted her head again, tears slid down her cheeks. She handed him the letter. “You should read it yourself.”

“Just tell me.” He’d read it later. “Just—tell me what it says.”

Yrene wiped at her face. Her mouth trembled, but there was joy in her eyes. Pure joy. “It says that she loves you. It says that she has missed you. It says that if you and I are amenable to it, she would like to come live with us. Your brother Terrin, too.”

Chaol reached for the letter, scanning the text. Still not believing it. Not until he read,

I have loved you from the moment I knew you were growing in my womb.

He didn’t stop his own tears from falling.

Your father informed me of what he did with my letters to you. I informed him I shall not be returning to Anielle.

Yrene leaned her head against his shoulder while he read and read.

The years have been long, and the space between us distant, his mother had written. But when you are settled with your new wife, your babe, I would like to visit. To stay for longer than that, Terrin with me. If that would be all right with you.

Tentative, nervous words. As if his mother, too, did not quite believe that he’d agree.

Chaol read the rest, swallowing hard as he reached the final lines.

I am so very proud of you. I have always been, and always will be. And I hope to see you very soon.

Chaol set down the letter, wiped at his cheeks, and smiled at his wife. “We’re going to have to build a bigger house,” he said.

Yrene’s answering grin was all he’d hoped for.



The next day, Dorian found Chaol and Yrene in the sick bay that had been moved to the lower levels, the former in his wheeled chair, helping his wife tend to a wounded Crochan, and beckoned them to follow.

They did, not asking him questions, until he found Manon atop the aerie. Saddling Abraxos for his morning ride. Where she’d been each day, falling into a routine that Dorian knew was as much to keep the grief at bay as it was to maintain order.

Manon stilled as she beheld them, brows narrowing. She’d met Chaol and Yrene days ago, their reunion quiet but not chilly, despite how poorly Chaol’s first encounter with the witch had gone. Yrene had only embraced the witch, Manon holding her stiffly, and when they’d pulled apart, Dorian could have sworn some of the paleness, the gauntness, had vanished from Manon’s face.

Dorian asked the Witch-Queen, “Where do you go, when everyone leaves?”

Manon’s golden eyes didn’t leave his face.

He hadn’t dared ask her. They hadn’t dared speak of it. Just as he had not yet spoken of his father, his name. Not yet.

“To the Wastes,” she said at last. “To see what might be done.”

Dorian swallowed. He’d heard the witches, both Ironteeth and Crochans, talking about it. Had felt their growing nerves—and excitement. “And after?”

“There will be no after.”

He smiled slightly at her, a secret, knowing smile. “Won’t there be?”

Manon asked, “What is it that you want?”

You, he almost said. All of you.

But Dorian said, “A small faction of the rukhin are remaining in Adarlan to train the wyvern hatchlings. I want them to be my new aerial legion. And I would like you, and the other Ironteeth, to help them.”

Chaol coughed, and gave him a look as if to say, You were going to tell me this when?

Dorian winked at his friend and turned back to Manon. “Go to the Wastes. Rebuild. But consider it—coming back. If not to be my crowned rider, then to train them.” He added a bit softly, “And to say hello every now and then.”

Manon stared at him.

He tried not to look like he was holding his breath, like this idea he’d had mere minutes ago in the khaganate royals’ chamber wasn’t coursing through him, bright and fresh.

Then Manon said, “It is only a few days by wyvern from the Wastes to Rifthold.” Her eyes were wary, and yet—yet that was a slight smile. “I think Bronwen and Petrah will be able to lead if I occasionally slip away. To help the rukhin.”

He saw the promise in her eyes, in that hint of a smile. Both of them still grieving, still broken in places, but in this new world of theirs … perhaps they might heal. Together.