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

The pressure in her body, her head, faded. It became secondary as Cairn fished a rolled pouch from his other pocket. He set it upon the swath of black velvet, and she could make out the indents of the slender tools inside. “For when heating the table grows boring,” he said, patting the tool kit. “I want to see how far the burns go inside your skin.”

Bile shot up her throat as he weighed the flint in his hands and stepped closer.

She began fraying then, who she was and had been melting away as her own body would soon melt when this table heated.

The hand she’d been dealt. It was the hand she had been dealt, and she would endure it. Even as a word took form on her tongue.

Please.

She tried to swallow it. Tried to keep it locked in as Cairn crouched beside the table, flint raised.

You do not yield.

You do not yield.

You do not yield.

“Wait.”

The word was a rasp.

Cairn paused. Rose from his crouch. “Wait?”

Aelin shook, her breathing ragged. “Wait.”

Cairn crossed his arms. “Do you have something you’d like to say at last?”

He’d let her promise anything to him, to Maeve. And then would still light those fires. Maeve would not hear of her yielding for days.

Aelin made herself meet his stare, her gauntlet-covered fingers pressing into the iron slab beneath her.

One last chance.

She’d seen the stars overhead. It was as great a gift as any she’d received, greater than the jewels and gowns and art she’d once coveted and amassed in Rifthold. The last gift she would receive, if she played the hand she’d been dealt. If she played him right.

To end this, end her. Before Maeve could put the Wyrdstone collar around her neck.



Dawn neared, the stars dimming one by one.

Rowan lurked by the southernmost entrance to the camp, his power thrumming.

Cairn’s tent lay in the center of the camp. A mile and a half lay between Rowan and his prey.

When the guards began their shift change, he’d rip the air from their lungs. Would rip the air from the lungs of every soldier in his path. How many would he know? How many had he trained? A small part of him prayed the number would be few. That if they knew him, they’d be wise and stand down. He had no intention of stopping, though.

Rowan freed the hatchet from his side, a long knife already glinting in the other.

A killing calm had settled over him hours ago. Days ago. Months ago.

Only a few more minutes.

The six guards at the camp entrance stirred from their watches. The sentries in the trees behind him, unaware of his presence this night, would spot the action the moment their fellow sentries went down. And certainly spot him the moment he broke from the trees, crossing the narrow strip of grass between the forest and camp.

He’d debated flying in, but the aerial patrols had circled all night, and if he faced them, expending more power than he needed to while also fighting off the arrows and magic sure to be firing from below … He’d waste vital reserves of his energy. So on foot it would be, a hard, brutal run to the center of the camp. Then out, either with Aelin or Cairn.

Still alive. He had to keep Cairn alive for now. Long enough to clear this camp and reach a spot where they could slice every answer from him.

Go, a quiet voice urged. Go now.

Essar’s sister had advised to wait until dawn. When the shift was weakest. When she’d make sure certain guards didn’t arrive on time.

Go now.

That voice, warm and yet insistent, tugged. Pushed him toward the camp.

Rowan bared his teeth, his breathing roughening. Lorcan and Gavriel would be waiting for the signal, a flare of his magic, when he got far enough into the camp.

Now, Prince.

He knew that voice, had felt its warmth. And if the Lady of Light herself whispered at his ear …

Rowan didn’t give himself time to consider, to rage at the goddess who urged him to act but would gladly sacrifice his mate to the Lock.

So Rowan steeled himself, willing ice into his veins.

Calm. Precise. Deadly.

Every swing of his blades, every blast of his power, had to count.

Rowan speared his magic toward the camp entrance.

The guards grabbed for their throats, feeble shields wobbling around them. Rowan shattered them with half a thought, his magic tearing the air from their lungs, their blood.

They went down a heartbeat later.

Sentries shouted from the trees, orders of “Sound the alarm!” ringing out.

But Rowan was already running. And the sentries in the trees, their shouts lingering on the wind as they gasped for breath, were already dead.



The sky slowly bled toward dawn.

Standing at the edge of the forest that bordered the eastern side of the camp, a good two miles of rolling, grassy hills between him and the edge of the army, Lorcan monitored the stirring troops.

Gavriel had already shifted, and the mountain lion now paced near the tree line, waiting for the signal.

It was an effort not to peer behind him, though Lorcan could not see her. They’d left Elide a few miles into the forest, hidden in a copse of trees bordering a glen. Should all go poorly, she’d flee deeper into the hilly woods, up into the ancient mountains. Where far more deadly and cunning predators than Fae still prowled.

She hadn’t offered him a parting word, though she’d wished them all luck. Lorcan hadn’t been able to find the right words anyway, so he’d left without so much as a look back.