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

A low hiss sounded nearby, and Aelin dared look away to find the poker lying to her right.

She twisted her feet toward it. Placed the center of the chains binding her ankles atop the red-hot tip.

Slowly, the links in the center heated.

Wolf and Fae clashed in a tangle of claws and fists and teeth, then leaped apart.

Severing the blood oath—it would kill him.

These were his last breaths, his last heartbeats.

“I’ll peel the fur from your bones,” Cairn panted.

Fenrys breathed heavily, blood leaking from between his teeth as he placed one paw over the other, circling. His stare did not break from Cairn’s as they moved, assessing each other for the killing blow.

The links in the center of the chain began glowing.

Overhead, the sky lightened to gray.

Fenrys and Cairn circled again, step after step.

Wearing him out, wearing him down. Cairn knew the cost of severing the blood oath. Knew he had only to wait it out before Fenrys was dead.

Fenrys knew it, too.

He charged, teeth snapping for Cairn’s throat as his paws swiped for the male’s shins.

Aelin grabbed the poker, planted her heels, and drove the rod upward. It strained against the heated links in the chain, and she shoved and shoved her feet downward, her arms buckling.

Cairn and Fenrys rolled, and Aelin gritted her teeth, bellowing.

The chain between her legs snapped.

It was all she needed.

She scrambled to her feet, but halted. Fenrys, pinned by Cairn, met her gaze. Snarled in warning and command.

Run.

Cairn whipped his head toward her. Toward the chain hanging free between her ankles. “You—”

But Fenrys surged up, his jaws clamping around Cairn’s shoulder.

Cairn shouted, arching, grabbing for Fenrys’s back.

Fenrys met her stare again, ripping into Cairn’s shoulder even as the male shoved them into the edge of the table. Hammered Fenrys’s spine into the metal, hard enough that bone cracked.

Run.

Aelin did not hesitate. She sprinted for the tent flaps.

And into the morning beyond.



Half a mile to the center of the camp. To the tent.

The soldiers had responded as Rowan anticipated, and he’d killed them accordingly.

Birds of prey dove for him, attacking with wind and ice from above. He shattered their magic with a surge of his own, sending them scattering.

A cluster of warriors charged from behind a row of tents.

Some beheld him and ran back the way they’d come. All soldiers whom he’d trained. And some he hadn’t. Yet many stayed to fight.

Rowan ripped through their shields, ripped the air from their lungs. Some found his hatchet swinging for their necks.

Close. So close to that tent. He would signal Lorcan and Gavriel in a moment. When he was close enough to need the diversion for the way out.

Another onslaught of soldiers barreled for him, and Rowan angled his long knife. His power blasted away their fired arrows, then blasted away the archers.

Turning them all to bloodied splinters.





CHAPTER 28

Aelin ran.

Her weakened legs stumbled on the grass, her still-bound hands restricting the full range of motion, but she ran. Picked a direction, any direction but the river mists to her left, and ran.

The sun was rising, and the army camp … There was motion behind her. Shouting.

She blocked it out and aimed right. Toward the rising sun, as if it were Mala’s own welcoming embrace.

She couldn’t get down enough air through the mask’s thin slit, but she kept moving, racing past tents, past soldiers who whipped their heads toward her, as if puzzled. She clenched the poker in her ironclad hands, refusing to see what the commotion was, if Cairn raged behind her.

But then she heard them. Bellowed orders.

Rushing steps in the grass behind, closing in. People ahead alerted by their cries.

Bare feet flying over the ground, her exhausted legs screamed to stop.

Still Aelin aimed for the eastern horizon. Toward the trees and mountains, toward the sun cresting over them.

And when the first of the soldiers blocked her path, shouting to stop, she angled the iron poker and did not falter.



Death sang to Lorcan.

From the birds of prey that speared farther and farther into the camp, he knew Whitethorn was close to Cairn’s tent.

Soon now, they’d get the signal.

Lorcan and Gavriel steadied their breathing, readying their power. It thrummed through them, twin waves cresting.

But death began beckoning elsewhere in the camp.

Closer to them. Moving fast.

Lorcan scanned the brightening sky, the line of the first tents. The entrance with the guards.

“Someone’s making a move this way,” Lorcan murmured to Gavriel. “But Whitethorn’s still over there.”

Fenrys. Or Connall, perhaps. Maybe Essar’s sister, who he’d never liked. But he wouldn’t give a shit about that if she hadn’t betrayed them.

He pointed north of the entrance. “You take that side. Be ready to strike from the flank.”

Gavriel sped off, a predator ready to pounce unseen when Lorcan attacked head-on.

Death glimmered. Whitethorn was nearly at the camp’s center. And that force approaching their eastern entrance …

To hell with waiting.

Lorcan broke from the cover of trees, dark power swirling, primed to meet whatever broke through the line of tents.