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

Dorian nodded, his heart beginning to hammer. “I will.”

She took a step toward him, but halted as her edges rippled further. “Don’t linger too long, and don’t attract his attention. He is arrogant, and wholly self-absorbed, and will not bother to look too closely at what might creep through his halls. Be quick, Dorian.”

A tremor went through his hands, but he balled them into fists. “If I can kill him, should I take the chance?”

“No.” She shook her head. “You would not walk away from it. He has a chamber deep in the keep—it is where he stores the collars. He will bring you there if he catches you.”

He straightened. “I—”

“Go to Morath, as you have planned. Retrieve the key, and nothing more. Or you will find yourself with a collar around your neck again.”

He swallowed. “I can barely shift.”

Kaltain gave him a half smile as she dissolved into the moonlight. “Can’t you?”

And then she was gone.

Dorian stared at the place she’d stood, the Wyrdmarks already vanished. Only Damaris remained standing there, witness to the truth it had somehow sensed he needed to hear.

So Dorian felt for that tangle in his magic, the place where raw power eddied and emerged as whatever he wished.

Let go—the shifting magic’s command. Let go of everything. Let go of that wall he’d built around himself the moment the Valg prince had invaded him, and look within. At himself. Perhaps what the sword had asked him to do in summoning Kaltain instead.

Who do you wish to be?

“Someone worthy of my friends,” he said into the quiet night. “A king worthy of his kingdom.” For a heartbeat, snow-white hair and golden eyes flashed into his mind. “Happy,” he whispered, and wrapped a hand around Damaris’s hilt. Let go of that lingering scrap of terror.

The ancient sword warmed in his hand, a friendly and swift heat.

It flowed up through his fingers, his wrist. To that place within him where all those truths had dwelled, where it became warmth edged with sharpest pain.

And then the world grew and expanded, the trees rising, the ground approaching—

He made to touch his face, but found he had no hands.

Only soot-black wings. Only an ebony beak that allowed no words past it.

A raven. A—

A soft inhale of air had him twisting his neck—far more easily in this form—toward the trees. Toward Manon, standing in the shadows of an oak, her bloody, filthy hand braced against the trunk as she stared at him. At the transformation.

Dorian fumbled for the thread of power that held him in this strange, light form. Instantly, the world swaying, he grew and grew, back into his human body, Damaris cold and still at his feet. His clothes somehow intact. Perhaps through whatever differences existed between his raw magic and a true shifter’s gift.

But Manon’s lip curled back from her teeth. Her golden eyes glowed like embers. “When, exactly, were you going to inform me that you were about to retrieve the third Wyrdkey?”





CHAPTER 34

“We need to retreat,” Galan Ashryver panted to Aedion as they stood by the water tent deep in their army’s ranks, the Crown Prince splattered with blood both red and black.

Three days of fighting in the frigid wind and snow, three days of being pushed northward mile by mile. Aedion had the soldiers on rotation to the front lines, and those who managed to catch a few minutes of sleep returned to the fighting with heavier and heavier feet.

He’d left the front line himself minutes ago, only after Kyllian had ordered him to, going so far as to throw Aedion behind him, the Bane roughly passing him along until he was here, the Crown Prince of Wendlyn gulping down water by the farthest reaches of their forces. The prince’s olive skin was ashen, his Ashryver eyes dim as they monitored soldiers rushing or trudging past.

“We retreat here, and we stand to be chased all the way to Orynth.” Aedion’s raw throat ached with each word.

He had never seen an army so large. Even at Theralis, all those years ago.

Galan handed Aedion his waterskin, and Aedion drank deeply. “I will follow you, cousin, to however this may end, but we cannot keep this up. Not for another full night.”

Aedion knew that. Had realized it after the fighting had continued under cover of darkness.

When the men had started asking why Aelin of the Wildfire did not burn away their enemies. Did not at least give them light by which to fight.

Why she had vanished again.

Lysandra had donned her wyvern form to battle the ilken, but she had been forced to yield, to fall behind their lines. Good for killing ilken, yes, but also a large target for Morath’s archers and spear-throwers.

Ahead, too close for comfort, screams and clashing weapons rose toward the sky. Even the Fae royals’ magic was beginning to waver, their soldiers with them. Where it failed, the Silent Assassins lay waiting, shredding apart Valg and ilken alike with swift efficiency. But there were only so many of them. And still no sign of Ansel of Briarcliff’s additional army.

Soon, the red-haired queen had promised with uncharacteristic graveness only hours ago, the legion with her already dwindling rapidly. The rest of my army will be here soon.

Snarling rose nearby, cutting through the din of battle. The ghost leopard had not faltered, had barely stopped to rest.

He had to go back out. Had to eat something and go back out. Kyllian could maintain order for a good while, but Aedion was their prince. And with Aelin nowhere in sight … it was upon him to keep the soldiers in line.