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

“We should go,” he said. His own pockets were near to bursting, his every step weighed down.

She rose from a rusted metal chest she’d been riffling through.

Rowan remained still as she approached, something clenched in her palm. It was only when she stopped close enough for him to touch her that she unfurled her fingers.

Two golden rings lay there.

“I don’t know the Fae customs,” she said. The thicker ring held an elegantly cut ruby within the band itself, while the smaller one bore a sparkling rectangular emerald mounted atop, the stone as large as her fingernail. “But when humans wed, rings are exchanged.”

Her fingers trembled—just slightly. Too many unspoken words lay between them.

Yet now was not the time for that conversation, for that healing.

Not when they had to be on their way as swiftly as possible, and this offer she’d made him, this proof that she still wanted what lay between them, the vows they’d sworn …

“I assume the sparkly emerald is for me,” Rowan said with a half smile.

She huffed a laugh. The soft, whispered sound was as precious as the rings she’d found for them in this hoard.

She took his hand, and he tried not to shudder in relief, tried not to fall to his knees as she slid the ruby ring onto his finger. It fit him perfectly, the ring no doubt forged for the king lying in this barrow.

Silently, Rowan grasped her own hand and eased on the emerald ring. “To whatever end,” he whispered.

Silver lined her eyes. “To whatever end.”

A reminder—and a vow, more sacred than the wedding oaths they’d sworn on that ship.

To walk this path together, back from the darkness of the iron coffin. To face what waited in Terrasen, ancient promises to the gods be damned.

He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “I’ll make the tattoo again.” She swallowed, but nodded. “And,” he added, “I’d like to add another. To me—and to you.”

Her brows flicked up, but he squeezed her hand. You’ll have to wait and see, Princess.

Another hint of a smile. She didn’t balk from the silent words this time. Typical.

He opened his mouth to voice the question he’d been dying to ask for days now. May I kiss you? But she pulled her hand from his.

Admiring the wedding band sparkling on her finger, her mouth tightened as she turned over her palm. “I’ll need to retrain.”

Not a single callus marked her hands.

Aelin frowned at her too-thin body. “And pack on some muscle again.” A slight quiver graced her words, but she curled her hands into fists at her sides and smirked at her clothes—the Mistward clothes. “It’ll be just like old times.”

Trying. She was dredging up that swagger and trying. So he would, too. Until she didn’t need to any more.

Rowan gave her a crooked grin. “Just like old times,” he said, following her out of the barrow and back toward the ebony river, “but with far less sleep.”

He could have sworn the passageway heated. But Aelin kept going.

Later. That conversation, this unfinished business between them, would come later.





CHAPTER 38

The queen and her consort needed a private moment, it seemed. Elide had been more surprised to see Fenrys in his beautiful male form than the gold that he and Gavriel bore, near-spilling out their pockets.

Lorcan laughed softly as they packed the treasure into their bags. More than some people could dream of. “At least she’s thinking one step ahead.”

Fenrys stilled where he crouched before his bag, the gold in his hands shimmering like his hair. There was nothing remotely warm in his dark eyes. “We’re only in this position because of you.”

Elide tensed as Lorcan stiffened. Gavriel halted his packing, a hand drifting to the dagger at his side.

But the dark-haired warrior inclined his head. “So I have been reminded,” he said, but didn’t glance to Elide.

Fenrys bared his teeth. “When we’re out of this,” he hissed, “you and I will settle things.”

Lorcan’s smile was a brutal slash of white. “It shall be my pleasure.”

Elide knew he meant it. He’d be glad to take on whatever Fenrys threw his way, to engage in that devastating, bloody conflict.

Gavriel let out a sigh, his tawny eyes meeting Elide’s. Nothing could be said or done to convince them otherwise.

Yet Elide found herself drawing in breath to suggest that fighting amongst each other, vengeance or no, wouldn’t be fulfilling, when Aelin and Rowan emerged from the passage.

Goldryn hung at the queen’s side, undoubtedly given back to her by the prince. Its glittering ruby looked like an amethyst in the blue lantern light, bobbing with each of Aelin’s steps.

They’d barely stepped onto the boat when a hissing flitted from the passage they’d vacated.

Tensing, Rowan and Gavriel swiftly shoved the boat from the shore. The creatures tugging them along lurched into motion, pulling them farther into the river.

Blades gleamed, all the immortal warriors deathly still.

Aelin didn’t draw Goldryn, though. Didn’t lift a burning hand. She merely lingered by Elide, her face like stone.

The hissing grew louder. Shadowed, scabbed hands clawed at the passage archway, recoiling wherever they met the light.

“Someone’s pissed about the treasure,” Fenrys muttered.