Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5) by Sarah J. Maas

For the first time, Asterin’s mouth tightened, eyes gleaming. Yes, she understood the only gift Manon could give her, the only honor left.

It was Cresseida Blueblood who cut in before the other two Matrons could speak. “For saving my daughter’s life, Wing Leader, it shall be granted.”

The Yellowlegs Matron whipped her head to Cresseida, a retort on her lips, but it was too late. The words had been spoken, and the rules were to be obeyed at any cost.

The Crochan’s red cape fluttering behind her in the wind, Manon dared a look at her grandmother. Only hatred glowed in those ancient eyes—hatred, and a flicker of satisfaction that Asterin would be ended after decades of being deemed an unfit Second.

But at least this death was now hers to give.

And in the east, slipping over the mountains like molten gold, the sun began to rise.

A hundred years she’d had with Asterin. She’d always thought they’d have a hundred more.

Manon said softly to Sorrel, “Turn her around. My Second shall see the dawn one last time.”

Sorrel obediently stepped forward, pivoting Asterin to face the High Witches, the crowd by the rail—and the rare sunrise piercing through Morath’s gloom.

Blood soaked through the back of her Second’s leathers.

And yet Asterin knelt, shoulders square and head high, as she looked not at the dawn—but at Manon herself while she stalked around her Second to take a place a few feet before the Matrons.

“Sometime before breakfast, Manon,” her grandmother said from a few feet behind.

Manon drew Wind-Cleaver, the blade singing softly as it slid free of its sheath.

The sunlight gilded the balcony as Asterin whispered, so softly that only Manon could hear, “Bring my body back to the cabin.”

Something in Manon’s chest broke—broke so violently that she wondered if it was possible for no one to have heard it.

Manon lifted her sword.

All it would take was one word from Asterin, and she could save her own hide. Spill Manon’s secrets, her betrayals, and she’d walk free. Yet her Second uttered no other word.

And Manon understood in that moment that there were forces greater than obedience, and discipline, and brutality. Understood that she had not been born soulless; she had not been born without a heart.

For there were both, begging her not to swing that blade.

Manon looked to the Thirteen, standing around Asterin in a half circle.

One by one, they lifted two fingers to their brows.

A murmur went through the crowd. The gesture not to honor a High Witch.

But a Witch-Queen.

There had not been a Queen of Witches in five hundred years, either among the Crochans or the Ironteeth. Not one.

Forgiveness shone in the faces of her Thirteen. Forgiveness and understanding and loyalty that was not blind obedience, but forged in pain and battle, in shared victory and defeat. Forged in hope for a better life—a better world.

At last, Manon found Asterin’s gaze, tears now rolling down her Second’s face. Not from fear or pain, but in farewell. A hundred years—and yet Manon wished she’d had more time.

For a heartbeat, she thought of that sky-blue mare in the aerie, the wyvern that would wait and wait for a rider who would never return. Thought of a green rocky land spreading to the western sea.

Hand trembling, Asterin pressed her fingers to her brow and extended them. “Bring our people home, Manon,” she breathed.

Manon angled Wind-Cleaver, readying for the strike.

The Blackbeak Matron snapped, “Be done with it, Manon.”

Manon met Sorrel’s eyes, then Asterin’s. And Manon gave the Thirteen her final order.

“Run.”

Then Manon Blackbeak whirled and brought Wind-Cleaver down upon her grandmother.





18


Manon saw only the flash of her grandmother’s rusted iron teeth, the glimmer of her iron nails as she raised them to ward against the sword—but too late.

Manon slashed Wind-Cleaver down, a blow that would have cut most men in half.

Yet her grandmother darted back fast enough that the sword sliced down her torso, ripping fabric and skin as it cut between her breasts in a shallow line. Blue blood sprayed, but the Matron was moving, blocking Manon’s next blow with her iron nails—iron so hard that Wind-Cleaver bounced off.

Manon did not look to see if the Thirteen obeyed. But Asterin was roaring; roaring and shouting to stop. The cries grew more distant, then echoed, as if she were now inside the hall, being dragged away.

No sounds of pursuit—as if the onlookers were too stunned. Good.

Iskra and Petrah had swords out, iron teeth down as they stepped between their Matrons and Manon, herding their two High Witches away.

The Blackbeak Matron’s coven lunged forward, only to be halted by a hand. “Stay back,” her grandmother commanded, panting as Manon circled her. Blue blood leaked down her grandmother’s front. An inch closer, and she’d have been dead.

Dead.

Her grandmother bared her rusted teeth. “She’s mine.” She jerked her chin at Manon. “We do this the ancient way.”

Manon’s stomach roiled, but she sheathed her sword.

A flick of her wrists had her nails out, and a snap of her jaw had her teeth descending.

“Let’s see how good you are, Wing Leader,” her grandmother hissed, and attacked.

Manon had never seen her grandmother fight, never trained with her.