Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7)

Dorian’s magic snapped out of him, felling the charging soldiers. Side by side with Chaol, the wild men of the Fangs around them, they cleared a path through Morath’s ranks, their swords plunging and lifting, their breath a burn in their throats.

He had never seen battle. Knew he never wished to again. The chaos, the noise, the blood, the horses screaming—

But he was not afraid. And Chaol, riding near him, breaking soldiers between them, did not hesitate. Only slaughtered onward, teeth gritted.

For Adarlan—for what had been done to it and what it might become.

The words echoed in his every panting breath. For Adarlan.

Morath’s army stretched ahead, still between them and the battered walls of Orynth.

Dorian didn’t let himself think of how many remained. He only thought of the sword and shield in his hands, Damaris already bathed in blood, of the magic he wielded to supplement his strikes. He wouldn’t shift—not yet. Not until his weapons and magic began to fail him. He’d never fought in another form, but he’d try. As a wyvern or a ruk, he’d try.

Somewhere above him, Manon Blackbeak flew. He didn’t dare look up long enough to hunt for a gleam of silver-white hair, or for the shimmer of Spidersilk-grafted wings.

He did not see any of the Thirteen. Or recognize any of the Crochans as they swept overhead.

So Dorian kept fighting, his brother in soul and in arms beside him.

He’d only let himself count at the end of the day. If they survived. If they made it to the city walls.

Only then would he tally the dead.



There was only Aelin’s besieged city, and the enemy before it, and the ancient sword in her hand.

Siege towers neared the walls, three clustering near the southern gate, each teeming with soldiers.

Still too far away to reach. And too distant for her magic.

Magic that was already draining, swift and fleeting, from her veins.

No more endless well of power. She had to conserve it, wield it to her best advantage.

And use the training that had been instilled in her for the past ten years. She had been an assassin long before she’d mastered her power.

It was no hardship to fall back on those skills. To let Goldryn draw blood, to engage multiple soldiers and leave them bleeding out behind her.

The Lord of the North was a storm beneath her, his white coat stained crimson and black.

That immortal flame between his antlers didn’t so much as flutter.

Overhead the skies rained blood, witch and wyvern and ruk alike dying and fighting.

Borte still covered her, engaging any Ironteeth who swooped from above.

Minutes were hours, or perhaps the opposite was true. The sun peaked and began its descent, shadows lengthening.

Rowan and the others had been scattered across the field, but an icy blast of wind every now and then told her that her mate still fought, still killed his way through the ranks. Still attempted to reach her side once more.

Slowly, Orynth began to loom closer. Slowly, the walls went from a distant marker to a towering presence.

The siege towers reached the walls, and soldiers poured unchecked over the battlements.

Yet the gates still held.

Aelin lifted her head to give the order to Borte and Yeran to bring the siege towers down.

Just in time to see the six Ironteeth wyverns and riders slam into the ruks.

Sending Borte, Falkan, and Yeran scattering, ruk and wyvern screaming as they hit the earth and rolled.

Clearing the path overhead for a gargantuan wyvern to come diving for Aelin.

She blasted a wall of flame skyward as the wyvern stretched out its claws for her, for the Lord of the North.

The wyvern banked, rising, and dove again.

The Lord of the North reared, holding his ground as the wyvern aimed for them.

But Aelin leaped from his back, and slapped his flank with the flat of her sword, throat so broken from roaring that she couldn’t form the words. Go.

The Lord of the North only lowered his head as the wyvern barreled toward them.

She did not have enough magic—not to turn the thing into ashes.

So Aelin threw her magic around the stag. And stepped from the orb of flame, shield up and sword angled.

She braced herself for the impact, took in every detail on the wyvern’s armor, where it was weakest, where she might strike if she could dodge the snapping jaws.

The carrion on its breath was a hot blast as its maw opened wide.

Its head went tumbling to the ground.

Not tumbling so much as smashing.

Beneath a spiked, massive tail. Belonging to an attacking wyvern with emerald eyes.

Aelin crouched as the riderless wyvern whirled on the gaping Ironteeth witch, still atop her beheaded mount.

With one slamming sweep of the tail, the green-eyed wyvern impaled the witch on its spikes—and sent her body hurling across the field.

Then the flash and shimmer. And a ghost leopard now hurtled toward her, and Aelin toward it.

She flung her arms around the leopard as it rose up, massive body almost knocking her to the ground. “Well met, my friend,” was all Aelin could manage to say as she embraced Lysandra.

A horn blared from the city—a frantic call for help.

Aelin and Lysandra whirled toward Orynth. Toward the three siege towers against the walls by the southern gate.

Emerald eyes met those of turquoise and gold. Lysandra’s tail bobbed.

Aelin grinned. “Shall we?”



He had to get to her side again.

A battlefield separating them, Rowan slaughtered his way toward Aelin, Fenrys and Lorcan keeping close.

Pain had become a dull roar in his ears. He’d long since lost track of his wounds. He remembered them only because of the iron shard an arrow to his shoulder had left when he wrenched it free.

A foolish, hasty mistake. The iron shard was enough to keep him from shifting, from flying to her. He hadn’t dared to pause long enough to fish it from him, not with the teeming enemy. So he kept fighting, his cadre with him. Their horses charged bold and dauntless beneath them, gaining ground, but he could not see Aelin.

Only the Lord of the North, bounding across the battlefield, aiming for Oakwald.

As if he had been set free.

Fenrys, face splattered with black blood, shouted, “Where is she?”

Rowan scanned the field, heart thundering. But the bond in his chest glowed strong, fire-bright.

Lorcan only pointed ahead. To the city walls by the southern gate.

To the ghost leopard tearing through the droves of Morath soldiers, spurts of flame accompanying her as a golden-armored warrior raced at her side.

To the three siege towers wreaking havoc on the walls.

With the towers’ open sides, Rowan could see everything as it unfolded.

Could see Aelin and Lysandra charge up the ramp within, slicing and shredding soldiers between them, level after level after level. Where one missed a soldier, the other felled him. Where one struck, the other guarded.

All the way up, to the small catapult near its top.

Soldiers screamed, some leaping from the tower as Lysandra shredded into them.

While Aelin threw herself at the rungs lining the catapult’s wheeled base, and began pushing.

Turning it. Away from Orynth, from the castle. Precisely as Aelin had told him Sam Cortland had done in Skull’s Bay, the catapult’s mechanisms allowed her to rotate its base. Rowan wondered if the young assassin was smiling now—smiling to see her heaving the catapult into position.

All the way to the siege tower at its left.

On the second tower, a red-haired figure had fought her way onto the upper level. And was turning the catapult toward the third and final tower.

Ansel of Briarcliff.

A flash of Ansel’s sword, and the catapult snapped, hurling the boulder it contained. Just as Aelin brought down Goldryn upon the catapult before her.

Twin boulders soared.

And slammed into the siege towers beside them.

Iron groaned; wood shattered.