Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7)

Even three of the great powers of the realm battling before the city gates was not enough to halt the war around them.

Morath swarmed, and the exhausted khaganate army turned to meet them once more. To meet the new horrors that emerged, beasts of snapping teeth and baying howls, ilken sailing above them. No sign of the Valg princesses, not yet. But Elide knew they were out there. Morath had emptied its darkest pits for this final destruction.

And on the plain, before the gates, fire and darkness blacker than the fallen night warred.

Elide didn’t know where to look: at the battle between the armies, or the one between Maeve and Erawan, and Aelin.

Yrene remained beside her, Lord Darrow, Lysandra, and Evangeline watching with them.

A flare of light, an answering wave of darkness.

Aelin was a fiery whirlwind between Maeve and Erawan, the fighting swift and brutal.

She had no power left. Before the Wyrdgate had ripped it from her, Aelin might have been able to face one of them and emerge triumphant. But left with a whisper of power, and after a day of wielding it on this battlefield …

Maeve and Erawan didn’t know.

They didn’t know that Aelin was only deflecting, not attacking. That this drawn-out dance was not for the spectacle, but because she was buying them all time.

Down in the dark beyond the walls, soldiers died and died. And in the city, as siege ladders breached the battlements, Morath surged into Orynth.

Still Aelin held the gate against Erawan and Maeve. Didn’t let them get one step closer to the city. The final sacrifice of Aelin Galathynius for Terrasen.

The moment they realized Aelin had nothing left, it would be over. Any amusement they felt at this shallow exchange of power and skill would vanish.

Where were the others? Where was Rowan, or Lorcan, or Dorian? Or Fenrys and Gavriel? Where were they, or did they not know what occurred before the city gates?

Lysandra’s breathing was shallow. Nothing—the shifter could do nothing against them. And to offer Aelin assistance might be the very thing that made Erawan and Maeve realize the queen was deceiving them.

There was no gentle voice at Elide’s shoulder. Not anymore. Never again would she hear that whispering, wise voice guide her.

See, Anneith had always murmured to her. See.

Elide scanned the field, the city, the queen battling the Valg rulers.

Aelin did nothing without reason. Had gone out there to buy them time. To wear the Valg rulers down, just a bit. But Aelin could not defeat them.

There was only one person who could.

Elide’s eyes landed on Yrene, the healer’s face ashen as she watched Aelin.

The queen would never ask. Never ask that of them, of Yrene.

But she might leave a path open. Should they, should Yrene, wish to take it.

Noticing her stare, Yrene tore her attention away from the battle. “What?”

Elide looked to Lysandra. Then to the city walls, to the flash of ice and flame along them.

She saw what they had to do.





CHAPTER 111


Nesryn had not anticipated the ilken. How terrible even a few dozen would be.

Nimble and vicious, they swept over the front lines of Morath’s teeming ranks. Black as the fallen night and more than eager to meet the ruks in combat.

Sartaq had given the order to unleash whatever burning arrows they could find. The heat of one scorched Nesryn’s fingers as she picked a target amongst the dark fray and fired.

The flame speared into the night, right for an ilken poised to tear into a Darghan horse. The arrow struck true, and the ilken’s shriek reached even Nesryn’s ears. The Darghan rider stabbed deep with his sulde, and the ilken’s screeching was cut off. A lucky, brave blow.

Nesryn was reaching for another arrow and supplies when the Darghan rider fell.

Not dead—the ilken was not dead, but feigning it. The beautiful horse’s scream of pain rent the night as talons ripped open its chest. Another slash and the rider’s sternum was shredded.

Nesryn fumbled for the flint to light the oil-soaked cloth around the arrowhead.

Up and down the battlefield, ilken attacked. Riders, both equine and rukhin, fell.

And looming at the back of the battlefield, as if waiting for their grand entrance, waiting to pick off what was left of them, a new sort of darkness squatted.

The Valg princesses. In their new, kharankui bodies. Erawan’s final surprise.

Nesryn aimed and fired her arrow, scanning for Sartaq. The prince had led a unit of rukhin deeper into the enemy lines, a battered Borte, Falkan, and Yeran flanking him.

A desperate, final push.

One that none of them were likely to walk or fly away from.



Yrene’s breath was tight in her throat, her heart a wild beat through her entire body, yet the fear she thought she’d yield to had not taken over. Not yet.

Not as Lysandra, in ruk form, landed on the city walls, steadily enough that Yrene and Elide could quickly dismount. Right where Chaol and Dorian fought, a desperate effort to keep the Valg off the walls.

The smallest of their concerns. For nearby, slaughtering their way closer—those were ilken.

Silba save them all.

Chaol saw her first. His eyes flared with pure terror. “Get back to the castle.”

Yrene did no such thing. And as Dorian turned, she said to the king, “We have need of you, Your Majesty.”

Chaol shoved from the wall, his limp deep. “Get back to the castle.”

Yrene ignored him again. So did Dorian as the king gutted the Valg before him, shoved the demon over the wall, and hurried to Yrene. “What is it?”

Elide pointed to the southern gate. To the fire that flared amid the attacking darkness.

Dorian’s blood-splattered face drained of color. “She has nothing left.”

“We know,” Elide said, her mouth tightening. “Which is why we need you.”

Chaol must have realized the plan before his king. Because her husband whirled to her, shield and sword hanging at his sides. “You can’t.”

Elide quickly, succinctly, explained their reckless, mad idea. The Lady of Perranth’s idea.

Yrene tried not to shake. Tried not to tremble as she realized that they were, indeed, about to do this.

But Elide merely climbed onto the shifter’s leathery back and beckoned the king to follow. And Dorian, to his credit, did not hesitate.

Yet Chaol dropped his sword and shield to the bloody stones, and gripped Yrene’s face between his hands. “You can’t,” he said again, voice breaking. “You can’t.”

Yrene put her hands atop Chaol’s and brought them brow to brow. “You are my joy,” was all she said to him.

Her husband, her dearest friend, closed his eyes. The reek of Valg blood and metal clung to him, and yet beneath it—beneath it, that was his scent. The smell of home.

Chaol at last opened his eyes, the bronze of them so vivid. Alive. Utterly alive. Full of trust, and understanding, and pride.

“Go save the world, Yrene,” he whispered, and kissed her brow.

Yrene let that kiss sink into her skin, a mark of protection, of love that she’d carry with her into hell and beyond it.

Chaol turned to where Dorian sat with Elide atop the shifter, the love on her husband’s face hardening to something fierce and determined. “Keep her safe,” was all Chaol said. Perhaps the only order, Yrene realized, he would ever give his king. Their king.

It was why she loved him. Why she knew that the child in her womb would never spend a single moment wondering if it was loved.

Dorian bowed his head. “With my life.” Then the king offered a hand to help Yrene onto Lysandra’s back. “Let’s make it count.”



Manon’s chest burned with each inhale, but Abraxos flew unfalteringly through the melee.

So many. Too many.

And the new horrors that Morath had unleashed, the ilken amongst them …

Screams and blood filled the skies. Crochan and Ironteeth and ruks—those were ruks—fought for their very existence.

Any hope of victory that Aelin Galathynius had brought with her was slipping away.