Page 315 of Kingdom of Ash

Abraxos lay beside her, his tail curling around her while she bowed over her knees and wept.

Behind her, had she looked, she would have seen Glennis. And Bronwen. Petrah Blueblood.

Aedion Ashryver and Lysandra and Ren Allsbrook.

Prince Galan and Captain Rolfe and Ansel of Briarcliff, Ilias and the Fae royals beside them.

Had she looked, she would have seen the small white flowers they bore. Would have wondered how and where they had gotten them in the dead heart of winter.

Had she looked, she would have seen the people gathered behindthem, so many they streamed all the way to the city gates. Would have seen the humans standing side by side with the Crochans and Ironteeth.

All come to honor the Thirteen.

But Manon did not look. Even when the leaders who had come with her, walked with her all this way, began to lay their flowers upon the blasted, bloodied earth. Even when their tears flowed, dropping into the ashes alongside their offerings of tribute.

They didn’t speak. And neither did the streaming line of people who came after them. A few bore flowers, but many brought small stones to lay on the site. Those who had neither laid down whatever personal effects they could offer. Until the blast site was covered, as if a garden had grown from a field of blood.

Glennis stayed until the end.

And when they were alone on the silent battlefield, Manon’s great-grandmother put a hand on her shoulder and said quietly, her voice somehow distant, “Be the bridge, be the light. When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home.”

Manon didn’t hear the words. Didn’t notice when even Glennis returned to the city looming at her back.

For hours, Manon knelt on the battlefield, Abraxos at her side. As if she might stay with them, her Thirteen, for a little while longer.

And far away, across the snow-covered mountains, on a barren plain before the ruins of a once-great city, a flower began to bloom.

CHAPTER 91

Dorian hadn’t believed it—hadn’t dared to hope for what he saw.

A foreign army, marching northward. An army he’d grown up studying. There were the khagan’s foot soldiers, and the Darghan cavalry. There were the legendary ruks, magnificent and proud, soaring above them in a sea of wings.

He’d aimed as close to the head of the army as he could get, wondering which of the royals had come. Wondering if Chaol was with them. If the presence of this miraculous army meant his friend had succeeded against all odds.

The ruks had spied him then.

Chased him, and he’d begun signaling as he’d neared. Hoping they’d pause.

But then he’d landed at the crossroads. And then he’d seen them. Seen her.

Aelin, galloping for him. Rowan at her side, Elide and the others with her.

Maeve had believed Aelin had headed to Terrasen. And here she was, with the khagan’s army.

Aelin’s smile faded the moment she grew close. As if she sensed what he bore.

“Where’s Manon?” was all she asked.

“Terrasen,” he breathed, panting slightly. “And likely with the Crochans, if it went according to plan.”

She opened her mouth, eyes wide, but another rider came galloping down the road.

The world went quiet.

The approaching rider halted, another—a beautiful woman Dorian could only describe as golden—right behind.

But Dorian stared at the rider before him. At the posture of the body, the commanding seat he possessed.

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