Page 377 of Kingdom of Ash

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,kharankuibodies. 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. “Youcan’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.

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