125015 Online

"You have to plant a garden," she said, a small, fierce smile playing on her lips. "The war is over. The duty of the sword is done. Now comes the duty of the hearth."

Nynaeve took his hand, her grip firm. "You've spent your life paying your parents' debts, Lan. You died a dozen times over for the Seven Towers. Now, you have to do the hardest thing a soldier can do." "What is that?" 125015

"The border willIt was Nynaeve. She didn't approach him with the caution one might show a warrior; she stepped into his space, her presence a grounding force that pulled him back from the edge of the abyss. "You have to plant a garden," she said,

The wind howled across the blasted remains of the north, carrying the scent of ash and the faint, lingering metallic tang of a battle that had finally ended. Lan Mandragoran stood at the edge of the overlook, his heavy hadori —the braided leather cord around his brow—feeling heavier than it ever had in the heat of combat. Now comes the duty of the hearth

Lan looked down at his hands. They were calloused from the hilt of his blade, scarred from a thousand cuts. These were hands meant for breaking, for holding back the tide of the Shadow until the very last breath.

The King of a dead land took a breath of the cold, clean air. The duty of a king was to his people, and for the first time, his people weren't just the dead. He turned away from the edge, his stride no longer that of a man hunting a shadow, but of a man finally walking home.