For twenty years, he had been a ghost. He was the King of a country that lived only in the memories of old men and the songs of bards. Malkier was a name for a grave, and Lan was its chief mourner. He had expected to die with his sword in his hand, a final, bloody punctuation mark at the end of a tragedy. But the world had not ended.
"I spent my life avenging what could not be defended," Lan said, his voice like grinding stone. "I made peace with my death a long time ago. I do not know how to live with a crown that isn't made of thorns." 125015
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. For twenty years, he had been a ghost
Lan looked back toward the horizon where the sun was beginning to break through the perpetual gloom. For the first time in his life, he didn't see a battlefield. He saw the faint outlines of where the towers would rise again—not as fortresses, but as homes. He had expected to die with his sword
"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."