125015

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.

"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." 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. Lan looked back toward the horizon where the

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. "You have to plant a garden," she said,

"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."

"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.