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.
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. 125015
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?" Lan looked back toward the horizon where the
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 wind howled across the blasted remains of