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 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.