Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

“One more word,” Rowan said softly, “and I don’t care how many lords support you or what your laws are. One more word about that, and I will gut you before you can get up from that chair. Understand?”

Oop-

“Rifthold,” he panted as he skidded to a stop, flinging rain on them. “One of the scouts from the Ferian Gap just raced past. The Ironteeth host flies for Rifthold. They mean to sack the city.”

Crap crap crap

“You’re one man—male.”

OH MY GOSH now i know why sjm says male instead of men and its because they are not all human, so it technically wouldn't be correct

Do you find pleasure in deciding who shall be saved and who is beyond it? So easy, to become a little, burning god.”

Each heartbeat was a lifetime; each breath ached.

Then Manon Blackbeak whirled and brought Wind-Cleaver down upon her grandmother.

WHAT?!

Twin tattoos of roaring gray sea dragons snaked around her tan forearms, the beasts seeming to slither as her muscles shifted with the movement.

Ooh, that is cool

“Sea-wyverns.

Ooh I bet they are pretty

The one with night-dark eyes and an edged grin looked Rowan over and drawled, “I liked your hair longer.”

What?!

The beautiful male—really, there was no way to describe him other than that—just shrugged.

Dorian is giving off some extremely gay vibes

The seas are my haven—upon the waves, we will always be free.”

Aelin Galathynius, her hands laced behind her head, grinned at them all and said, “I like this office far better than your other one, Rolfe.”

Ooohhh!!!

“You will find, Rolfe, that one does not deal with Celaena Sardothien. One survives her.”

“And where is the sixteen-year-old self-righteous brat who wrecked six of my ships, stole two of them, and destroyed my town, all for the sake of two hundred slaves?”

Darn right she did!

Aelin let out a low whistle. “Allow me to introduce to you, Captain Rolfe, the incomparable, the beautiful, and the absolutely and all-around flawless Queen of Terrasen.”

She managed all of one step toward her designated seat before Rowan was at her side, a hand on her elbow. His face—oh, gods, she’d missed that harsh, unyielding face—was tight as he leaned in to whisper with Fae softness, “The cadre is working with us on the condition that it’ll lead them to Lorcan, since Maeve sent them to kill him. I refused to divulge his whereabouts. Most of Adarlan’s fleet is in the Gulf of Oro thanks to some foul agreement with Melisande to use their ports, and Maeve’s own armada sails for Eyllwe—whether to attack or aid, we don’t know.” Well, it was nice to know absolute hell awaited them and that the information about Maeve’s armada was correct. But then Rowan added, “And I missed you like hell.”

“The world,” Aelin said, “will be saved and remade by the dreamers,

“Rowan’s always looking for an excuse to show off. Dramatic rescues give him purpose and fulfillment in his dull, immortal life.”

Love had broken a perfect killing tool. Lorcan wondered if it would take him centuries more to stop being so pissed about it.

They could burn the entire world to ashes with it. He was hers and she was his, and they had found each other across centuries of bloodshed and loss, across oceans and kingdoms and war.

Rowan took up a spot beside her, his knee brushing hers. Like even a few feet of distance was unbearable.

Despite herself, despite what she’d done, she decided she wanted Rowan to call her milady at least once every day.

The shifter had told Aedion by now—of why they had truly gone to Ilium. Not only to see Brannon, not only to save its people … but for this.

For what?

She turned again, and Rolfe sneered, “Did Sam die still pining after you, or did you finally stop treating him like filth?” There was a choking sound, and a slam and rattle of glasses. She looked slowly to find Rowan with his hand around Rolfe’s neck, the captain pressed onto the map, the figures scattered everywhere, Rowan’s snarling teeth close to ripping off Rolfe’s ear.

Aelin was going to sail that ship right into the heart of the enemy fleet and blow them all out of the water.

She was not a rebel princess, shattering enemy castles and killing kings. She was a force of nature. She was a calamity and a commander of immortal warriors of legend.

They had not come ten years ago. She wanted them to know she had not forgotten it.

But Aelin, Lysandra close to her, stalked for the towering Sea Dragon, Rowan and his two companions falling into step behind them. People halted and gawked while they ascended the gangway, securing and rearranging their weapons. Knives and swords, Rowan’s hatchet gleaming while he hooked it at his side, a bow and quiver full of black-feathered arrows that Aelin assumed Fenrys could fire with deadly accuracy, and more blades. As they prowled onto the gently rocking deck of the Sea Dragon, the wood meticulously polished, Aelin supposed that together they formed a walking armory.

With the right music, this could be an awesome movie scene

See the legend straight from their prophecies: the Mycenians would only return when the sea dragons did. And so Aelin had ensured that one appeared right in their gods-damned harbor.

Where three massive forms raged through the waves, aiming right for her.

S***

And then a green head shot from the water, black blood spraying like spindrift as she hurled the severed head of the bull across the waves.

YES YES YES

Aedion drawled, even as his relief began to crumble his mask of arrogant calmness, “The useless sentries in the watchtower are now all half in love with you,” he lied. “One said he wanted to marry you.” A low snarl. He yielded a foot but held eye contact with her as he grinned. “But you know what I told them? I said that they didn’t stand a chance in hell.” Aedion lowered his voice, holding her pained, exhausted stare. “Because I am going to marry you,” he promised her. “One day. I am going to marry you. I’ll be generous and let you pick when, even if it’s ten years from now. Or twenty. But one day, you are going to be my wife.”

Aelin met Rowan’s stare and said clearly and baldly and without a speckle of doubt, “I love you. I am in love with you, Rowan. I have been for a while. And I know there are limits to what you can give me, and I know you might need time—” His lips crushed into hers, and he said onto her mouth, dropping words more precious than rubies and emeralds and sapphires into her heart, her soul, “I love you. There is no limit to what I can give to you, no time I need. Even when this world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you.”

Aelin drew her eyes away from the beauty of their magic, the beauty of them, and found his face to be the most beautiful of all.

Oh, gods—Fae lovers. Everyone should be so damn lucky to have one.

Lol

Rowan rasped, “Do you want to bite me?”

Getting some serious second-hand embarrassment here

undulating

SJM sure likes this word

He’d taken her three times on that beach—twice in the sand, then a third out in the warm waters.

On the same day, in a row, throughout several days? I need more information to decide just how cringey this is

Lysandra sat in bed, face drawn but eyes narrowed at the queen. It was the shifter who purred, “Enjoy your ride?”

Lol I love Lysandra

Aelin drifted over to where Rowan sat on the edge of the bed, still shirtless thanks to the queen currently wearing his shirt, and took up a spot beside him, a hand on his knee.

Rowan just sitting there shirtless around all the other guys-oh sorry, males-is so hilarious to me

And Aelin, gods above, snapped her fingers at the queen—once, twice—drawing her attention back to her.

Aelin, ever the sass queen 👑

Elena laughed humorlessly as she said to Aelin, “Why do you think you burn so brightly? It is not just Brannon’s blood that is in your veins. But Mala’s.” Aelin breathed, “Mala Fire-Bringer was your mother.” Elena was already gone.

Mala

I bet she is pretty

“Erawan’s fleet squats in the Gulf of Oro; Maeve sails for Eyllwe. But neither knows that we possess this Wyrdkey—or that this Lock exists … and lies directly between their forces.”

Ugggggghhhhh

But the threads lay in a lattice across his mind, in hues of red and green and gold and blue, glimmering and thrumming, whispering their secrets in languages not spoken in this world.

Wyvern. There was only one. And only one rider atop it. A rider who did not move, whose white hair was unbound—listing toward the side. As the rider now was.

Manon!!!!!!

“I’d walk into the burning heart of hell itself to find you.”

She whispered onto his mouth, “I’ll always find a way back to you.”

the maleness in that tone,

Lol

A soft lover’s laugh.

What the crap does that mean