Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

The Lord of the North flickered down at her. Perhaps the final gift of Mala to these lands—in this age, at least. Perhaps a thank-you to Elena herself, and a farewell. Because for Terrasen, for Erilea, Elena would walk into the eternal darkness lurking across the valley to buy them all a chance. Elena sent up a final prayer on a pillar of smoke rising from the valley floor that the unborn, faraway scions of this night, heirs to a burden that would doom or save Erilea, would forgive her for what she was about to do.

Not witches or wyverns or beasts. But someone—someone was watching her. Someone was following her.

His tongue brushed hers—lazy, deft strokes that told her precisely what he was capable of doing elsewhere.

She’d been in love with him for a while now. Longer than she wanted to admit.

And Aelin Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen, knew the time would soon come to prove just how much she’d bleed for Erilea.

But Aelin had promised herself, months and months ago, that she would not pretend to be anything but what she was. She had crawled through darkness and blood and despair—she had survived. And even if Lord Darrow could offer men and funding for a war … she had both, too. More would be better, but—she was not empty-handed. She had done that for herself. For them all.

“As of this moment, until it is otherwise decided, you shall remain a princess by blood—but not queen.”

“I serve you, Aelin. Do not apologize for putting me to use.”

“When you find me again, we will have that night. I don’t care where, or who is around.” He pressed a kiss to her neck and said onto her rain-slick skin, “You are my Fireheart.”

And through the rain and fire and ice, through the dark and lightning and thunder, a word flickered into her head, an answer and a challenge and a truth she immediately denied, ignored. Not for herself, but for him—for him—

“To call in old debts and promises. To raise an army of assassins and thieves and exiles and commoners. To finish what was started long, long ago.”

Face-to-face, Dorian panted as he stared down at her and breathed, “Hello, witchling.” Some ancient, predatory part of her awoke at the half smile. It sat up, cocking its ears toward him. Not a whiff of fear. Interesting. Manon purred back, “Hello, princeling.”

A wind that smelled of pine and snow—a familiar, strange scent. Ancient and clever and cruel.

“You owe me a life debt, King of Adarlan. Prepare yourself for the day I come to claim it.”

Her kind had no magical shields against attacks like that. Only when most desperate, most enraged, could a witch summon the core of magic in her—with devastating consequences. Even the most bloodthirsty and soulless of them only whispered of that act: the Yielding.

This thing between them, the force of it, could devour the world.

“I am not hiding in my own kingdom,” Aelin cut in. “And I am not going to leave without sending a reminder of who this land belongs to.”

“I have known many kings in my life, Dorian Havilliard. And it was a rare man indeed who asked for help when he needed it, who would put aside pride.”

“Aelin is my heart. I taught her what I knew, and it worked because our magics understood each other deep down—just as our souls did.

“She was … in a very dark place. We both were. But we led each other out of it. Found a way—together.”

Aelin mounted the small stairs that allowed pilgrims to gaze upon the sacred Rock—then stepped onto it.

For it was the Chief Overseer of Endovier who now grinned at them.

“Indeed. Especially considering the plans I have for the would-be King of Adarlan.” Aelin’s heart stopped. “Perhaps you should have told your lover to disguise himself before he snatched Dorian Havilliard out of Rifthold.” Those eyes narrowed to slits. “What was his name … Oh, yes,” Erawan breathed, as if someone had whispered it to him. “Prince Rowan Whitethorn of Doranelle. What a prize he shall be.”

A reminder that she might be the heir of fire … but Erawan was King of the Darkness.

The sunlight gilded the balcony as Asterin whispered, so softly that only Manon could hear, “Bring my body back to the cabin.”

Manon looked to the Thirteen, standing around Asterin in a half circle. One by one, they lifted two fingers to their brows. A murmur went through the crowd. The gesture not to honor a High Witch. But a Witch-Queen.

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

“As your mother labored to push you out, she confessed who your father was. She said you … you would be the one who broke the curse, who saved us. She said your father was a rare-born Crochan Prince. And she said that your mixed blood would be the key.” Her grandmother lifted her nails to her mouth and licked off Manon’s blue blood.

“You are a Crochan. The last of their royal bloodline with the death of your sister at your own hand. You are a Crochan Queen.”

The one with night-dark eyes and an edged grin looked Rowan over and drawled, “I liked your hair longer.” A dagger embedding itself in the wall not an inch from the male’s ear was Rowan’s only answer.

“Maeve’s armada sails for this continent.”

“So you’ve been sent here to bring Lorcan back?” Those tattoos on Gavriel’s throat—marks Rowan himself had inked—bobbed with each word as he said, “We’ve been sent here to kill him.”

Of all of them, Gavriel had probably been his only friend.

Rowan said, “Ten years ago, we did nothing to stop this. If Maeve had sent a force, we might have kept it from growing so out of control. Our brethren were hunted and killed and tortured. Maeve let it happen for spite, because Aelin’s mother would not yield to her wishes. So yes—my Fireheart is one flame in the sea of darkness. But she is willing to fight, Fenrys. She is willing to take on Erawan, take on Maeve and the gods themselves, if it means peace can be had.”

“If you do not fight in this war, Gavriel, then you doom your son to die.”

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.”

Aelin said to Rowan with a secret smile, “You, I don’t know. But I’d like to.” Rowan’s lips tugged upward. “I’m not on the market, unfortunately.” “Pity,” Aelin said,

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

“Spend a year in Endovier, Rolfe, and you quickly learn how to play a different sort of game.”

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

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

Lorcan said quietly, “Would you like me to kill him for you?”

“I was only in the dungeon for a week. The ankle, the chain … He did that to me long before.” “What chain.” She blinked. And he knew she’d meant to avoid telling him that one particular detail. But now that he looked … he could make out, among the mass of scars, a white band. And there, around her perfect, lovely other ankle, was its twin. A wind laced with the dust and coldness of a tomb gnawed through the field. Marion merely said, “When you kill my uncle, ask him yourself.”

“It is different with her,” Gavriel said softly. “Dependent on the ruler it is sworn to. You two took the oath to each other with love in your hearts. You had no desire to own or rule him.”

“If we say she gave us the order to take everything,” Fenrys drawled, bracing his hands behind him on the bed, “will you kill us, Heir of Fire?” “It’ll depend on how useful you prove to be as an ally,” Aelin simply said.

“Even if Maeve had kept me enslaved, I would have fought her. Every day, every hour, every breath.” He kissed her softly and said onto her lips, “I would have fought for the rest of my life to find a way to return to you again. I knew it the moment you emerged from the Valg’s darkness and smiled at me through your flames.”

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.

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

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. And if those allies did not join with her … she wanted them to think of today, of what she would do, and wonder if they might find her on their shores, in their harbors, one day, too. They had not come ten years ago. She wanted them to know she had not forgotten it.

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