Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

risen.” “We’ll all die one day anyway.”

“They say the kingsflame bloomed once during Orlon’s reign,” Aedion mused. “Just one blossom, found in Oakwald.”

The sunlight gilded the balcony as Asterin whispered, so softly that only Manon could hear, “Bring my body back to the cabin.” Something in Manon’s chest broke—broke so violently that she wondered if it was possible for no one to have heard it.

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

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

“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.

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.

Her face turned expressionless. Cold as the gaps between the stars. And her eyes … Turquoise burned bright … around a core of silver. No hint of gold to be found. “That’s not Aelin,” Fenrys breathed.

Cold white light. Tendrils flickered—silver flame …

And Rowan realized what the power in her hand was. Realized that the flame she would unleash would be so cold it burned, realized it was the cold of the stars, the cold of stolen light. Not wildfire—but moonfire.

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.”

“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.”

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

“How many men have you been with?” he countered. She smirked. “Enough to know how to handle the needs of mortal princelings. To know what will make you beg.” Never mind that she was contemplating the opposite. He drifted across the room, past the range of her chains, right into her own breathing space. He leaned over her, nearly nose-to-nose, nothing at all amused in his face, in the cut of his cruel, beautiful mouth, as he said, “I don’t think you can handle the sort of things I need, witchling. And I am never begging for anything again in my life.”

“But it lets me slip between folds in the world. Only short distances, and only a few times before I’m drained, but … it’s useful on a killing field.”

Aelin had called him Uncle Kitty-Cat all of one time before Aedion had snarled viciously enough to make her think carefully before using the term again.

“I will always find you, too, Lorcan.”

Elide whispered, “I would hide you. In Perranth. If you … if you do what you need to do, and need somewhere to go … You would have a place there. With me.”

The Queen of Flame and Shadow, the Heir of Fire, Aelin of the Wildfire, Fireheart …

They both turned, giving Rowan Whitethorn horrifyingly innocent smiles. The Fae Prince, to his credit, only winced after they looked away again.

You make me want to live, Rowan. He wondered if Elide Lochan had somehow made Lorcan want to do the same.

Manon Blackbeak burst out laughing.

Her brows had risen. Aedion shrugged. “I find pleasure in both, depending on my mood and the person.” One of his former lovers still remained one of his closest friends—and most skilled commanders in his Bane. “Attraction is attraction.” He steeled his nerve. “And I know enough about it to understand what you and I …” Something shuttered in her eyes, and the words slipped from him. Too soon. Too soon for this sort of talk. “We can figure it out. Make no demands of each other beyond honesty.”

Now the dark queen’s flag vanished entirely, as Fae ships bearing the silver banner of the House of Whitethorn opened fire upon their own armada.

“Where is my wife?”

Tears slid down Aedion’s face as he silently sobbed. Where are our allies, Aelin? Where are our armies? She had taken the criticism—taken it, because he knew she hadn’t wanted to disappoint them if she failed. Rowan put a hand on Aedion’s shoulder. All of it for Terrasen, she had said that day she’d revealed she’d schemed her way into getting Arobynn’s fortune. And Rowan knew that every step she had taken, every plan and calculation, every secret and desperate gamble … For Terrasen. For them. For a better world.

Aelin Galathynius had raised an army not just to challenge Morath … but to rattle the stars.

Rowan clasped Aedion’s forearm. “The lines have to hold. Buy us whatever time you can, brother.”

Unleashing a cry that set the world trembling, Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, Consort of the Queen of Terrasen, began the hunt to find his wife.