Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

She’d been in love with him for a while now.

“Fireheart,”

“Buzzard,”

Rowan laughed again—and Aelin thought she might never get sick of it, that laugh. That smile.

“You are my Fireheart.”

“Hello, witchling.”

“Find me when you change your mind, Blackbeak.”

“Aelin is my heart.

“From this day, you are Manon Witch Killer, Manon Kin Slayer.”

“To the very end, Abraxos,”

Dorian said smoothly, “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.

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

Her limpid, dark eyes rose to his face. And for a moment, he could see the woman she’d become—was already becoming. Someone who, regardless of where she’d been born, any queen would prize at her side.

“When you kill my uncle, ask him yourself.”

“Even if Maeve had kept me enslaved, I would have fought her. Every day, every hour, every breath.”

“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.

“Even when you’re in another

kingdom, Aelin, your fire is still in my blood, my mouth.”

Lysandra stepped closer, a solid rock in the thrashing sea of his rage.

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

Dorian realized he … perhaps he could do with a bit more wickedness and insanity, too.

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

See the legend straight from their prophecies: the Mycenians would only return when the sea dragons did.

And for the first time, he hated his cousin.

“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.”

“There’s my Fireheart.”

And she wondered if it were possible to love someone enough to die from it. If it were possible to love someone enough that time and distance and death were of no concern.

And Aelin, gods above, snapped her fingers at the queen—once, twice—drawing her attention back to her. “Hello, Elena,” she drawled, “so nice to see you. It’s been a while. Care to answer some questions?”

“Hello, witchling,”

“I once told you to find me again—it seems like you couldn’t wait to see my handsome face.”

She’d been born waiting to hear that voice, had blindly sought it her whole life, would follow it unto the ending of all things—

“I see you. I see every part of you. And I am not afraid.”

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

“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.”

“I need to hear you say yes.”

Aedion hadn’t dared tell the shifter that he often counted the minutes until she returned, that his chest always felt unbearably tight until he spotted whatever winged or finned form she wore returning to them.

“Remind me why I bother with any of you.”

“I made a promise to protect you. I will not break it, Elide.”

“I will always find you,”

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

“You and me,” she promised him. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”

“I think love should make you happy,”

“It should make you into the best possible version of yourself.”

“I won’t be his prisoner again.”

“Remember who you are. Every step of the way down, and every step of the way back. Remember who you are. And that you’re mine.”

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

Aelin was no savior to rally behind, but a cataclysm to be weathered.