Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

Hand trembling, Asterin pressed her fingers to her brow and extended them. “Bring our people home, Manon,” she breathed. Manon angled Wind-Cleaver, readying for the strike. The Blackbeak Matron snapped, “Be done with it, Manon.” Manon met Sorrel’s eyes, then Asterin’s. And Manon gave the Thirteen her final order. “Run.” Then Manon Blackbeak whirled and brought Wind-Cleaver down upon her grandmother.

“You seem remarkably calm for a king who’s just been declared a traitor to his crown and robbed of his throne.” Dorian was glad he was in the process of sitting down.

Rolfe unlocked the door, muttering, “This had better be worth my time,” and stalked into the awaiting dimness beyond. Then stopped dead. Even in the watery light, Dorian could perfectly see the woman sitting at Rolfe’s desk, her black clothes dirty, weapons gleaming, and her feet propped on the dark wooden surface. 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.”

My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius … And I will not be afraid.

Dorian just said, “Fine.” Aedion debated telling the king that a compromise from Aelin should be outright celebrated.

Two queens—there were two queens among them, Dorian realized. Aelin closed her eyes and let out a rough, breathy laugh. Aedion again tensed, as if that laugh might easily end in violence or peace, but Manon stood there. Weathering the storm. When Aelin opened her eyes, her smile subdued but edged, she said to the Witch-Queen, “I knew I saved your sorry ass for a reason.” Manon’s answering smile was terrifying.

For the first time in five centuries, Lorcan knew true fear as Elide turned that knife on herself, the blade angled to plunge up and into her heart. He threw his hatchet.

Fenrys’s voice was a broken whisper as he said, “Kill me. If that order is given. Kill me, Rowan, before I have to do it.” “You’ll be dead before you can get within a foot of her.” Not a threat—a promise and a plain statement of fact. Fenrys’s shoulders slumped in thanks. “I’m glad, you know,” Fenrys said with unusual graveness, “that I got this time. That Maeve unintentionally gave me that. That I got to know what it was like—to be here, as a part of this.” Rowan didn’t have words, so he looked to Gavriel. But the Lion was merely nodding as he stared down at the little camp below. At his sleeping son.

Aelin unsheathed Goldryn, Manon drawing her own sword in answer. Aelin lifted her brows as she glanced between their two blades. “What’s your sword called?” “Wind-Cleaver.” Aelin clicked her tongue. “Good name.” “Yours?” “Goldryn.” A slash of iron teeth as they were bared in a half smile. “Not as good a name.” “Blame my ancestor.” She certainly did. For many, many things.

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

“No,” she got out. Not for this, not for her— Lorcan’s onyx eyes were unreadable as he scanned her face. And then he said quietly, “I wanted to go to Perranth with you.” Lorcan dropped the shield.

“Careful, Majesty. With your power reduced to embers, you’ll have to fight me the old-fashioned way again.” That dangerous grin returned. “You know, I’ve been hoping for round two.” “Ladies,” the silver-haired prince said through clenched teeth. They both turned, giving Rowan Whitethorn horrifyingly innocent smiles. The Fae Prince, to his credit, only winced after they looked away again.

Lorcan stepped in and did it himself. He didn’t let go of Elide’s arm, and she tried not to lean into his warmth. Tried not to make it seem like she hadn’t just met her queen, her friend, her court, and … somehow now found Lorcan to be the safest of them all. Manon smirked at Lorcan. “Your claim on her, male, is at the very bottom of the list.”

Kaltain Rompier had just turned the tide in this war.

That full mouth slanted into a half grin as Ansel of Briarcliff, Queen of the Wastes, drawled, “Who gave you permission to use my name in pit fights, Aelin?”