Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

“Snap out of it,” Manon said. Aedion loosed a warning growl. Aelin slowly lifted her eyes to the witch, and Dorian braced himself. “So you miscalculated,” Manon said. “So they tracked you. Don’t get distracted with the minor defeats. This is war. Cities will be lost, people slaughtered. And if I were you, I would be more concerned about why they sent so few of the ilken.”

So you are not the only one, Majesty, who has plans that go awry. So get yourself together and figure out what to do next.” Two queens—there were two queens among them, Dorian realized.

He threw them, but the ilken had already learned his aim, his throwing style. They hadn’t learned Elide’s. She hadn’t just gone into the alley to save herself. She’d gone after the hatchet. And Lorcan watched as that woman crept up behind the distracted ilken and drove the hatchet into its wings. With an injured wrist. With her nose leaking blood down her face.

“Kaltain said to give this to Celaena—not to Aelin,” Elide said, shaking with her tears. “Because Celaena … she gave her a warm cloak in a cold dungeon. And they wouldn’t let Kaltain take the cloak with her when they brought her to Morath, but she managed to save this scrap. To remember to repay Celaena for that kindness. But … what sort of gift is this thing? What is this?” She pulled back the fold of cloth, revealing a dark sliver of stone.

“You don’t need to answer me now. Or ever. You could show up on my doorstep in ten years, and the offer would still stand. But there is a place for you, in Perranth—if you should ever need or wish for it.”

But her cousin’s smile turned softer. “He still eats like a fine lady.”

Dorian’s head snapped up—but Aelin bit back a laugh at the memory. Ten years ago, they’d sat around a table together and she’d told the Havilliard prince what she thought of his table manners.

“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.

She was indeed a bit terrified of the icy rage rippling from him as Dorian said, “Because she died. And even before she did, this world saw to it that she suffered, and was afraid, and alone. And even though no one will remember who she was, I do. I will never forget the color of her eyes, or the way she smiled. And I will never forgive them for taking it away.” Too breakable—he’d said of human women. No wonder he’d come to her.

“I keep a tally, you know, Princess. To remind myself to repay you the next time we’re alone for all the truly wonderful things you say.”

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

Not as the prince stepped onto the small island where the queen was standing. Not as Aelin turned toward Rowan, and the only flame that remained was a crown of fire atop her head. Lorcan watched in silence as Rowan slid a hand over her waist, the other cupping the side of her face, and kissed his queen.

And here, at the edge of the world, they had found each other again. Here at the edge of the world, just for a heartbeat, Elide felt the warm hand of her mother brush her shoulder.

Lorcan—Lorcan, blessed by Hellas himself, Rowan had told him on that skiff ride into the Dead Islands. Hellas, god of death. Who had traveled here with Anneith, his consort. The hair on Dorian’s arms rose. Scions—each of them touched by a different god, each of them subtly, quietly, guided here. It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

Ansel gestured to the ships around them with a broad sweep of her arm. “Melisande’s fleet is now our fleet. And its capital is now ours, too.” She jerked her chin at Aelin. “You’re welcome.” Manon Blackbeak burst out laughing.

Rowan, still kneeling, looked upon the world spread at her feet. And she realized it indeed was—if she won this war, won the continent back.

She gave him a roguish wink. “I knew if I gave the name Ansel of Briarcliff, it’d somehow make its way to her that a red-haired young woman was using her name to slaughter trained soldiers in the Pits. And that she’d know it was me.” “So the red hair back then—not just for Arobynn.” “Not even close.” Aelin frowned at the maps, dissatisfied she hadn’t spotted any other armies hiding out around the world.

She had modified her sea dragon. Given it longer limbs—with prehensile thumbs. Given her tail more strength, more control. Her own little project, during the long days of travel. To take one original form and perfect it. To alter what the gods had made to her own liking.

And if gods-damned Maeve wanted to go head-to-head with them, if Maeve thought to strike them when they were weakest … Lysandra was going to make the bitch regret it.

Every single one of his cousins had attacked. Every single one. As if they had all met, all decided to risk ruination together. Rowan had not possessed an army of his own to give to Aelin. To give to Terrasen. So he had won an army for her. Through the only things Aelin had claimed were all she wanted from him.

That Nehemia had gone to Rifthold knowing she’d die.

She’d done as much as she could to set things in motion to ensure that once she was gone, help would still come. It was the only thing she could give them, her last gift to Terrasen. To those she loved with her heart of wildfire.

Lysandra wished she had strength left to shift—one last time. To join them in that glorious destruction.

Maeve pointed with a finger.

Nesta-core

Aelin gasped for air, eyes glassy with pain. Eyes that slid to Elide’s. Aelin’s bloody, chapped mouth formed the word again. Run.

Like marion told her to do all those years ago. Her gift to both Marion and Elide - buying time for the girl to run.

And the only way Aelin could face this, accept this, was to go down swinging. Like Marion had.

The sea breeze hissing through the grasses was the only sound.

Rowan's presence

Time—she was grateful Elena had given her that stolen time.

Grateful she had met them all, that she had seen some small part of the world, had heard such lovely music, had danced and laughed and known true friendship. Grateful that she had found Rowan. She was grateful. So Aelin Galathynius dried her tears. And did not fight when Maeve strapped that beautiful iron mask over her face.

Nesta mask?

Watching the boat row to the awaiting ship, that iron coffin in its center, Maeve sitting beside it, one hand on the lid. For her sanity, Manon prayed that Aelin wouldn’t be awake the entire time she was inside. And for the sake of their world, Manon prayed the Queen of Terrasen could survive it. If only so Aelin could then die for them all.

She’d been dealt such a wicked, impossible hand—and yet Aelin had made it count. One last time, she’d made it count.

Aelin had never planned to see Terrasen again. She had married Rowan knowing she would have months at best, days at the worst, with him. But she would give Terrasen a legal king. To hold her territory together. She had made plans for all of them—and none for herself.

It was all borrowed time anyway.

“Tell Aelin Galathynius that Wendlyn has never forgotten Evalin Ashryver,” Galan said to him, to Aedion. “Or Terrasen.”

There would be no rest, no waiting. They did not have the time to spare.

“It was all borrowed time”, and “I need more time”, and now they have no time. Prominent theme for a fantasy world that spans realms/time