Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

I have no lands, no money, no army to offer Aelin Galathynius. But I will find her—and help her in whatever way I can. If only to keep just one girl, just one, from ever enduring what I did.”

Here’s hoping you discover more creative terms than “bitch” to call me when you find this. With all my love, A.A.G.

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

I will not be afraid. A line in the burning brightness. My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius … And I will not be afraid.

“I love you,” Rowan breathed onto her skin, and flicked his tongue over the spot where his canines had scratched. “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.”

The witch was lucid but pissed off. Aedion had the pleasure of serving her breakfast and tried not to note the lingering scent of female arousal in the cabin, or that Dorian’s scent was entwined among it.

Aelin said, “Every inch of her has been designed to ensnare men. To make them think she’s harmless.” “Trust me, Manon Blackbeak is anything but harmless.”

“After you finished flirting with her that day in Oakwald, she and her coven tried to kill me.” “You provoked her,” Dorian countered. “And I sit here today because of what she risked when she came to Rifthold twice.” Aelin wiped the sweat from her brow. “She has her own reasons, and I highly doubt it was because she, in her one hundred years of killing, decided your pretty face would turn her good.” “Yours turned Rowan from three centuries of a blood oath.”

Climbing into bed with a witch. Aelin ground her teeth as she headed for Manon’s room. Dorian had once been notorious when it came to women, but this … Aelin snorted, wishing Chaol were present, if only to see the look on his face.

Killing, crocheting, how to make you emit those noises again—

“You would have tried to break the blood oath for her? For them?” “Honor is my code,” Gavriel said. “But if Maeve had tried to harm either you or her, Aedion, I would have done everything in my power to get you out.”

“I am not mortal. I do not play by your rules. I have killed and hunted men for sport. Do not mistake me for a human woman, princeling.” “I have no interest in human women,” he purred. “Too breakable.”

“I am the last Crochan Queen—the last direct descendant of Rhiannon Crochan herself.” Aelin only sucked on a tooth, brows lifting. “And,” Manon continued, “whether my grandmother acknowledges it or not, I am heir to the Blackbeak Clan. My witches, who have fought at my side for a hundred years, have spent most of it killing Crochans. Dreaming of a homeland that I promised to return them to. And now I am banished, my Thirteen scattered and lost. And now I am heir to our enemy’s crown. 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.”

“I knew I saved your sorry ass for a reason.”

“Perhaps my body finally felt safe enough to be normal.”

“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.

“I will always find you,” he swore to her. Her throat bobbed. Lorcan whispered, “I promise.”

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

“As if all the people who once lived here, long ago, are still trapped inside—still … beneath.”

“And what do you know of love?” He was so close—had neared without her realizing it. “I think love should make you happy,” Elide said,

“Your beloved’s life and the witch’s are entwined. They have been led here, by forces even we cannot understand.”

“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.”

“When we get back to civilization,” he said, his voice deepening as he kissed her cheek, her ear, her brow, “I’m going to find you the nicest inn on the whole gods-damned continent.”

“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 …

And that power … that power Aelin was now dragging up from whatever hellhole was inside her, from whatever fiery pit she’d been damned to endure … Its wake would wash over them.

Right to where the Queen of Terrasen unleashed the full force of her magic upon them.

There was a cost—there had to be a cost to such power. She had been born knowing the weight of her crown, her magic. Had felt its isolation long before she’d reached adolescence. And that seemed like punishment enough, but … there had to be a price. Nameless is my price. That was what the witch had said.

And Elide sobbed as Manon Blackbeak emerged, smiling faintly. As Manon Blackbeak saw her and Aelin, knee-to-knee in the grass, and mouthed one word. Hope. Not dead. None of them were dead.

So Elide headed for them, her court, and did not look back.

The queen was now flanked by Lady Elide, Manon on the dark-haired girl’s other side, Lysandra sprawled in ghost leopard form at the queen’s feet.

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?” “I gave myself permission to use your name however I please, Ansel, the day I spared your life instead of ending you like the coward you are.” That cocky smile widened. “Hello, bitch,” Ansel purred. “Hello, traitor,” Aelin purred right back, surveying the armada spread before them. “Looks like you made it on time after all.”

There was no greater gift I could offer to repay her than saving the kingdom she did not forget.

“There was not one hour that I did not think about what I did in the desert. How you fired that arrow after twenty-one minutes. You told me twenty, that you’d shoot even if I wasn’t out of range. I was counting; I knew how many it had been. You gave me an extra minute.”

“And you really set all this in motion when we were in Rifthold? When you were fighting in those pits?” 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.”

“Sometimes I wish I knew every thought in that head, each scheme and plot. Then I remember how much it delights me when you reveal it—usually when it’s most likely to make my heart stop dead in my chest.” “I knew you were a sadist.”

Manon tracked it. “Will it be you or the queen against Erawan in the end, I wonder.” “Fire against darkness makes for a better story.” “Yes, but so would ripping a demon king to shreds without using your hands.” A half smile. “I can think of better uses for my hands—invisible and flesh.” An invitation and a question. She held his gaze. “Then finish what you started,” Manon breathed.

Eeek

And when he stepped close once more, his hands replaced those phantom ones.

“You once asked me where I stand on the line between killing to protect and killing for pleasure.”

“I want to taste every inch of you.”

More. She wanted more—wanted everything. She might have whispered it, might have pleaded for it. Because Darkness save her, Dorian gave it to her. To them both.

“We’re not done, you and I.”

‘Flame and iron, together bound, merge into silver to learn what must be found. A mere step is all it shall take.’”

“It is not such a hard thing, is it—to die for your friends.”

She had made a promise to that court, that future. To Aedion. And to her queen. She would not fail her. 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.

“Fear is a death sentence. When you’re out there, remember that we don’t need to survive. Only put enough of a dent in them so that when she comes back … she’ll wipe out the rest.” When. Not if. But when Aelin found their bodies, or whatever was left of them if the sea didn’t claim them … she might very well end the world for rage. Maybe she should. Maybe this world deserved it. Maybe Manon Blackbeak would help her do it. Maybe they’d rule over the ruins together.

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.

So he had won an army for her. Through the only things Aelin had claimed were all she wanted from him. His heart. His loyalty. His friendship. And Rowan wished his Fireheart were there to see it as the House of Whitethorn slammed into Maeve’s fleet, and ice and wind exploded across the waves.

Nameless is my price. Written right there—in Wyrdmarks. The one who bore Brannon’s mark, the mark of the bastard-born nameless … She would be the cost to end this.