Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5) by Sarah J. Maas

Two strikes, both so fast even the Wing Leader didn’t see them.

A backhanded blow to Manon’s face. For leaving Elide.

And then a ring of fire around Manon’s throat, slamming her into the wood, as Aelin made her swear the information was correct.

Rowan had drily reminded Aelin that Manon was responsible for Elide’s escape and rescue, too. Aelin had merely said if Manon hadn’t been, the fire would already be down her throat.

And that was that.

Aelin, from the fervor with which she sparred with Rowan across the deck, was still pissed.

The witch, from the snarling and scent in her cabin, was still pissed.

Aedion was more than ready to get to the Stone Marshes—even if what awaited them there might not be so pleasant.

Three more days lay between them and the eastern coast. And then … then they’d all see how much Rolfe’s alliance was worth, if the man could be trusted.

“You can’t avoid him forever, you know,” Lysandra said, drawing his attention to the other reason he needed to get off this ship.

His father sat near where Abraxos had curled along the prow, guarding and observing the wyvern. Learning how to kill them—where to strike.

No matter that the wyvern was little more than an oversized hound, docile enough that they hadn’t bothered to chain him. They had none big enough anyway, and the beast would likely refuse to leave this ship until Manon did. Abraxos only moved to hunt for fish or larger game, Lysandra escorting him in sea dragon form beneath the waves. And when the beast was sprawled on the deck … the Lion kept him company.

Aedion had barely spoken to Gavriel since Skull’s Bay.

“I’m not avoiding him,” Aedion said. “I just have no interest in talking to him.”

Lysandra flipped her wet hair over a shoulder, frowning at the damp splotches on her white shirt. “I, for one, would like to hear the story of how he crossed paths with your mother. He’s kind—for one of Maeve’s cadre. Better than Fenrys.”

Indeed, Fenrys made Aedion want to shatter things. That laughing face, the swaggering, dark arrogance … It was another mirror, he realized. But one who tracked Aelin everywhere like some dog. Or wolf, he supposed.

Aedion hadn’t pitted himself against the male in the sparring ring, but he’d carefully watched Fenrys take on Rowan and Gavriel, both of whom had trained the male. Fenrys fought as he’d expect a warrior with centuries of training by two lethal killers to fight. But he had not glimpsed another whisper of the magic that allowed Fenrys to leap between places as if walking through some invisible doorway.

As if his thoughts summoned the immortal warrior, Fenrys swaggered out from the shadows below deck and smirked at them all before taking up his sentry position near the foremast. They were all on a schedule of watches and patrols, Lysandra and Rowan usually tasked with flying far out of sight to survey behind and ahead or communicate with the two escort ships. 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.

Like his cousin, he had no doubt the shifter wouldn’t take well to his fussing.

Lysandra was carefully watching Aelin and Rowan, their blades like quicksilver, as they met each other blow for blow. “You’ve been doing well with your lessons,” Aedion told the shifter.

Lysandra’s green eyes crinkled. They’d all been taking turns walking the shifter through handling various weapons and hand-to-hand combat. Lysandra knew some from her time with Arobynn—he’d taught her as a way of ensuring the survival of his investment, she’d told him.

But she wanted to know more. How to kill men in a myriad of ways. It shouldn’t have thrilled him as much as it had. Not when she’d laughed off the claim Aedion had made on the beach that day in Skull’s Bay. She hadn’t mentioned it again. He hadn’t been stupid enough to, either.

Aedion trailed Lysandra, unable to help it, as she drifted toward where the queen and prince sparred, Dorian scooting over on the steps to silently offer her a space. Aedion marked the gesture and the king’s respect, shoving aside his own warring feelings about it as he lingered above them, and focused on his cousin and Rowan.

But they’d worked themselves into an impasse—enough so that Rowan called it off and sheathed his sword. Then flicked Aelin’s nose when she looked pissy at not winning. Aedion laughed under his breath, glancing to the shifter as the queen and prince strode for the water jug and glasses against the stair railing and helped themselves.

He was about to offer Lysandra a final round in the ring before the sun set when Dorian braced his arms on his knees and said to Aelin through the stair railing, “I don’t think she’ll do anything if we let her out.”

Aelin took a dainty sip of her water, still breathing hard. “Did you arrive at that conclusion before, during, or after you visited her in the middle of the night?”

Oh, gods. It was going to be that sort of conversation.

Dorian gave a half smile. “You have a preference for immortal warriors. Why can’t I?”

It was the faint click of her glass on the small table that made Aedion brace himself—really start calculating the layout of the various decks. Fenrys still monitored them from the foremast, Lysandra remained on Dorian’s other side. He supposed that, standing above Dorian on the stairs and Aelin beside them, he’d be right in the middle.