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

The pressure began to build in her head, in her veins.

Far behind, safely out of her range, she felt the flickers of Rowan’s and Dorian’s magic as they rallied the blasts that would answer her own.

Aelin soared into the uncharted core of her power.

The inferno went on and on.





56


Lorcan knew they were still too slow, warning signal or not.

Elide was gasping for breath, weaving on her feet as Lorcan halted on the outskirts of a massive, flooded plain. She pushed back a stray strand of hair from her face, Athril’s ring glinting on her finger. She hadn’t questioned where it had come from or what it did when he’d slipped it onto her finger this morning. He’d only warned her to never take it off, that it might be the one thing to keep her safe from the ilken, from Morath.

The force had swept northward and away from where Lorcan and Elide had hauled ass, no doubt to secure some better approach. And at the far end of the plain, too distant for Elide’s human eyes to clearly make out, Whitethorn’s silver hair glinted, the King of Adarlan at his side. Magic, bright and cold, swirling around them. And farther out—

Gods above. Gavriel and Fenrys were in the reeds, bows drawn. And Gavriel’s son. Aimed at the army approaching. Waiting for—

Lorcan tracked where they were all facing.

Not the army closing in on them.

But the queen standing alone in the heart of the flooded plain.

Lorcan realized a moment too late that he and Elide were on the wrong side of the demarcation line—too far north of where Aelin’s companions stood safely behind her.

Realized it the exact heartbeat that Elide’s eyes fell on the golden-haired woman facing that army.

Her arms slackened at her sides. Her face drained of color.

Elide staggered one step—one step toward Aelin, a small noise coming out of her.

That’s when he felt it.

Lorcan had sensed it once before, that day at Mistward. When the Queen of Terrasen had laid waste to the Valg princes, when her power had been a behemoth surging from the deep, setting the world trembling.

That was nothing—nothing—compared to the power that now roared into the world.

Elide stumbled, gaping at the spongy earth as the marsh water rippled.

Five hundred ilken closed in around them. They had taken his warning—and set a trap.

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.

“What is … ,” Elide breathed, but Lorcan lunged for her, hurling them to the ground, covering her body with his. He threw a shield over them, plummeting hard and fast into his magic, the drop nearly uncontrolled. He didn’t have time to do anything but pour every ounce of power into his shield, into the one barrier that would keep them from being melted into nothing.

He shouldn’t have wasted the effort warning them. Not when it was now likely to get him and Elide killed.

Whitethorn knew—even at Mistward—that the queen hadn’t yet stepped into her birthright. Knew that this sort of power came around once in an eon, and to serve it, to serve her …

A court that wouldn’t just change the world. It would start the world over.

A court that could conquer this world—and any other it wished.

If it wished. If that woman on the plain desired to. And that was the question, wasn’t it?

“Lorcan,” Elide whispered, her voice breaking in longing for the queen, or terror of her, he didn’t know.

Didn’t have time to guess, as a feral roar went up from the reeds. A command.

And then a hail of arrows, precisely and brutally aimed, flew from the marshes to strike at the outer flanks of the ilken. He marked Fenrys’s shots by the black-tipped arrows that easily found their marks. Gavriel’s son didn’t miss, either. Ilken tumbled from the sky, and the others panicked, flapping into one another, careening inward.

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





The moment Lysandra roared to signal that the marsh beasts were riled and she was safely behind their lines again, the moment the ilken got so close Aedion could shoot them out of the sky like geese, his queen erupted.

Even with Aelin’s aim away from them, even with Rowan’s shield, the heat of that fire burned. “Holy gods,” Aedion found himself saying as he stumbled back through the reeds, falling farther behind her line of attack. “Holy rutting gods.”

The heart of the legion didn’t have the chance to scream as they were washed away in a sea of flame.

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

The fire grew hotter, his bones groaning as sweat beaded on his brow. But Aedion took up a new spot, glancing to ensure his father and Fenrys had done the same across the drowned plain, and aimed for the ilken veering out of the flame’s path. He made his arrows count.

Ashes fell to the earth in a slow, steady snow.

Not fast enough. As if sensing Aelin’s dragging pace, ice and wind erupted overhead.

Where gold-and-red flame did not melt Erawan’s legion, Dorian and Rowan ripped them apart.

The ilken still held out, as if they were a stain of darkness, harder to wash away.

Still Aelin kept burning. Aedion couldn’t even see her in the heart of that power.