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

Lorcan stood, shutting out her pleading.

He faced Fenrys. The warrior was trembling with restraint, his hands clenched at his sides to keep from going for any of his blades.

Elide was still sobbing, still begging him.

Fenrys’s taut features were lined with regret.

Lorcan just smiled at the warrior.

It snapped Fenrys’s leash.

His sentinel leaped for him, sword out, and Lorcan lifted his own, already knowing the move Fenrys planned to use. He’d trained him how to do it. And he knew the guard Fenrys let drop on his left side, just for a heartbeat, exposing his neck—

Fenrys landed before him, swiping low and dodging right.

Lorcan angled his blade for that vulnerable neck.

They were both blown back by an icy, unbreakable wind. Whatever was left of it after the battle.

Fenrys was up, lost to the blood fury, but the wind slammed into him. Again. Again. Holding him down. Lorcan struggled against it, but the shield Whitethorn had thrown over them, the raw power he now used to keep them pinned, was too strong when his own magic was depleted.

Boots crunched on the burnt grass. Sprawled on the bank of a little hill, Lorcan lifted his head. Whitethorn stood between him and Fenrys, the prince’s eyes glazed with wrath.

Rowan surveyed Gavriel and Elide, the latter still weeping, still begging for it to stop. But her arm …

A scratch marred that moon-white arm, but Gavriel’s rough battlefield healing had filled the holes, the missing flesh and broken bones. He must have used all his magic to—

Gavriel swayed ever so slightly.

Whitethorn’s voice was like gravel. “This ends now. You two don’t touch them. They’re under the protection of Aelin Galathynius. If you harm them, it will be considered an act of war.”

Specific, ancient words, the only way a blood order could be detained. Not overridden—just delayed for a little while. To buy them all time.

Fenrys panted, but relief flickered in his eyes. Gavriel sagged a bit.

Elide’s dark eyes were still glassy with pain, the smattering of freckles on her cheeks stark against the unnatural whiteness of her skin.

Whitethorn said to Fenrys and Gavriel, “Are we clear on what the hell will happen if you step out of line?”

To Lorcan’s eternal shock, they lowered their heads and said, “Yes, Prince.”

Rowan let the shields drop, and then Lorcan was hurtling to Elide, who struggled to sit up, gaping at her nearly healed arm. Gavriel, wisely, backed away. Lorcan examined her arm, her face, needing to touch her, smell her—

He didn’t notice that the light footsteps in the grass didn’t belong to his former companions.

But he knew the female voice that said from behind him, “What the rutting hell is going on?”





Elide had no words to express to Lorcan what she’d felt in that moment he’d let the shield drop. What she’d felt when the silver-haired, tattooed warrior-prince had halted that fatal bloodshed.

But she had no breath in her body when she looked over Lorcan’s broad shoulder and beheld the golden-haired woman striding toward them.

Young, and yet her face … It was an ancient face, wary and cunning and limned with power. Beautiful, with the sun-kissed skin, the vibrant turquoise eyes. Turquoise eyes, with a core of gold around the pupil.

Ashryver eyes.

The same as the golden-haired, handsome man who came up beside her, muscled body tense as he assessed whether he’d need to spill blood, a bow dangling from his hand.

Two sides of the same golden coin.

Aelin. Aedion.

They were both staring at her with those Ashryver eyes.

Aelin blinked. And her golden face crumpled as she said, “Are you Elide?”

It was all Elide could do to nod. Lorcan was taut as a bowstring, his body still half angled over her.

Aelin strode closer, eyes never leaving Elide’s face. Young—she felt so young compared to the woman who approached. There were scars all over Aelin’s hands, along her neck, around her wrists … where shackles had been.

Aelin slid to her knees not a foot away, and it occurred to Elide that she should be bowing, head to the dirt—

“You look … so much like your mother,” Aelin said, her voice cracking. Aedion silently knelt, putting a broad hand on Aelin’s shoulder.

Her mother, who had gone down swinging, who had died fighting so this woman could live—

“I’m sorry,” Aelin said, shoulders curving inward, head dropping low as tears slid down her flushed cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” How many years had those words been locked up?

Elide’s arm ached, but it didn’t stop her from touching Aelin’s hand, clenched in her lap.

Touching that tanned, scarred hand. Warm, sticky skin met her fingertips.

Real. This was—Aelin was—real.

As if Aelin realized the same, her head lifted. She opened her mouth, but her lips wobbled, and the queen clamped them together.

None of the gathered company spoke.

And at last Aelin said to Elide, “She bought me time.”

Elide knew who the queen meant.

Aelin’s hand began shaking. The queen’s voice broke entirely as she said, “I am alive today because of your mother.”

Elide only whispered, “I know.”

“She told me to tell you …” A shuddering inhale. But Aelin didn’t break her stare, even as tears continued cutting through the dirt on her cheeks. “Your mother told me to tell you that she loves you—very much. Those were her last words to me. ‘Tell my Elide I love her very much.’”