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

Ansel slugged from the bottle. “I heard, you know. When you went to Endovier. I was still fighting my way onto the throne, battling Lord Loch’s horde with the lords I’d banded together, but … even out in the Wastes, we heard when you were sent there.”

Aelin picked at the table some more, well aware the others were listening. “It wasn’t fun.”

Ansel nodded. “Once I’d killed Loch, I had to stay to defend my throne, to make it right again for my people. But I knew if anyone could survive Endovier, it’d be you. I set out last summer. I’d reached the Ruhnn Mountains when I got word you were gone. Taken to the capital by …” She glanced at Dorian, stone-faced across the table. “Him. But I couldn’t go to Rifthold. It was too far, and I had been gone too long. So I turned around. Went home.”

Aelin’s words were strangled. “You tried to get me out?”

The fire cast Ansel’s hair in ruby and gold. “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.”

Lysandra stretched out, nuzzling Ansel’s hand. She idly scratched the shifter.

Aelin said, “You were my mirror. That extra minute was as much for me as it was for you.” Aelin clinked her bottle against Ansel’s again. “Thank you.”

Ansel just said, “Don’t thank me yet.”

Aelin straightened. The others halted their eating, utensils discarded in their stew.

“The fires along the coast weren’t set by Erawan,” Ansel said, those red-brown eyes flickering in the lantern light. “We interrogated Melisande’s Queen and her lieutenants, but … it wasn’t an order from Morath.”

Aedion’s low growl told her they all knew the answer before Ansel replied.

“We got a report that Fae soldiers were spied starting them. Firing from ships.”

“Maeve,” Gavriel murmured. “But burning isn’t her style.”

“It’s mine,” Aelin said. They all looked at her. She let out a humorless laugh.

Ansel just nodded. “She’s been setting them, blaming you for it.”

“To what end?” Dorian asked, dragging a hand through his blue-black hair.

“To undermine Aelin,” Rowan said. “To make her look like a tyrant, not a savior. Like a threat worth banding against, rather than allying with.”

Aelin sucked on a tooth. “Maeve plays the game well, I’ll give her that.”

“So she’s reached these shores, then,” Aedion said. “But where the hell is she?”

A stone of fear plunked into Aelin’s stomach. She couldn’t bring herself to say north. To suggest that perhaps Maeve now sailed for undefended Terrasen. A glance at Fenrys and Gavriel revealed them already shaking their heads in silent answer to Rowan’s pointed look.

Aelin said, “We leave at first light.”





In the dim light of their private cabin an hour later, Rowan drew a line across the map spread in the center of the floor, then a second line beside it, then a third beside that. Three lines, roughly spaced apart, broad swaths of the continent between. Aelin, standing beside him, studied them.

Rowan drew an inward arrow from the leftmost line toward the one in the center, and said quietly so the others in the adjacent rooms or hall couldn’t hear, “Ansel and her army hammer from the western mountains.” Another arrow in an opposite direction—toward the line on the far right. “Rolfe, the Mycenians, and this armada strike from the eastern coast.” An arrow pointing down into the right section of his little drawing, where the two arrows would meet. “The Bane and the other half of Ansel’s army sweep down the center, from the Staghorns, to the heart of the continent—all converging on Morath.” Those eyes were like green fire. “You’ve been moving armies into position.”

“I need more,” she said. “And I need more time.”

His brows narrowed. “And what army will you be fighting in?” His mouth twitched up at a corner. “I assume I won’t be able to persuade you to stay behind the lines.”

“You know better than to even try.”

“Where would the fun be, anyway, if I got to win all the glory while you sat on your ass? I’d never let you hear the end of it.”

She snorted, and surveyed the other maps they’d spread across the floor of their cabin. Together, they formed a patchwork of their world—not just the continent, but the lands beyond. She stood, towering over it, as if she could spy those armies, both near and far.

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.

Aelin scanned the sprawl of the world, which had once seemed so vast and now, at her feet, seemed so … fragile. So small and breakable.

“You could, you know,” Rowan said, his tattoo stark in the lantern light. “Take it for yourself. Take it all. Use Maeve’s bullshit maneuvers against her. Make good on that promise.”

There was no judgment. Only frank calculation and contemplation. “And would you join me if I did? If I turned conqueror?”