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

It was the one that rounded the eastern tip of the land—a longboat. It swept closer on a phantom wind, too fast to be natural.

Rowan braced himself. The boat’s shape didn’t belong to any of the fleets assembled. But its style nagged at his memory.

From their own fleet, Ansel of Briarcliff and Enda were soaring over the waves in a longboat, aiming for this beach.

But Rowan and the others watched in silence as the foreign boat crested through the surf and slid onto the sand.

Watched the olive-skinned sailors haul it up the beach. A broad-shouldered young man nimbly leaped out, his slightly curling dark hair tossed in the sea breeze.

He did not emit a whiff of fear as he stalked for them—didn’t even go for the comforting touch of the fine sword at his side.

“Where is Aelin Galathynius?” the stranger asked a bit breathlessly as he scanned them.

And his accent …

“Who are you,” Rowan ground out.

But the young man was now close enough that Rowan could see the color of his eyes. Turquoise—with a core of gold.

Aedion breathed as if in a trance, “Galan.”

Galan Ashryver, Crown Prince of Wendlyn.

The young man’s eyes widened as he took in the warrior-prince. “Aedion,” he said hoarsely, something like awe and grief in his face. But he blinked it away, self-assured and steady, and again asked, “Where is she?”

None of them answered. Aedion demanded, “What are you doing here?”

Galan’s dark brows flicked toward each other. “I thought she would have informed you.”

“Informed us of what?” Rowan said too quietly.

Galan reached into the pocket of his worn blue tunic, pulling out a crinkled letter that looked like it had been read a hundred times. He silently handed it to Rowan.

Her scent still clung to it as he unfolded the paper, Aedion reading over his shoulder.

Aelin’s letter to the Prince of Wendlyn had been short. Brutal. The large letters were sprawled across the page as if her temper had gotten the better of her:



TERRASEN REMEMBERS EVALIN ASHRYVER.

DO YOU?

I FOUGHT AT MISTWARD FOR YOUR PEOPLE.

RETURN THE GODS-DAMNED FAVOR.



And then coordinates—for this spot.

“It only went to me,” Galan said softly. “Not to my father. Only to me.”

To the armada that Galan controlled—as a blockade runner against Adarlan.

“Rowan,” Lysandra murmured in warning. He followed her stare.

Not to where Ansel and Enda now arrived at the edge of their group, giving the Thirteen a wide berth as they lifted their brows at Galan.

But to the small company of white-clad people that appeared on the cresting dunes behind them, splattered in mud and looking like they had trekked across the marshes themselves.

And Rowan knew.

He knew who they were before they even reached the beach.

Ansel of Briarcliff had gone pale at the sight of their layered, flowing clothes. And as the tall male in their center peeled off his hood to reveal a brown-skinned, green-eyed face still handsome with youth, the Queen of the Wastes whispered, “Ilias.”

Ilias, son of the Mute Master of the Silent Assassins, gaped at Ansel, his back stiffening. But Rowan stepped toward the man, drawing his attention. Ilias’s eyes narrowed in assessment. And he, like Galan, scanned them all, searching for a golden-haired woman who was not there. His eyes returned to Rowan as if he’d marked him as the axis of this group.

In a voice hoarse from disuse, Ilias asked him, “We have come to fulfill our life debt to Celaena Sardothien—to Aelin Galathynius. Where is she?”

“You are the sessiz suikast,” Dorian said, shaking his head. “The Silent Assassins of the Red Desert.”

Ilias nodded. And glanced at Ansel, who still seemed near vomiting, before saying to Rowan, “It seems my friend has called in many debts in addition to ours.”

As if the words themselves were a signal, more white-clad figures filled the dunes behind them.

Dozens. Hundreds.

Rowan wondered if every single assassin from that desert Keep had come to honor their debt to the young woman. A lethal legion in themselves.

And Galan …

Rowan turned to the Crown Prince of Wendlyn. “How many,” he asked. “How many did you bring?”

Galan only smiled a bit and pointed to the eastern horizon.

Where white sails now broke over its rim. Ship after ship after ship, each bearing the cobalt flag of Wendlyn.

“Tell Aelin Galathynius that Wendlyn has never forgotten Evalin Ashryver,” Galan said to him, to Aedion. “Or Terrasen.”

Aedion fell to his knees in the sand as Wendlyn’s armada spread before them.

I promise you that no matter how far I go, no matter the cost, when you call for my aid, I will come, Aelin had told him she’d sworn to Darrow. I’m going to call in old debts and promises. To raise an army of assassins and thieves and exiles and commoners.

And she had. She had meant and accomplished every word of it.

Rowan counted the ships that slid over the horizon. Counted the ships in their own armada. Added Rolfe’s—and the Mycenians he was rallying in the North.

“Holy gods,” Dorian breathed as Wendlyn’s armada kept spreading wider and wider.

Tears slid down Aedion’s face as he silently sobbed. Where are our allies, Aelin? Where are our armies? She had taken the criticism—taken it, because he knew she hadn’t wanted to disappoint them if she failed. Rowan put a hand on Aedion’s shoulder.