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

Aedion considered. Then snorted, a hint of a smile on his face. “An undisputed queen of not just blood, but also of legends.” His face remained contemplative. “You would be the undisputed queen if you got the kingsflame to bloom again.”

“Too bad Lysandra can only shift herself and not things,” Aelin muttered. Lysandra clicked her beak in agreement, puffing her feathers.

“They say the kingsflame bloomed once during Orlon’s reign,” Aedion mused. “Just one blossom, found in Oakwald.”

“I know,” Aelin said quietly. “He kept it pressed within glass on his desk.” She still remembered that small red-and-orange flower, so simple in its make, but so vibrant it had always snatched her breath away. It had bloomed in fields and across mountains throughout the kingdom the day Brannon set foot on this continent. And for centuries afterward, if a solitary blossom was ever found, the current sovereign was deemed blessed, the kingdom truly at peace.

Before the flower was found in Orlon’s second decade of kingship, the last one had been spotted ninety-five years earlier. Aelin swallowed hard. “Did Adarlan—”

“Darrow has it,” Aedion said. “It was the only thing of Orlon’s he managed to grab before the soldiers took the palace.”

Aelin nodded, her magic flickering in answer. Even the Sword of Orynth had fallen into Adarlan’s hands—until Aedion had won it back. Yes, her cousin understood perhaps more than anyone else the power a single symbol could wield. How the loss or reclaiming of one could shatter or rally an army, a people.

Enough—it was enough destruction and pain inflicted on her kingdom.

“Come on,” she said to Lysandra and Aedion, heading for the door. “We’d better eat before we raise hell.”





13


It had been a long while since Dorian had seen so many stars.

Far behind them, smoke still stained the sky, the plumes illuminated by the crescent moon overhead. At least the screams had faded miles ago. Along with the thump of mighty wings.

Seated behind him in the one-masted skiff, Prince Rowan Whitethorn gazed over the calm black expanse of the sea. They’d sail south, pushed by the prince’s own magic, to the Dead Islands. The Fae warrior had gotten them quickly to the coast, where he’d had no qualms about stealing this boat while its owner was focused on the panicking city to the west. And all the while, Dorian had been silent, useless. As he had been while his city was destroyed, his people murdered.

“You should eat,” Rowan said from the other end of the small boat.

Dorian glanced toward the sack of supplies Rowan had also stolen. Bread, cheese, apples, dried fish … Dorian’s stomach turned.

“You were impaled by a poisoned barb,” Rowan said, his voice no louder than the waves lapping against their boat as the swift wind pushed them from behind. “Your magic was drained keeping you alive and walking. You need to eat, or else it won’t replenish.” A pause. “Didn’t Aelin warn you about that?”

Dorian swallowed. “No. She didn’t really have the time to teach me about magic.” He looked toward the back of the boat, where Rowan sat with a hand braced on the rudder. The sight of those pointed ears was still a shock, even months after meeting the male. And that silver hair—

Not like Manon’s hair, which was the pure white of moonlight on snow.

He wondered what had become of the Wing Leader—who had killed for him, spared him.

Not spared him. Rescued him.

He wasn’t a fool. He knew she’d done it for whatever reasons were useful to her. She was as alien to him as the warrior sitting at the other end of the boat—more so.

And yet, that darkness, that violence and stark, honest way of looking at the world … There would be no secrets with her. No lies.

“You need to eat to keep up your strength,” Rowan went on. “Your magic feeds on your energy—feeds on you. The more rested you are, the greater the strength. More important, the greater the control. Your power is both part of you and its own entity. If left to its own devices, it will consume you, wield you like a tool.” A flash of teeth as Rowan smiled. “A certain person we know likes to siphon off her power, use it on frivolous things to keep its edge dull.” Dorian could feel Rowan’s stare pin him like a physical blow. “The choice is yours how much you allow it into your life, how to use it—but go any longer without mastering it, Majesty, and it will destroy you.”

A chill went down Dorian’s spine.

And maybe it was the open ocean, or the endless stars above them, but Dorian said, “It wasn’t enough. That day … that day Sorscha died, it wasn’t enough to save her.” He spread his hands on his lap. “It only wishes to destroy.”

Silence fell, long enough that Dorian wondered if Rowan had fallen asleep. He hadn’t dared ask when the prince himself had last slept; he’d certainly eaten enough for a starved man.

“I was not there to save my mate when she was murdered, either,” Rowan said at last.

Dorian straightened. Aelin had told him plenty of the prince’s history, but not this. He supposed it wasn’t her secret, her sorrow to share. “I’m sorry,” Dorian said.

His magic had felt the bond between Aelin and Rowan—the bond that went deeper than blood, than their magic, and he’d assumed it was just that they were mates, and hadn’t announced it to anyone. But if Rowan already had a mate, and had lost her…