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

She stalked up to him. “When I rutting felt like it, that’s when. And it’s not a shift in direction—not yet. Allies remain our goal, not cryptic commands from dead royals.”

Aedion just smiled. A ripple in the murky shadows of the temple snagged her attention, and Aelin heaved a sigh. “You two are honestly insufferable.”

Lysandra flapped onto the top of a nearby statue and clicked her beak rather saucily.

Aedion slid an arm around Aelin’s shoulders, guiding her back toward the ramshackle residence within the compound. “New court, new traditions, you said. Even for you. Starting with fewer schemes and secrets that take years off my life every time you do a grand reveal. Though I certainly enjoyed that new trick with the ash. Very artistic.”

Aelin jabbed him in the side. “Do not—”

The words halted as footsteps crunched on the dry earth from the nearby courtyard. The wind drifted by, carrying a scent they knew too well.

Valg. A powerful one, if he’d walked through her wall of flame.

Aelin drew Goldryn as Aedion’s own blade whined softly, the Sword of Orynth gleaming like freshly forged steel in the moonlight. Lysandra remained aloft, ducking deeper into the shadows.

“Sold out or shit-poor luck?” Aedion murmured.

“Likely both,” Aelin muttered back as the figure appeared through two pillars.

He was stocky, slightly overweight—not at all the impossible beauty that the Valg princes preferred when inhabiting a human body. But the inhuman reek, even with that collar on his wide neck … So much stronger than usual.

Of course, Brannon couldn’t have been bothered to warn her.

The Valg stepped into the light of the sacred braziers.

The thoughts eddied from her head as she saw his face.

And Aelin knew that Aedion had been right: her actions tonight had sent a message. An outright declaration of her location. Erawan had been waiting for this meeting far longer than a few hours. And the Valg king knew both sides of her history.

For it was the Chief Overseer of Endovier who now grinned at them.





She still dreamt of him.

Of that ruddy, common face leering at her, at the other women in Endovier. Of his laughter when she was stripped to the waist and whipped in the open, then left to hang from her shackles in the bitter cold or blazing sun. Of his smile as she was shoved into those lightless pits; the grin still stretching wide when they removed her from them days or weeks later.

Goldryn’s hilt became slimy in her hand. Flame instantly burned along the fingers of her other. She cursed Lorcan for stealing back the golden ring, for taking away that one bit of immunity, of redemption.

Aedion was glancing between them, reading the recognition in her eyes.

The Overseer of Endovier sneered at her, “Aren’t you going to introduce us, slave?”

The utter stillness that crept over her cousin’s face told her enough about what he’d pieced together—along with the glance at the faint scars on her wrists where shackles had been.

Aedion slid a step between them, no doubt reading every sound and shadow and scent to see if the man was alone, estimating how hard and long they’d have to fight their way out of here. Lysandra flapped to another pillar, poised to shift and pounce at a single word.

Aelin tried to rally the swagger that had shielded and bluffed her way out of everything. But all she saw was the man dragging those women behind the buildings; all she heard was the slam of that iron grate over her lightless pit; all she smelled were the salt and the blood and the unwashed bodies; all she felt was the burning, wet slide of blood down her ravaged back—

I will not be afraid; I will not be afraid—

“Have they run out of pretty boys in the kingdoms for you to wear?” Aedion drawled, buying them time to figure out the odds.

“Come a bit closer,” the overseer smirked, “and we’ll see if you make a better fit, General.”

Aedion let out a low chuckle, the Sword of Orynth lifting a bit higher. “I don’t think you’d walk away from it.”

And it was the sight of that blade, her father’s blade, the blade of her people…

Aelin lifted her chin, and the flames encircling her left hand flickered brighter.

The overseer’s watery blue eyes slid to hers, narrowing with amusement. “Too bad you didn’t have that little gift when I put you in those pits. Or when I painted the earth with your blood.”

A low snarl was Aedion’s answer.

But Aelin made herself smile. “It’s late. I just trounced your soldiers. Let’s get this chat out of the way so I can have some rest.”

The overseer’s lip curled. “You’ll learn proper manners soon enough, girl. All of you will.”

The amulet between her breasts seemed to grumble, a flicker of raw, ancient power.

Aelin ignored it, shutting out any thought of it. If the Valg, if Erawan, got one whiff that she possessed what he so desperately sought—

The overseer again opened his mouth. She attacked.

Fire blasted him into the nearest wall, surging down his throat, through his ears, up his nose. Flame that did not burn, flame that was mere light, blindingly white—

The overseer roared, thrashing as her magic swept into him, melded with him.

But there was nothing inside to grab on to. No darkness to burn out, no remaining ember to breathe life into. Only—