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

Aelin put a hand on her chest. “Me?”

“You sent that magic out there; you summoned them.”

She barked a laugh, pushing off the table. “If I ever learn such a useful talent, I’d use it for summoning my allies, I think. Or the Mycenians, since you seem so adamant they don’t exist.” She glanced over his shoulder—the sky was still clear. “Good luck,” she said, stepping around him.

Dorian blurted, “What?”

Aelin looked the King of Adarlan over. “This isn’t our battle. And I won’t sacrifice my kingdom’s fate over a skirmish with the Valg. If you have any sense, you won’t, either.” Rolfe’s face contorted with wrath—even as fear, deep and true, shone in his eyes. She took a step toward the chaotic streets but paused, turning to the Pirate Lord. “I suppose the cadre will be coming with me, too. Since they’re now my allies.”

Silently, Fenrys and Gavriel approached, and she could have sighed with relief that they did so without question, that Gavriel was willing to do whatever it took to stay near his son.

Rolfe hissed, “You think withholding your assistance will sway me into helping you?” But far beyond the bay, between the distant, humped islands, a cloud of darkness gathered.

“I meant what I said, Rolfe. I can do fine without you, armada or no. Mycenians or no. And this island has now become dangerous for my cause.” She inclined her head toward the sea. “I’ll offer a prayer to Mala for you.” She patted the hilt of Goldryn. “A bit of advice, from one professional criminal to the other: cut off their heads. It’s the only way to kill them. Unless you burn them alive, but I bet most would jump ship and swim to shore before your flaming arrows can do much damage.”

“And what of your idealism—what of that child who stole two hundred slaves from me? You’d leave the people of this island to perish?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I told you, Rolfe, that Endovier taught me some things.”

Rolfe swore. “Do you think Sam would stand for this?”

“Sam is dead,” she said, “because men like you and Arobynn have power. But Arobynn’s reign is now over.” She smiled at the darkening horizon. “Seems like yours might end rather soon as well.”

“You bitch—”

Rowan snarled, taking all of a step before Rolfe flinched away.

Rushing footsteps sounded, then Rolfe’s quartermaster filled the doorway. He panted as he rested a hand on the threshold, the other gripping the sea dragon-shaped pommel of his sword. “We are knee-deep in shit.”

Aelin paused. Rolfe’s face tightened. “How bad?” the captain asked.

He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Eight warships teeming with soldiers—at least a hundred on each, more on the lower levels I couldn’t see. They’re flanked by two sea-wyverns. All moving so fast that it’s like storm winds carry them.”

Aelin cut a glance at Rowan. “How quickly can we get to that boat?”

Rolfe was gazing at the few ships in his harbor, his face deathly pale. At Ship-Breaker out in the bay, the chain currently beneath the calm surface. Fenrys, seeing the captain’s stare, observed, “Those sea-wyverns will snap that chain. Get your people off this island. Use every skiff and sloop you have and get them out.”

Rolfe slowly turned to Aelin, his sea-green eyes simmering with hate. And resignation. “Is this an attempt to call my bluff?”

Aelin toyed with the end of her braid. “No. It’s convenient timing, but no.”

Rolfe surveyed them all—the power that could level this island if they chose. His voice was hoarse as he at last spoke. “I want to be admiral. I want this entire archipelago. I want Ilium. And when this war is over, I want Lord in front of my name, as it was before my ancestors’ names long ago. What of my payment?”

Aelin surveyed him in turn, the entire room deathly quiet compared to the chaos of outside. “For every Morath ship you sack, you can keep whatever gold and treasure is aboard it. But weapons and ammunition go to the front. I’ll give you land, but no royal titles beyond those of Lord of Ilium and King of the Archipelago. If you bear any offspring, I will recognize them as your heirs—as I would any children Dorian might bear.”

Dorian nodded gravely. “Adarlan will recognize you and your heirs, and this land as yours.”

Rolfe ground out, “You send those bastards down to the inky black, and my fleet is yours. I cannot guarantee the Mycenians will rise, though. We’ve been scattered too far and too long. Only a small number live here, and they will not stir without proper … motivation.” He glanced toward the bar, as if he’d expected to see someone behind it.

But Aelin held out her hand, smiling faintly. “Leave that to me.”

Tattooed skin met scarred flesh as Rolfe shook her hand. Hard enough to break bones, but she did it right back. Sent a little flame searing into his fingers.

He hissed, pulling back his hand, and Aelin grinned. “Welcome to Her Majesty’s army, Privateer Rolfe.” She gestured to the open door. “Shall we?”





Aelin was insane, Dorian realized. Brilliant and wicked, but insane.

And perhaps the greatest, most unremorseful liar he’d ever encountered.

He’d felt her summons sweep through the world. Felt fire hum against his skin. There was no mistaking who it belonged to. And there was no mistaking that it had gone right to the Dead End, where the forces dwelling there would know there was one person alive with that kind of flame at her disposal, and track the magic back here.