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

So they did.

People were panicking in the streets as the dark force took shape on the horizon: massive ships with black sails, converging on the bay as if they were indeed carried on a preternatural wind.

But Aelin, Lysandra close to her, stalked for the towering Sea Dragon, Rowan and his two companions falling into step behind them.

People halted and gawked while they ascended the gangway, securing and rearranging their weapons. Knives and swords, Rowan’s hatchet gleaming while he hooked it at his side, a bow and quiver full of black-feathered arrows that Aelin assumed Fenrys could fire with deadly accuracy, and more blades. As they prowled onto the gently rocking deck of the Sea Dragon, the wood meticulously polished, Aelin supposed that together they formed a walking armory.

Gavriel had no sooner set foot on board than the gangway was hauled up by Rolfe’s men. The others, seated on benches flanking the deck, lifted oars, two men to a seat. Rowan jerked his chin at Gavriel and Fenrys, and the two wordlessly went to join the men, his cadre falling into rank and rhythms that were older than some kingdoms.

Rolfe stalked out a door that no doubt led to his chambers, two men behind him bearing enormous iron chains.

Aelin strode for them. “Anchor them to the mainmast and make sure there’s enough room for them to reach right … here.” She pointed to where she now stood in the heart of the deck. Enough space clear of everyone, enough space for her and Rowan to work.

Rolfe barked an order to begin rowing, glancing once at Fenrys and Gavriel—who each manned an oar themselves, teeth bared as they threw their considerable strength into the motion.

Slowly, the ship began moving—the others around them stirring as well.

But they had to be out of the bay first, had to get past the boundary of Ship-Breaker.

Rolfe’s men looped the chains around the mast, leaving enough length to reach Aelin.

Iron would provide a bite, an anchor to remind her who she was, what she was. Iron would keep her tethered when the sheer vastness of her magic, of Rowan’s magic, threatened to sweep her away.

The Sea Dragon inched over the harbor, the call and grunting of Rolfe’s men as they rowed drowning out the din of the town behind them.

She flicked a glance toward either watchtower to see Dorian arrive—then Aedion’s golden hair racing up the outer spiral staircase to the enormous mounted harpoon at the top. Her heart strained for a moment as she flashed between now and a time when she’d seen Sam running up those same stairs—not to defend this town, but to wreck it.

She shook off the icy grip of memory and turned to Lysandra, standing at the deck rail, watching her cousin as well. “Now.”

Even Rolfe paused his ordering at the word.

Lysandra gracefully sat on the broad wooden railing, pivoted her legs over the side … and dropped into the water.

Rolfe’s men rushed to the rail. People in boats flanking them did the same, spotting the woman plunge into the vivid blue.

But it was not a woman who came out.

Below, deep down, Aelin could make out the glow and shift and spread. Men began cursing.

But Lysandra kept growing and growing beneath the surface, along the sandy harbor floor.

Faster, the men rowed.

But the ship’s speed was nothing compared to the speed of the creature that emerged from the waves.

A broad jade-green snout, peppered with shredding white teeth, huffed a mighty breath then arced back under the water, revealing a flash of a massive head and cunning eyes as she disappeared.

Some men screamed. Rolfe braced a hand on the wheel. His first mate, that sea dragon sword freshly polished at his side, dropped to his knees.

Lysandra dove, and she let them see the long, powerful body that broke the surface bit by bit as she plunged down, her jade scales gleaming like jewels in the blinding midday sun. See the legend straight from their prophecies: the Mycenians would only return when the sea dragons did.

And so Aelin had ensured that one appeared right in their gods-damned harbor.

“Holy gods,” Fenrys muttered from where he rowed.

Indeed, that was about the only reaction Aelin could muster as the sea dragon dove down deep, then swam ahead.

For those were mighty fins—wings that Lysandra spread beneath the water, tucking in her small front arms and back legs, her massive, spiked tail acting as a rudder.

Some of Rolfe’s men were murmuring, “A dragon—a dragon to defend our own ship … The legends of our fathers…” Indeed, Rolfe’s face was pale as he stared toward where Lysandra had vanished into the blue, still clutching the wheel as if it’d keep him from falling.

Two sea-wyverns … against one sea dragon.

For all the fire in the world would not work beneath the sea. And if they were to stand a chance of decimating those ships, there could be no interference from beneath the surface.

“Come on, Lysandra,” Aelin breathed, and sent a prayer to Temis, the Goddess of Wild Things, to keep the shifter swift and unfaltering beneath the waves.





Aedion chucked off the shield from his back and slammed into the seat before the giant iron harpoon, its length perhaps a hand taller than him, its head bigger than his own. There were only three spears. He’d have to make his shots count.

Across the bay, he could just make out the king taking up a position along the battlement on the lowest level of the tower.

In the bay itself, Rolfe’s ship rowed closer and closer to Ship-Breaker’s lowered chain.