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

The Wyrdkey at her chest murmured in response.

She could feel them—her magic could taste their corruption on the wind. No sign of Lysandra, but she was out there.

The sun was blinding on the waves as Rowan’s magic slowed, bringing them into a steady glide toward the two peaks of the island that curved toward each other.

It was time.

Aelin swung off the railing, boots thudding on the soaked wood of the deck. So many eyes turned to her, to the chains spread across the main deck.

Rolfe stalked toward her, descending from the raised quarterdeck, where he’d been manning the wheel himself.

She picked up a heavy iron chain, wondering who it’d previously held. Rowan rose to his feet in a steady, graceful movement. He reached her when Rolfe did.

The captain demanded, “What now?”

Aelin jerked her chin toward the ships near enough to make out figures crammed onto the various decks. Many, many figures. “We draw them in as close as we can. When you can see the whites of their eyes, you shout at us.”

Rowan added, “And then you lay anchor off the starboard side. Swing us around.”

“Why?” Rolfe asked as Rowan helped her fasten the manacle around her wrist.

She balked at the iron, her magic twisting. Rowan gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, making her meet his unflinching gaze, even as he said to Rolfe, “Because we don’t want the masts in the way when we open fire. They seem like a rather important part of the ship.”

Rolfe growled and stalked off.

Rowan’s fingers slid to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek. “We draw out our power, slow and steady.”

“I know.”

He angled his head, brows lifting. A half smile curved his sinful mouth. “You’ve been spiraling down into your power for days now, haven’t you?”

She nodded. It had taken most of her focus, had been such an effort to stay in the present, to stay active and aware while she was burrowing down and down, drawing up as much of her power as she could without attracting any notice. “I didn’t want to take any chances here. Not if you were drained from saving Dorian.”

“I’ve recovered, I’ll have you know. So this morning’s little display…”

“A way to take off the power’s full edge,” she said wryly. “And make Rolfe piss himself.” He chuckled and released her face to pass her the other manacle. She hated its ancient, hideous touch on her skin, on his, as she clamped it around his tattooed wrist.

“Hurry,” Rolfe said from where he’d returned to his spot at the wheel.

Indeed, the ships were gaining on them. No sign of those sea-wyverns—though the shifter also remained out of sight.

Rowan palmed his hunting knife, the steel bright in the blazing sun. High noon.

Precisely why she’d gone into Rolfe’s office nearly two hours beforehand.

She’d practically rung the dinner bell for the host in the Dead End. She’d gambled that they wouldn’t wait until nightfall, but they apparently feared the wrath of their master if she slipped their nets more than they feared the light itself. Or were too stupid to realize Mala’s heir would be at her most powerful.

“Do you want to do the honors, or should I?” Rowan said. Fenrys and Gavriel had risen to their feet, blades out as they monitored from a safe distance. Aelin held out her free hand, her palm scarred, and took the knife from him. A quick slice had her skin stinging, warm blood heating her seawater-sticky skin.

Rowan had the knife a heartbeat later, and the scent of his blood filled her nose, set her senses on edge. But she extended her bloodied palm.

Her magic swirled into the world with it, crackling in her veins, her ears. She reined in the urge to tap her foot on the ground, to roll her shoulders.

“Slow,” Rowan repeated, as if sensing the hair-trigger that her power was now on, “and steady.” His shackled arm slid around her waist to hold her to him. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

She lifted her head to study his face, the harsh planes and the curving tattoo. He leaned in to brush a kiss to her mouth. And as his lips met hers, he joined their bleeding palms.

Magic jolted through her, ancient and wicked and cunning, and she arched against him, knees buckling as his cataclysmic power roared into her.

All anyone on deck saw, she knew, was two lovers embracing.

But Aelin tunneled down, down, down into her power, felt him doing the same with his, felt every ounce of ice and wind and lightning go slamming from him into her. And when it reached her, the core of his power yielded to her own, melted and became embers and wildfire. Became the molten heart of the earth, shaping the world and birthing new lands.

Deeper and deeper, she went.

Aelin had a vague sense of the ship rocking beneath them, felt the faint bite of the iron as it rejected her magic, felt the presence of Fenrys and Gavriel flickering around them like candles.

It had been months since she’d drawn from so deep in the abyss of her power.

During the time she’d trained with Rowan in Wendlyn, her power’s limit had been self-imposed. And then that day with the Valg, she’d broken through it—had discovered an entire hidden level beneath. She had drawn from it when she’d encircled Doranelle with her power, had taken a whole day to tunnel that far, to draw up what she needed.

Aelin had begun this descent three days ago.