Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass #4) by Sarah J. Maas

Lysandra nodded and picked at an invisible fleck of lint on her dress. “If magic is free again—would you be wary of a shape-shifter?”

So carefully phrased, so casually asked, as if it weren’t the most important question of all.

Aelin shrugged and gave her the truth. “I’d be jealous of a shape-shifter. Shifting into any form I please would come in rather handy.” She considered it. “A shape-shifter would make a powerful ally. And an even more entertaining friend.”

Aedion mused, “It would make a difference on a battlefield, once magic is freed.”

Rowan just asked, “Did you have a favorite form?”

Lysandra’s grin was nothing short of wicked. “I liked anything with claws and big, big fangs.”

Aelin swallowed her laugh. “Is there a reason behind this visit, Lysandra, or are you here just to make my friends squirm?”

All amusement faded as Lysandra held up a velvet sack that sagged with what looked to be a large box. “What you requested.” The box thumped as she set the sack onto the worn wooden table.

Aelin slid the sack toward herself, even as the males raised their brows and subtly sniffed at the box within. “Thank you.”

Lysandra said, “Arobynn is going to call in your favor tomorrow, to be delivered the following night. Be ready.”

“Good.” It was an effort to keep her face blank.

Aedion leaned forward, glancing between them. “Does he expect only Aelin to deliver it?”

“No—all of you, I think.”

Rowan said, “Is it a trap?”

“Probably, in some way or another,” Lysandra said. “He wants you to deliver it and then join him for dinner.”

“Demons and dining,” Aelin said. “A delightful combination.”

Only Lysandra smiled.

“Will he poison us?” Aedion asked.

Aelin scratched at a piece of dirt on the table. “Poison isn’t Arobynn’s style. If he were to do anything to the food, it would be to add some drug that would incapacitate us while he had us moved wherever he wanted. It’s the control that he loves,” she added, still staring at the table, not quite feeling like seeing what was written on Rowan’s or Aedion’s face. “The pain and fear, yes—but the power is what he really thrives on.” Lysandra’s face had lost its softness, her eyes cold and sharp—a reflection of Aelin’s own, no doubt. The only person who could understand, who had also learned firsthand exactly how far that lust for control went. Aelin rose from her seat. “I’ll walk you to your carriage.”





She and Lysandra paused among the stacks of crates in the warehouse.

“Are you ready?” Lysandra asked, crossing her arms.

Aelin nodded. “I’m not sure the debt could ever be paid for what he … what they all did. But it will have to be enough. I’m running out of time.”

Lysandra pursed her lips. “I won’t be able to risk coming here again until afterward.”

“Thank you—for everything.”

“He could still have a few tricks up his sleeve. Be on your guard.”

“And you be on yours.”

“You’re not … mad that I didn’t tell you?”

“Your secret could get you killed just as easily as mine, Lysandra. I just felt … I don’t know. If anything, I wondered if I’d done something wrong, something to make you not trust me enough to tell me.”

“I wanted to—I’ve been dying to.”

Aelin believed her. “You risked those Valg guards for me—for Aedion that day we rescued him,” Aelin said. “They’d probably be beside themselves if they learned there was a shifter in this city.” And that night at the Pits, when she’d kept turning away from the Valg and hiding behind Arobynn … It had been to avoid their notice. “You have to be insane.”

“Even before I knew who you were, Aelin, I knew that what you were working toward … It was worth it.”

“What is?” Her throat tightened.

“A world where people like me don’t have to hide.” Lysandra turned away, but Aelin grabbed her by the hand. Lysandra smiled a bit. “Times like these, I wish I had your particular skill set instead.”

“Would you do it if you could? About two nights from now, I mean.”

Lysandra gently let go of her hand. “I’ve thought about it every single day since Wesley died. I would do it, and gladly. But I don’t mind if you do it. You won’t hesitate. I find that comforting, somehow.”





The invitation arrived by street urchin at ten o’clock the next morning.

Aelin stared at the cream-colored envelope on the table before the fireplace, its red wax seal imprinted with crossed daggers. Aedion and Rowan, peering over her shoulders, studied the box it had come with. Both males sniffed—and frowned.

“It smells like almonds,” Aedion said.

She pulled out the card. A formal invitation for dinner tomorrow at eight—for her and two guests—and a request for the favor owed to him.

His patience was at an end. But in typical Arobynn fashion, dumping the demon at his doorstep wouldn’t be enough. No—she’d deliver it on his terms.

The dinner was late enough in the day to give her time to stew.