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

The glass castle loomed, half shrouded by the smoking ruins of the clock tower, and light—fire—exploded between its turrets. Aelin.

Aelin was still alive, and fighting like hell.

The iron gates of the castle appeared ahead, strung with reeking corpses.

Fire and darkness slammed into each other atop the castle, and people fell silent as they pointed. Lysandra raced for the gates, and the crowd spied her at last, scrambling and bleating to get out of her way. They cleared a path right to the open entrance.

Revealing thirty Valg guards armed with crossbows lined up in front of it, ready to fire.

They all trained their weapons on her.

Thirty guards with bolts—and beyond them, an open path to the castle. To Aelin.

Lysandra leaped. The closest guard fired a clean, spiraling shot right for her chest.

She knew, with that leopard’s senses, that it would hit home.

Yet Lysandra did not slow. She did not stop.

For Evangeline. For her future. For her freedom. For the friends who had come for her.

The bolt neared her heart.

And was knocked from the air by an arrow.

Lysandra landed on the guard’s face and shredded it with her claws.

There was only one sharpshooter with that sort of aim.

Lysandra loosed a roar, and became a storm of death upon the guards nearest her while arrows rained on the rest.

When Lysandra dared look, it was in time to see Nesryn Faliq draw another arrow atop the neighboring rooftop, flanked by her rebels, and fire it clean through the eye of the final guard between Lysandra and the castle.

“Go!” Nesryn shouted over the panicking crowd.

Flame and night warred in the highest spires, and the earth shuddered.

Lysandra was already running up the sloped, curving path between the trees.

Nothing but the grass and the trees and the wind.

Nothing but this sleek, powerful body, her shape-shifter’s heart burning, glowing, singing with each step, each curve she took, fluid and swift and free.

Faster and faster, every movement of that leopard’s body a joy, even as her queen battled for her kingdom and their world high, high above.





76



Aelin panted, fighting against the throbbing in her head.

Too soon; too much power too soon. She hadn’t had time to draw it up the safe way, spiraling slowly to its depths.

Shifting into her Fae form hadn’t helped—it had only made the Valg smell worse.

Dorian was on his knees, clawing at his hand, where the ring kept glowing, branding his flesh.

He sent darkness snapping for her again and again—and each time, she slammed it away with a wall of flame.

But her blood was heating.

“Try, Dorian,” she begged, her tongue like paper in her parched mouth.

“I will kill you, you Fae bitch.”

A low laugh sounded behind her.

Aelin half turned—not daring to put her back to either of them, even if it meant exposing herself to the open fall.

The King of Adarlan stood in the open doorway at the other end of the bridge.

Chaol—

“Such a noble effort from the captain. To try to buy you time so you might save my son.”

She’d tried—tried, but—

“Punish her,” the demon hissed from the other end of the bridge.

“Patience.” But the king stiffened as he took in the gold ring burning on Dorian’s hand. That harsh, brutal face tightened. “What have you done?”

Dorian thrashed, shuddering, and let out a scream that set her Fae ears ringing.

Aelin drew her father’s sword. “You killed Chaol,” she said, the words hollow.

“The boy didn’t even land a single blow.” He smirked at the Sword of Orynth. “I doubt you will, either.”

Dorian went silent.

Aelin snarled, “You killed him.”

The king approached, his footfalls thudding on the glass bridge.

“My one regret,” the king said to her, “is that I did not get to take my time.”

She backed up a step—just one.

The king drew Nothung. “I’ll take my time with you, though.”

Aelin lifted her sword in both hands.

Then—

“What did you say?”

Dorian.

The voice was hoarse, broken.

The king and Aelin both turned toward the prince.

But Dorian’s eyes were on his father, and they were burning like stars. “What did you say. About Chaol.”

The king snapped. “Silence.”

“Did you kill him.” Not a question.

Aelin’s lips began trembling, and she tunneled down, down, down inside herself.

“And if I did?” the king said, brows high.

“Did you kill Chaol?”

The light at Dorian’s hand burned and burned—

But the collar remained around his neck.

“You,” the king snapped—and Aelin realized he meant her just as a spear of darkness shot for her so fast, too fast—

The darkness shattered against a wall of ice.





Dorian.

His name was Dorian.

Dorian Havilliard, and he was the Crown Prince of Adarlan.

And Celaena Sardothien—Aelin Galathynius, his friend … she had come back for him.

She faced him, an ancient sword in her hands.

“Dorian?” she breathed.