A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses #4) by Sarah J. Maas

Had been in this exact position, his head on her lap, Death laughing at them.

Then, she had curled over him and waited to die. Then, she had stopped fighting.

She would not fail this time. The mist pressed in, and she could have sworn she felt a hand reach for her.

It was enough to set her moving.

Drawing her sword in the same movement with which she shot to her feet, Nesta slashed a perfect combination.

Lanthys screamed, and it was nothing like what she’d heard before—this was an earsplitting sound of pure shock and fury.

Nesta hefted Ataraxia, settling her weight between her feet, making sure her stance was even. Unshakable. The blade began to glow.

The mist contorted, shrinking and writhing as if it fought an invisible enemy, and then it became solid, blooming with color.

A naked, golden-haired male stood before her. He was of average height, his golden skin sculpted with muscle, his sharp-boned face simmering with hate. Not a repulsive, awful creature, but one of beauty.

His black eyes narrowed upon the blade as he hissed, “That is not Narben.” The name meant nothing to her.

Nesta lunged, thrusting Ataraxia into eighth position. Lanthys leaped back.

Cassian groaned, stirring to consciousness as she held the ground in front of her.

“Which death-god are you?” Lanthys demanded, glancing between the blade and her. The silver fire sizzling in her eyes.

Nesta swung Ataraxia again, and Lanthys cringed away. Afraid of the blade.

That which could not be killed was afraid of her blade. Not her, but Ataraxia. Her Made weapon.

“Get in your cell.” Nesta advanced a step, Ataraxia pointed before her. Lanthys backed slowly toward his cell.

“What is that blade?” His golden hair swayed down to his waist as he backed away again.

“Its name is Ataraxia,” Nesta spat. “And it shall be the last thing you see.”

Lanthys burst out laughing, the sound like a crow’s cawing. Hideous, compared to his beautiful form. “You named a death-sword Ataraxia?” He howled, and the very mountain shook.

“It shall slay you whether you like its name or not.”

“Oh, I do not think so,” Lanthys seethed. “I rode in the Wild Hunt before you were even a scrap of existence, witch from Oorid. I summoned the hounds and the world cowered at their baying. I galloped at the head of the Hunt, and Fae and beast bowed before us.”

Nesta flipped Ataraxia in her hand, a movement she’d taken to doing with the Illyrian blades in idle moments during training. She’d seen Cassian do it often, and found that it dispelled any extra energy.

She hadn’t realized it was such an effective intimidation technique. Lanthys shrank back.

She prayed the Autumn Court soldiers coming down the path any moment would hesitate before the blade, too. Knew they wouldn’t. Not with Briallyn and the Crown controlling them.

“Which death-god are you?” Lanthys asked again. “Who are you beneath that flesh?”

“I am nobody,” she snapped.

“Whose fire burns silver in your gaze?”

“You know whose fire,” she stalled.

But it struck true, somehow. Lanthys’s skin drained of color. “It is not possible.” He looked to the Harp beside a stirring Cassian, and his eyes widened again. “We heard about you down here. You are the one the sea and the wind and the earth whispered of.” He shuddered. “Nesta.” He grinned, showing teeth slightly too long. “You took from the Cauldron itself.”

Lanthys halted his retreat. And extended a broad, graceful hand. “You do not even know what you could do. Come. I shall show you.” He smiled again with those too-long teeth, turning his face from beauty to horror with a quirk of his lips. “Come with me, Queen of Queens, and we shall return what was once lost.” The words were a lullaby, a honeyed promise. “We shall rebuild to what we were before the golden legions of the Fae cast off their chains and overthrew us. We shall resurrect the Wild Hunt and ride rampant through the night. We shall build palaces of ice and flame, palaces of darkness and starlight. Magic shall flow untethered again.”

Nesta could see the portrait Lanthys wove into the air around them. She saw herself on a black throne, a matching crown in her unbound hair. Enormous onyx beasts—scaled, like those she’d seen on the Hewn City’s pillars—lay at the foot of the dais. Ataraxia leaned against her throne, and on her other side … Lanthys sat there, his hand laced through hers. Their kingdom was endless; their palace built of pure magic that lived and thrived around them. The Harp sat behind them on an altar, the Mask, too, but the golden Crown wasn’t there.

It rested atop Lanthys’s head.

And that was the snarled thread that pulled her out—the naked gleam of his greed. He’d seen the Harp, known she was after the Trove, and revealed what he’d do with it. The Crown he’d claim for himself. It would have no influence over her, but their rule would be one of coercion. Enslavement.

A fourth object lay on the altar, veiled in shadow. But she couldn’t make out more than a gleam of age-worn bone—

The vision shifted, and they writhed on a great black bed, the golden skin of Lanthys’s back shining as he moved inside her. Such pleasure—she had never known such pleasure with anyone. Only he could fuck her like this, driving so deep, her body warm and supple and wet for him, and soon, soon his seed would take root in her womb and the child she would bear him would rule entire universes—