Empire of Storms

So easy to destroy it.

But more life glimmered—behind. More life to obliterate, to hear their dying cries with her own ears, to witness firsthand what it was to cease to be in a way the goddess never could…

She watched as her own hand, wreathed in pulsing white flame, began to move from where it had been aimed toward the dark fleet.

Toward the unprotected city at the heart of the bay.

Time slowed and stretched as her body pivoted toward that town, as her own arm lifted, her fist aimed toward the heart of it. There were people on the docks, the scions of a lost clan, some running from the display of fire she’d unleashed moments ago. Her fingers began to unfurl.

“No!”

The word was a roar, a plea, and silver and green flashed in her vision.

A name. A name clanged through her as he hurled himself in the path of that fist, that moonfire, not just to save those innocents in the city, but to spare her soul from the agony if she destroyed them all—

Rowan. And as his face became clear, his tattoo stark in the sun, as that fist full of unimaginable power now opened toward his heart—

There was no force in any world that could keep her contained.

And Aelin Galathynius remembered her own name as she shattered through the cage that goddess had shoved her into, as she grabbed that goddess by the damned throat and hurled her out, out, out through that gaping hole where she had infiltrated her, and sealed it—

Aelin snapped into her body, her power.

Fire like ice, fire stolen from the stars—

Rowan’s hair was still moving as he slammed into a stop before her uncoiling fist.

Time launched again, full and fast and unrelenting. Aelin had only enough of it to throw herself sideways, to angle that now-open fist away from him, point it anywhere but at him—

The ship beneath her, the center and left flank of the dark fleet beyond her, and the outer edge of the island behind it blew apart in a storm of fire and ice.

36

There was such quiet beneath the waves, even as the muffled sounds of shouting, of collision, of death echoed toward her.

Aelin drifted down, as she had drifted into her power, the weight of the Wyrdkey around her neck like a millstone—

Deanna. She didn’t know how, didn’t know why—

The Queen Who Was Promised.

Her lungs constricted and burned.

Shock. Perhaps this was shock.

Down she drifted, trying to feel her way back into her body, her mind.

Salt water stung her eyes.

A large, strong hand gripped the back of her collar and yanked, hauling her up in tugs—in steady strokes.

What had she done what had she done what had she done—

Light and air shattered around her, and that hand grasping her collar now banded around her chest, tugging her against a hard male body, keeping her head above the roiling waves.

“I’ve got you,” said a voice that was not Rowan’s.

Others. There had been others on the ship, and she had as good as killed them all—

“Majesty,” the male said, a question and quiet order.

Fenrys. That was his name.

She blinked, and her name, her title, her gutted power came thrashing back into her—the sea and the battle and the threat of Morath swarming.

Later. Later, she’d deal with that rutting goddess who had thought to use her like some temple priestess. Later, she’d contemplate how she’d shred through every world to find Deanna and make her pay.

“Hold on,” Fenrys said over the chaos now filtering in: the screaming of men, the groaning of breaking things, the crackle of flames. “Don’t let go.”

Before she could remember how to speak, they vanished into—nothing. Into darkness that was both solid and insubstantial as it squeezed her tightly.

Then they were in the water again, bobbing beneath the waves as she reoriented herself and sputtered for air. He’d moved them, somehow—jumped between distances, judging by the wholly different flotsam spinning around them.

Fenrys held her against him, his panting labored. As if whatever magic he possessed to leap between short distances took everything he had. He sucked in a deep breath.

Then they were gone again, into that dark, hollow, yet squeezing space. Only a handful of heartbeats passed before the water and sky returned.

Fenrys grunted, arm tightening around her as he swam with the other toward the shore, shoving aside debris. His breathing was a wet rasp now. Whatever that magic was, it was spent.

But Rowan—where was Rowan—

She made a sound that might have been his name, might have been a sob.

Fenrys panted, “He’s on the reef—he’s fine.”

She didn’t believe him. Thrashing against the Fae warrior’s arm until he released her, she slid into the cold open water and twisted toward where Fenrys had been headed. Another small sound cracked from her as she beheld Rowan standing knee-deep in water atop the reef. His arm was already outstretched, even though thirty yards still separated them.

Fine. Unscathed. Alive. And an equally soaked Gavriel stood beside him, facing—

Oh, gods, oh, gods.

Blood stained the water. There were bodies everywhere. And Morath’s fleet…

Most of it was gone. Nothing more than black wood splintered across the archipelago and burning bits of canvas and rope. But three ships remained.

Three ships now converging on the ruins of the Sea Dragon as it took on water, looming like thunderclouds—

“You have to swim,” Fenrys growled beside her, his sodden golden hair plastered to his head. “Right now. As fast as you can.”

She whipped her head toward him, blinking away burning seawater.

“Swim now,” Fenrys snapped, canines flashing, and she didn’t let herself consider what was prowling beneath them as he grabbed her collar again and practically threw her ahead of him.

Aelin didn’t wait. She focused on Rowan’s outstretched hand as she swam, his face so carefully calm—the commander on a battlefield. Her magic was barren, her magic was a wasteland, and his … She had stolen his power from him—

Think of that later. Aelin shoved through and ducked under larger bits of debris, past…

Past men. Rolfe’s men. Dead in the water. Was the captain among them somewhere?

She’d likely killed her first and only human ally in this war—and her only direct path to that Lock. And if news of the former spread—

“Faster!” Fenrys barked.

Rowan sheathed his sword, his knees bent—

Then he was swimming to her, fast and smooth, cutting between and beneath the waves, the water seeming to part for him. She wanted to growl she could make it herself, but—

He reached her, saying nothing before he slipped behind her. Guarding with Fenrys.

And what could he do in the water with no magic, against a gaping maw of a sea-wyvern?

She ignored the crushing tightness in her chest and hurtled for the reef, Gavriel now waiting where Rowan had been. Beneath her, the shelf of the coral at last spread, and she nearly sobbed, her muscles trembling as Gavriel crouched so she could reach his outstretched hand.

The Lion easily hauled her out of the water. Her knees buckled as her boots steadied on the uneven coral heads, but Gavriel kept his grip on her, subtly letting her lean against him. Rowan and Fenrys were out a heartbeat later, and the prince instantly was there, hands on her face, slicking back her soaked hair, scanning her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she rasped, her voice hoarse. From the magic or the goddess or the salt water she’d swallowed. “I’m me.”

That was good enough for Rowan, who faced the three ships now bearing down on them.

On her other side, Fenrys had doubled over, hands on his knees as he panted. He lifted his head at her gaze, hair dripping, but said to Rowan, “I’m out—we’ll have to either wait for it to replenish or swim to shore.”

Rowan gave him a sharp nod that Aelin interpreted as understanding and thanks, and she glanced behind them. The reef seemed to be an extension of the black rocky shore far behind, but with the tide out, they’d indeed have to swim in spots. Have to risk what was beneath the water…

Beneath the water. With Lysandra.

There was no sign of wyvern or dragon.

Aelin didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.