Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(97)

And Rowan realized what the power in her hand was. Realized that the flame she would unleash would be so cold it burned, realized it was the cold of the stars, the cold of stolen light.

Not wildfire—but moonfire.





One moment she was there. And then she was not.

And then she was shoved aside, locked into a box with no key, and the power was not hers, her body was not hers, her name was not hers.

And she could feel the Other there, filling her, laughing silently as she marveled at the heat of the sun on her face, at the damp sea breeze coating her lips with salt, at the pain of the hand now healed of its wound.

So long—it had been so long since the Other had felt such things, felt them wholly and not as something in between and diluted.

And those flames—her flames and her beloved’s magic … they belonged to the Other now.

To a goddess who had walked through the temporary gate hanging between her breasts and seized her body as if it were a mask to wear.

She had no words, for she had no voice, no self, nothing—

And she could only watch as if through a window as she felt the goddess, who had perhaps not protected her but hunted her the entirety of her life, for this moment, this opportunity, examine the dark fleet ahead.

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.