Empire of Storms

Dramatic rescues give him purpose and fulfillment in his dull, immortal life.”

She’d known that she would not get to lead it. But she would still hold true to her promise to Darrow: I promise you on my blood, on my family’s name, that I will not turn my back on Terrasen as you have turned your back on me.

Aelin Galathynius had raised an army not just to challenge Morath … but to rattle the stars.

I promise you that no matter how far I go, no matter the cost, when you call for my aid, I will come, Aelin had told him she’d sworn to Darrow. I’m going to call in old debts and promises. To raise an army of assassins and thieves and exiles and commoners.
And she had. She had meant and accomplished every word of it.

Lorcan reached out, grasping her chin and forcing her to look at him. Hopeless, bleak eyes met his. He brushed away a stray tear with his thumb. “I made a promise to protect you. I will not break it, Elide.”
She made to pull away, but he gripped her a little harder, keeping her eyes on him.
“I will always find you,” he swore to her.
Her throat bobbed.
Lorcan whispered, “I promise.”

Indeed, the ilken was flapping for the distant coast, barely more than a bit of blackness against the darkened sky, hurtling for the coast, no doubt to fly right to Morath to report.
Rowan snatched up Fenrys’s fallen bow and quiver of black-tipped arrows.
None of them stopped him as he strode to the railing, blood splashing beneath his boots.
The only sounds were the tapping waves, the whimpering of the injured, and the groan of the mighty bow as he nocked an arrow and drew back the string. Farther and farther. His arms strained, but he honed in on that dark speck flapping away.
“A gold coin says he misses,” Fenrys rasped.
“Save your breath for healing,” Aelin snapped.
“Make it two,” Aedion said behind him. “I say he hits.”
“You can all go to hell,” Aelin snarled. But then added, “Make it five. Ten says he downs it with the first shot.”
“Deal,” Fenrys groaned, his voice thick with pain.
Rowan gritted his teeth. “Remind me why I bother with any of you.”
Then he fired.

Aedion drawled, even as his relief began to crumble his mask of arrogant calmness, “The useless sentries in the watchtower are now all half in love with you,” he lied. “One said he wanted to marry you.”
A low snarl. He yielded a foot but held eye contact with her as he grinned. “But you know what I told them? I said that they didn’t stand a chance in hell.” Aedion lowered his voice, holding her pained, exhausted stare. “Because I am going to marry you,” he promised her. “One day. I am going to marry you. I’ll be generous and let you pick when, even if it’s ten years from now. Or twenty. But one day, you are going to be my wife.”
Those eyes narrowed—in what he could only call female outrage and exasperation.
He shrugged. “Princess Lysandra Ashryver sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
And then the dragon huffed. In amusement. Exhaustion, but … amusement.

Aedion gave a grim nod, but beside him, Lysandra straightened—not in anger or surprise, but pride. It broke Aelin’s heart as much as it lightened it.

Unleashing a cry that set the world trembling, Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, Consort of the Queen of Terrasen, began the hunt to find his wife.

“When we are done, I will join you in Terrasen, Aedion,” the King of Adarlan promised. “So that when you get back, Rowan—when both of you get back—there will be something left to fight for.”