Free Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass) by Sarah J. Maas Page A

will gut you before you can get up from that chair. Understand?”
    For the first time, Darrow looked into Rowan’s eyes and blanched at the death he found waiting there. But the lord’s words had found their mark, leaving a shuddering sort of numbness in their wake.
    Aedion snatched Aelin’s dagger off the table. “We’ll take your thoughts into consideration.” He scooped up his shield and put a hand on Aelin’s shoulder to guide her from the room. It was only the sight of that dented and scarred shield, the ancient sword hanging at his side, that set her feet moving, slicing through that thick numbness.
    Ren moved to open the door, stepping into the hall beyond to scan it, giving Lysandra a wide berth as she padded past, Evangeline and Fleetfoot on her fluffy tail, secrecy be damned.
    Aelin met the young lord’s eyes and drew in breath to say something, when Lysandra snarled down the hall.
    A dagger was instantly in Aelin’s hand, angled and ready.
    But it was Darrow’s messenger, hurtling for them.
    “Rifthold,” he panted as he skidded to a stop, flinging rain on them. “One of the scouts from the Ferian Gap just raced past. The Ironteeth host flies for Rifthold. They mean to sack the city.”

    Aelin stood in a clearing just past the inn’s glow, the cold rain plastering her hair and raising bumps on her skin. Soaking them all, because Rowan now buckled on the extra blades she handed him, conserving each drop of his magic for what he was about to do.
    They’d let the messenger spill the information he’d received—not much at all.
    The Ironteeth host lingering in the Ferian Gap were now flying for Rifthold. Dorian Havilliard would be their target. Dead or alive.
    They’d be upon the city by nightfall tomorrow, and once Rifthold was taken … Erawan’s net across the middle of the continent would be complete. No forces from Melisande, Fenharrow, or Eyllwe could reach them—and none of Terrasen’s forces could get to them, either. Not without wasting months to trek around the mountains.
    “There’s nothing to be done for the city,” Aedion said, his voice cutting through the rain. The three of them lingered under the cover of a large oak, all keeping an eye on Ren and Murtaugh, who were speaking with Evangeline and Lysandra, now back in her human form. Her cousin went on, rain pinging against the shield across his back, “If the witches fly on Rifthold, then Rifthold already is gone.”
    Aelin wondered if Manon Blackbeak would be leading the attack—if it’d be a blessing. The Wing Leader had saved them once before, but only as a payment for a life debt. She doubted the witch would feel obliged to throw them a bone anytime soon.
    Aedion met Rowan’s gaze. “Dorian must be saved at all costs. I know Perrington’s—Erawan’s—style. Don’t believe any promises they make, and don’t let Dorian be taken again.” Aedion dragged a hand through his rain-soaked hair and added, “Or yourself, Rowan.”
    They were the most hideous words she’d ever heard. Rowan’s confirming nod made her knees buckle. She tried not to think about thetwo glass vials Aedion had handed the prince moments before. What they contained. She didn’t even know when or where he’d acquired them.
    Anything but that. Anything but—
    Rowan’s hand brushed hers. “I will save him,” he murmured.
    “I wouldn’t ask this of you unless it was … Dorian is vital. Lose him, and we lose any support in Adarlan.” And one of the few magic-wielders who could stand against Morath.
    Rowan’s nod was grim. “I serve you, Aelin. Do not apologize for putting me to use.”
    Because only Rowan, riding the winds with his magic, could reach Rifthold in time. Even now, he might be too late. Aelin swallowed hard, fighting the feeling that the world was being ripped from under her feet.
    A glimmer of movement near the tree line caught her eye, and Aelin schooled her face into neutrality as she studied what had been left by little,