Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

Again, that mighty wind blasted the castle, shoving back any approaching forces, setting the stones groaning. A wind that smelled of pine and snow—a familiar, strange scent. Ancient and clever and cruel.

“You owe me a life debt, King of Adarlan. Prepare yourself for the day I come to claim it.”

“Do you not know death when you see it?” she hissed, low and vicious. “I have seen death, and worse,” he said, those sapphire eyes frozen as he surveyed her from head to armored boot-tip and back again. “The death you’d offer is kind compared to that.”

In a whirlwind of steel, the Yellowlegs died before they could turn toward the warrior who exploded through the doorway.

Silver hair, tattooed face and neck, and slightly pointed ears. The source of that wind.

The air in Manon’s throat choked away into nothing. A strangled sound came out of her, and she stumbled back, clawing at her throat as if she could carve an airway. But the male’s magic held firm.

He’d kill her for what she’d tried to do to his queen. For the arrow Asterin had shot, meaning to strike the queen’s heart. An arrow he had jumped in front of.

Her kind had no magical shields against attacks like that. Only when most desperate, most enraged, could a witch summon the core of magic in her—with devastating consequences. Even the most bloodthirsty and soulless of them only whispered of that act: the Yielding.

The yielding 😭

Dorian reached a large, gilded portrait of a beautiful auburn-haired young woman with a sapphire-eyed babe in her arms. The king looked at it for a heartbeat longer than necessary, enough to tell Rowan everything.

A gift of the king’s magic, then—the enhanced hearing. Raw magic that could grant him any gifts: ice, flame, healing, heightened senses and strength. Perhaps shape-shifting, if he tried.

“I wouldn’t trust her,” Rowan said after Dorian had finished, “but perhaps the gods will throw us a bone. Perhaps the Blackbeak heir will join our cause.”

But even if they only had thirteen witches and their wyverns, if that coven was the most skilled of all the Ironteeth … it could mean the difference between Orynth falling or standing against Erawan.

And a few steps ahead, an old pool of dried blood stained the stones along the water’s edge. A human reek lingered around it, tainted and foul. “She gutted Archer Finn right there,” Dorian said, following his stare.

These past weeks of travel had been torture—the need to claim her, taste her, driving him out of his wits. And given what Darrow had said … perhaps, despite his promise when he’d left, it had been a good thing that they had not taken that final step. It had been in the back of his mind long before Darrow and his horse-shit decrees: he was a prince, but in name only.

He had no army, no money. The substantial funds he possessed were in Doranelle—and Maeve would never allow him to claim them.

All Rowan now had to offer his queen were the strength of his sword, the depth of his magic, and the loyalty of his heart. Such things did not win wars.

And he knew her fiery soul: she would do it. Consider marriage to a foreign prince or lord. Even if this thing between them … even if he knew it was not mere lust, or even just love.

This thing between them, the force of it, could devour the world. And if they picked it, picked them, it might very well cause the end of it.

It was why he had not uttered the words he’d meant to tell her for some time, even when every instinct was roaring for him to do it as they parted. And maybe having Aelin only to lose her was his punishment for letting his mate die; hi...

But there was the sound. That sound. We shall create wonders that will make the world tremble.

But a warrior was crouched across the stream, a long, wicked knife balanced on his knee. His black eyes devoured her, his face harsh beneath equally dark, shoulder-length hair as he said in a voice like granite, “Unless you want to be lunch, girl, I suggest you come with me.”

A small, ancient voice whispered in her ear that she’d at last found her relentless hunter. And they’d now both become someone else’s prey.

Human—the cinnamon-and-elderberries scent of her was utterly human—and yet that other smell remained, that tinge of darkness fluttering about her like a hummingbird’s wings.

Lorcan rose to his feet, and her dark eyes widened as she took in his towering height.

Her hoarse voice was low—not the sweet, high thing he’d expected from her delicate, fully curved frame. Low and cold and steady.

His magic was strong, the strongest of any demi-Fae male in any kingdom, any realm. But if he used the key— If he used the key, then he’d deserve the damnation it’d call down upon him.

Lorcan flung out a net of his power behind them, an invisible barrier wafting black tendrils of wind.

Lorcan opened his mouth to order her to hurry when the invisible wall snapped. Not snapped, but cracked, as if those beasts had cleaved it.

Impossible. No one could get through those shields. Not even Rowan-rutting-Whitethorn. But sure enough, the magic had been sundered.

It had been a long, long while since he’d had a new enemy to study, to break.

A chill wind edged in black mist danced between the fingers of his other hand. Not wind like Whitethorn’s, and not light and flame like Whitethorn’s bitch-queen. Not even raw magic like the new King of Adarlan.

No, Lorcan’s magic was that of will—of death and thought and destruction. There was no name for it. Not even his queen had known what it was, where it had come from. A gift from the dark god, from Hellas, Maeve had mused—a dark gift, for her dark warrior. And left it at that.

There were very, very few beasts who could speak in the tongues of mortal and Fae. Most had developed it through magic, ill-gained or blessed. But there, slitted with pleasure in anticipation of violence, gleamed dark, human eyes.

But he bore the Wyrdkey they sought, and that golden ring he’d stolen from Maeve, then given to and stolen from Aelin Galathynius. Athril’s ring. And if they brought either to their master … Then Erawan would possess all three Wyrdkeys. And would be able to open a door between worlds to unleash his awaiting Valg hordes upon them all.

Athril’s golden ring … Lorcan had no doubt Erawan would destroy the ring forged by Mala herself—the one object in Erilea that granted immunity to its bearer against Wyrdstone … and the Valg.

“We are hunters for His Dark Majesty,” the leader said with a mock bow. “We are the ilken. And we have been sent to retrieve our quarry.”

him on legs that bent backward. “We were going to let you have a quick death—a gift.” Its broad nostrils flared, scenting the silent forest. “But as you have stood between us and our prey … we will savor your long end.”

Not him. He was not what the wyverns had been stalking these days, what these creatures had come to claim. They had no idea what he bore—who he was.

“She is important to our king. Retrieve her, and he will fill you with power far greater than feeble shields.”

“She is a thief and a murderer. She must be brought to our king for justice.” Lorcan could have sworn an invisible hand touched his shoulder.

He knew that touch—had trusted it his entire life. It had kept him alive this long. A touch on his back to go forward, to fight and kill and breathe in death. A touch on his shoulder to instead run. To know that only doom waited ahead, and life lay behind.

It stood like a man—spoke like one. And its eyes … Utterly soulless, yet the shape of them … They were human, too. Monstrous—what terrible mind had dreamed up such a thing? She knew the answer.

What would Manon do before such a creature? Manon, she remembered, came equipped with claws and fangs of her own. But a small voice whispered in her ear, So do you. Use what you have. There were other weapons than those made of iron and steel.

“Careful,” she said, dropping her voice into the purr Manon had so often used to frighten the wits out of everyone.

The creature seemed to recognize the fighting leathers then. Seemed to scent that strange, off scent surrounding the rock. And it hesitated. Elide kept her face a mask of cold displeasure. “Get out of my sight.”

“Tell your brethren that if you interfere again, I will personally oversee what delights you experience upon Morath’s tables.” Doubt still danced in its eyes—along with real fear.

Elide held its gaze. It was like staring a dead snake in the eyes.

“You can call me Lorcan,” he said, though she hadn’t asked. And with that, he hauled her over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes and ran.

Elide knew two things within seconds: That the remaining creatures—however many there were—had to be on their trail and closing in fast. Had to have realized she’d bluffed her way free. And that the man, moving swift as a wind between the oaks, was demi-Fae.

He’d been lucky. The girl, it seemed, had been smart.