Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(46)

Aelin reeled back, magic vanishing and knees buckling as if struck. Her head gave a throb, and nausea roiled in her gut. She knew that feeling—that taste.

Iron. As if the man’s core was made of it. And that oily, hideous aftertaste … Wyrdstone.

The demon inside the overseer let out a choked laugh. “What are collars and rings compared to a solid heart? A heart of iron and Wyrdstone, to replace the coward’s heart beating within.”

“Why,” she breathed.

“I was planted here to demonstrate what is waiting should you and your court visit Morath.”

Aelin slammed her fire into him, scouring his insides, striking that core of pure darkness inside. Again, again, again. The overseer kept roaring, but Aelin kept attacking, until—

She vomited all over the stones between them. Aedion hauled her upright.

Aelin lifted her head. She’d burned off his clothes, but not touched the skin.

And there—pulsing against his ribs as if it were a fist punching through—was his heart.

It slammed into his skin, stretching bone and flesh.

Aelin flinched back. Aedion threw a hand in her path as the overseer arched in agony, his mouth open in a silent scream.

Lysandra flapped down from the rafters, shifting into leopard form at their side and snarling.

Again, that fist struck from inside. And then bones snapped, punching outward, ripping through muscle and skin as if his chest cavity were the petals of a blooming flower. There was nothing inside. No blood, no organs.

Only a mighty, ageless darkness—and two flickering golden embers at its core.

Not embers. Eyes. Simmering with ancient malice. They narrowed in acknowledgment and pleasure.

It took every ounce of her fire to steel her spine, to tilt her head at a jaunty angle and drawl, “At least you know how to make a good entrance, Erawan.”





16


The overseer spoke, but the voice was not his. And the voice was not Perrington’s.

It was a new voice, an old voice, a voice from a different world and lifetime, a voice that fed on screams and blood and pain. Her magic thrashed against the sound, and even Aedion swore softly, still trying to herd her behind him.

But Aelin stood fast against the darkness peering at them from the man’s cracked chest. And she knew that even if his body hadn’t been irreparably broken, there was nothing left inside him to save anyway. Nothing worth saving to begin with.

She flexed her fingers at her sides, rallying her magic against the darkness that coiled and swirled inside the man’s shattered chest.

Erawan said, “I would think gratitude is in order, Heir of Brannon.”

She flicked her brows up, tasting smoke in her mouth. Easy, she murmured to her magic. Careful—she’d have to be so careful he did not see the amulet around her neck, sense the presence of the final Wyrdkey inside. With the first two already in his possession, if Erawan suspected that the third key was in this temple, and that his utter dominance over this land and all others was close enough to grab … She had to keep him distracted.

So Aelin snorted. “Why should I thank you, exactly?”

The embers of eyes slid upward, as if surveying the hollow body of the overseer. “For this small warning present. For ridding the world of one more bit of vermin.”

And for making you realize how fruitless standing against me will be, that voice whispered right into her skull.

She slammed fire outward in a blind maneuver, stumbling back into Aedion at the caress in that hideous, beautiful voice. From her cousin’s pale face, she knew he’d heard it, too, felt its violating touch.

Erawan chuckled. “I’m surprised you tried to save him first. Given what he did to you at Endovier. My prince could scarcely stand to be inside his mind, it was already so vile. Do you find pleasure in deciding who shall be saved and who is beyond it? So easy, to become a little, burning god.”

Nausea, true and cold, struck her.

But it was Aedion who smirked, “I’d think you’d have better things to do, Erawan, than taunt us in the dead hours of the morning. Or is this all just a way to make yourself feel better about Dorian Havilliard slipping through your nets?”

The darkness hissed. Aedion squeezed her shoulder in silent warning. End it now. Before Erawan might strike. Before he could sense that the Wyrdkey he sought was mere feet away.

So Aelin inclined her head to the force staring at them through flesh and bone. “I suggest you rest and gather your strength, Erawan,” she purred, winking at him with every shred of bravado left in her. “You’re going to need it.”

A low laugh as flames started to flicker in her eyes, heating her blood with welcome, delicious warmth. “Indeed. Especially considering the plans I have for the would-be King of Adarlan.”

Aelin’s heart stopped.

“Perhaps you should have told your lover to disguise himself before he snatched Dorian Havilliard out of Rifthold.” Those eyes narrowed to slits. “What was his name … Oh, yes,” Erawan breathed, as if someone had whispered it to him. “Prince Rowan Whitethorn of Doranelle. What a prize he shall be.”

Aelin plummeted down into fire and darkness, refusing to yield one inch to the terror creeping over her.

Erawan crooned, “My hunters are already tracking them. And I am going to hurt them, Aelin Galathynius. I am going to hone them into my most loyal generals. Starting with your Fae Prince—”