Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5) by Sarah J. Maas

Rowan was instantly there, shoving her back, sword out. Her magic—

“You should have given me the witch,” the Bloodhound laughed, and ripped the porthole clean out of the side of the ship. “Now he knows who you travel with, what ship you sail …”

The creature lunged for the hole it had hewn in the side of the ship, spindrift misting in.

A black-tipped arrow slammed into its knee, then another one.

The Bloodhound went down an inch from freedom.

Snarling as he stepped into the room, Fenrys fired another, pinning its shoulder into the wood planks.

Apparently, he didn’t take well to being impersonated. He gave Rowan a seething look that said as much. And that demanded how they all hadn’t noticed the difference.

But the Bloodhound wrenched herself up, black blood spraying the room, filling it with her reek. Aelin had a dagger angled, ready to fly; Manon was about to pounce; Rowan’s hatchet was cocked—

The Bloodhound chucked a strap of black leather into the center of the room.

Manon stopped dead.

“Your Second screamed when Erawan broke her,” the Bloodhound said. “His Dark Majesty sends this to remember her by.”

Aelin didn’t dare take her eyes off the creature. But she could have sworn Manon swayed.

And then the Bloodhound said to the witch, “A gift from a King of the Valg … to the last living Crochan Queen.”





Manon stared and stared at that braided leather band—the one Asterin had worn every day, even when battle did not demand it—and did not care what the Bloodhound had declared to the others. Did not care if she was heir to the Blackbeak Witch-Clan or Queen of the Crochans. Did not care if—

Manon did not finish the thought over the roar that silenced everything in her head.

The roar that came out of her mouth as she launched herself at the Bloodhound.

The arrows through the beast scratched at Manon as she tackled that dewy, bony body into the wood. Claws and teeth slashed for her face, but Manon got her hands around that neck, and iron tore through damp skin.

Then those claws were pinned in the wood beneath phantom hands as Dorian sauntered over, face so unyieldingly unmoved. The Bloodhound thrashed, those claws trying to wrench free—

The creature screamed as those invisible hands crunched down on bone.

Then through it.

Manon gaped at the severed hands a moment before the Bloodhound screamed, so loud her own ears rang. But Dorian crooned, “Be done with it.”

Manon lifted her other hand, wanting iron to shred her and not steel.

The others watched behind them, weapons ready.

But the Bloodhound panted, “Don’t you want to know what your Second said before she died? What she begged for?”

Manon hesitated.

“What a horrible brand on her stomach—unclean. Did you do that yourself, Blackbeak?”

No. No, no, no—

“A baby; she said she’d birthed a stillborn witchling.”

Manon froze entirely.

And didn’t particularly care as the Bloodhound lunged for her throat, teeth bared.

It was not flame or wind that snapped the Bloodhound’s neck.

But invisible hands.

The crunch echoed through the room, and Manon whirled on Dorian Havilliard. His sapphire eyes were utterly merciless. Manon snarled. “How dare you take my kill—”

Men on the deck began screaming, and Abraxos roared.

Abraxos.

Manon turned on her heel and sprinted through the wall of warriors, careening down the hall, up the stairs—

Her iron nails tore chunks out of the slippery wood as she hauled herself up, stomach aching. Muggy night air hit her, then the sea’s scent, then—

There were six of them.

Their skin was not bone white like the Bloodhound’s, but rather a mottled darkness—bred for shadows and stealth. Winged, all with humanoid faces and bodies—

Ilken, one of them hissed as it disemboweled a man in one swipe of its claws. We are the ilken, and we have come to feast. Indeed, pirates were dead on the deck, blood a coppery tang that filled her senses as she raced for where Abraxos’s roar had sounded.

But he was airborne, flapping high, tail swinging.

The shape-shifter in wyvern form at his side.

Taking on three of the smaller figures, so much more nimble as they—

Flame blasted into the night, along with wind, and ice.

One ilken melted. The second had its wings snapped. And the third—the third froze into a solid block and shattered upon the deck.

Eight more ilken landed, one ripping into a screaming sailor’s neck on the foredeck—

Manon’s iron teeth snapped down. Flame blasted again, spearing for the approaching terrors.

Only for them to sail through it.

The ship became a melee as wings and talons tore into delicate human hides, as the immortal warriors unleashed themselves upon the ilken that landed on the deck.





Aedion hurtled after Aelin the moment the wyvern roared.

He got as far as the main deck before those things attacked.

Before Aelin’s flame ruptured from the deck ahead, and he realized his cousin could look after herself because shit, the Valg king had been busy. Ilken, they’d called themselves.

There were two of them now before him on the quarterdeck, where he’d run to spare the first mate and captain from having their organs ripped out of their bellies. Both beasts were nearly eight feet and born of nightmares, but in their eyes … those were human eyes. And their scents … like rotted meat, but … human. Partially.