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

They didn’t get to Leriba. Or to Banjali. They didn’t even get close.

Lorcan felt the push on his shoulder that had guided and shaped the course of his life—that invisible, insistent hand of shadow and death. So they went south, then west, sailing swiftly down the network of waterways through Eyllwe.

Elide didn’t object or question when he explained that if Hellas himself was nudging him, that the queen they hunted was likely in that direction. Wherever it would lead. There were no cities out there, only endless grasslands that skirted Oakwald’s southernmost tip, then marshes. The abandoned peninsula full of ruins among the marshes.

But if that was where he was told to go … The dark god’s touch on his shoulder had never steered him wrong. So he’d see what he’d find.

He did not let himself dwell too long on the fact that Elide carried a Wyrdkey. That she was trying to bring it to his enemy. Perhaps his power’s summons would lead them both to it—to her.

And then he’d have two keys, if he played his cards right.

If he was smarter and faster and more ruthless than the others.

Then the most dangerous part of all: traveling with two keys in his possession, into the heart of Morath, to hunt down the third. Speed would be his best ally and only shot at survival.

And he’d likely never see Elide or any of the others again.

They’d at last abandoned their barge that morning, cramming whatever supplies would fit into their packs before setting off through the rippling grasses. Hours later, Elide’s breathing was ragged as they ascended a steep hill deep in the plain. He’d been scenting brine for two days now—they had to be close to the edge of the marshes. Elide swallowed hard, and he passed her the canteen as they crested the summit of the hill.

But Elide halted, arms slackening at her sides.

And Lorcan himself froze at what spread before them.

“What is this place?” Elide breathed, as if fearful the land itself would hear.

As far as the eye could see, flowing into the horizon, the land had sunk a good thirty feet—a severe, brutal crack from the edge of the cliff, not hill, on which they stood, as if some furious god had stomped a foot across the plain and left an imprint.

Silvery brackish water covered most of it, still as a mirror, interrupted only by grassy islands and mounds of earth—and crumbling, exquisite ruins.

“This is a bad place,” Elide whispered. “We shouldn’t be here.”

Indeed, the hair on his arms had risen, every instinct on alert as he scanned the marshes, the ruins, the brambles, and thick foliage that had choked some of the islands.

Even the god of death halted his nudging and ducked behind Lorcan’s shoulder.

“What do you sense?”

Her lips were bloodless. “Silence. Life, but such … silence. As if …”

“As if what?” he pushed.

Her words were a shudder of breath. “As if all the people who once lived here, long ago, are still trapped inside—still … beneath.” She pointed to a ruin—a curved, broken dome of what had likely been a ballroom attached to the spire. A palace. “I don’t think this is a place for the living, Lorcan. The beasts in these waters … I do not think they tolerate trespassers. Nor do the dead.”

“Is it the stone or the goddess who watches you telling you such things?”

“It’s my heart that murmurs a warning. Anneith is silent. I don’t think she wants to be anywhere near. I don’t think she will follow.”

“She came to Morath, but not here?”

“What is inside these marshes?” she asked instead. “Why is Aelin headed into them?”

That, it seemed, was the question. For if they picked up on it, surely the queen and Whitethorn would sense it, too—and only a great reward or threat would drive them here.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “No towns or outposts exist anywhere nearby.” Yet this was where the dark god had led him—and where that hand still pushed him to venture, even if it quaked.

Nothing but ruins and dense foliage on those too-small islands of safety from whatever dwelled beneath the glassy water.

But Lorcan obeyed the nudging god at his shoulder and led the Lady of Perranth onward.





“Who lived here?” Elide asked, staring at the weather-worn face of the statue jutting from a near-collapsed stone wall. It teetered on the outer edge of the little island they were standing on, and the moss-speckled woman carved there had no doubt once been beautiful, as well as a bit of support for beams and a roof that had since rotted away. But the veil she’d been carved wearing now seemed like a death shroud. Elide shivered.

“This place was forgotten and wrecked centuries before I was even born,” Lorcan said.

“Did it belong to Eyllwe?”

“It was a part of a kingdom that is now gone, a lost people who wandered and merged with those of different lands.”

“They must have been very talented, to have made such beautiful buildings.”

Lorcan grunted in agreement. It had been two days of inching across the marshes—no sign of Aelin. They had slept in the shelter of the ruins, though neither of them really got true rest. Elide’s dreams had been filled with the pale, milky-eyed faces of people she’d never met, crying out in supplication as water shoved down their throats, their noses. Even waking, she could see them, hear their cries on the wind.