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folded, hearths being packed. The Thirteen
were with the wyverns, supplies stowed in
saddlebags.
Some of the Crochans had frowned her
way. Not with anger, but something like
disappointment. Discontent. As if they
thought parting ways was a poor idea.
Manon refrained from saying she agreed.
Even if the Thirteen followed, the Crochans
would find a way to lose them. Use their
power to bind the wyverns long enough to
disappear.
And she would not lower herself, lower the
Thirteen, to become dogs chasing after their
masters. They might be desperate for aid,
might have promised it to their allies, but she
would not debase herself any further.
Manon halted at Glennis’s camp, the only
hearth with a fire still burning. A fire that
would always remain kindled.