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rang across the mountains themselves.
Her grandmother let out a crow’s caw of a
laugh. “Is that all you can do, then? Snarl like
a dog and swing your sword like some human
filth? We will wear you down eventually.
Better to kneel now and die with some honor
intact.”
Manon only flung out an iron-tipped hand
behind her, fingers splaying in demand as her
eyes remained fixed on the Matrons.
Dorian reached for Damaris, but Bronwen
moved first.
The Crochan tossed her sword, steel
flashing over snow and sun.
Manon’s fingers closed on the hilt, the
blade singing as she whipped it around to face
the High Witches again. “Rhiannon Crochan
held the gates for three days and three nights,
and she did not kneel before you, even at the
end.” A slash of a smile. “I think I shall do the