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The Crochan Queen, crowned anew.
The sacred fire leaped and danced, as if in
joyous welcome.
Manon scooped up Bronwen’s sword,
lifting it and Wind-Cleaver, and said to the
Blueblood Matron, the witch appearing barely
a few years older than Manon herself, “Go.”
The Blueblood witch blinked, eyes wide
with what could only be fear and dread.
Manon jerked her chin toward the wyvern
waiting behind the witch. “Tell your daughter
all debts between us are paid. And she may
decide what to do with you. Take that other
wyvern out of here.”
Manon’s grandmother bristled, iron teeth
flashing as if she’d bark a counter-command
to the Blueblood Matron, but the witch was
already running for her wyvern.
Spared by the Crochan Queen on behalf of
the daughter who had given Manon the gift of