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The crown’s weight was slight, like it had
been crafted of moonlight. Yet its joyous
strength was a song, undimming before the
sole High Witch left standing.
So Manon kept walking.
She left Bronwen’s sword a few feet away.
Left Wind-Cleaver several feet past that.
Iron nails out, teeth ready, Manon paused
barely five steps from her grandmother.
A hateful, wasted scrap of existence. That’s
what her grandmother was.
She had never realized how much shorter
the Matron stood. How narrow her shoulders
were, or how the years of rage and hate had
withered her.
Manon’s smile grew. And she could have
sworn she felt two people standing at her
shoulder.
She knew no one would be there if she
looked. Knew no one else could see them,