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It was the matter of a few minutes before
warning cries rang out.
But Manon kept her hands in the air as
Abraxos landed at the edge of the Crochan
camp, the Thirteen and their wyverns behind
her, Vesta bearing both Dorian and the spider.
Spears and arrows and swords pointed at
them with lethal accuracy.
A dark-haired witch stalked past the armed
front line, a fine blade in her hand as her eyes
fixed on Manon.
Crochans. Her people.
Now—now would be the time to make the
speech she’d planned. To free those words
that she’d tethered within herself.
Asterin turned toward her in silent urging.
Yet Manon’s lips didn’t move.
The dark-haired one kept her brown eyes
fixed on Manon. Over one shoulder, a
polished wood staff gleamed. Not a staff—a