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sorrow. It didn’t halt him from sliding a hand
onto Damaris’s pommel, as if he were
casually resting it.
“We sought you so we might speak.”
Manon’s cold, calm voice rang out over the
rocks. “We mean you no harm.”
Damaris warmed at the truth in her words.
“This time,” the brown-haired witch who’d
spoken earlier muttered. Her coven leader
elbowed her in warning.
“Who are you, though?” Manon instead
asked the crone. “You lead these covens.”
“I am Glennis. My family served the
Crochan royals, long before the city fell.” The
ancient witch’s eyes went to the strip of red
cloth tying Manon’s braid. “Rhiannon found
you, then.”
Dorian had listened when Manon had
explained to the Thirteen the truth about her
heritage, and who her grandmother had bade