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monitoring heavy cauldrons of what smelled
like mountain-goat stew seasoned with dried
herbs.
No words sounded in her head while she
strode through the ranks of bristling Crochans.
The Thirteen didn’t try to speak, either. But
Dorian did.
The king fell into step beside her, his body
a wall of solid warmth, and asked quietly,
“Did you know you had kin still living
amongst the Crochans?”
“No.” Her grandmother hadn’t mentioned
it in her final taunts.
Manon doubted the camp was a permanent
place for the Crochans.They’d be foolish to
ever reveal that. Yet Cyrene had discovered it,
somehow.
Perhaps by tracking Manon’s scent—the
parts of it that claimed kinship with the
Crochans.