those in the North.
“We fly with you,” Manon said.
Glennis nodded. “That broom belongs to a
black-haired witch named Karsyn.” The crone
jerked her chin toward the tents behind
Manon. “She’s on duty by your wyverns.”
Dorian decided he didn’t need a hidden place
to practice. Which was lucky, since there was
no such thing as privacy in the Crochans’
camp. Not inside the camp, and certainly not
around it, not with the sharp eyes of their
sentinels patrolling day and night.
Which is how he wound up sitting before
Vesta at Glennis’s hearth, the red-haired witch
half asleep with boredom. “Learning
shifting,” she groused, yawning for the tenth
time that hour, “seems like a colossal waste of
time.” She flicked a snow-white hand toward
the makeshift training ring where the Thirteen