The boy had been beastly—but had he been
human?
Hollin had not killed their father. Shattered
the castle. Let Sorscha die.
Dorian hadn’t dared ask Damaris. Wasn’t
certain what he’d do should the sword reveal
what he was, deep down.
So Dorian peered inward, to where his
magic flowed in him, to where it could move
between flame and water and ice and wind.
But no matter how he willed it, how he
pictured brown hair or paler skin or freckles,
nothing happened.
She was no messenger, but Manon took the
hint—and the offer. Along with three other
brooms, all for witches across the camp.
It would not be enough to fly with them to
Eyllwe. No, she’d have to learn about them.
Each of these witches.