landing on the balcony. A white-haired rider
atop him.
Dorian stood, blinking, as Manon
Blackbeak dismounted. She scanned him, then
the dark stain on the balcony stones.
Her golden eyes lifted to his. Weary, heavy
—yet glowing. “Hello, princeling,” she
breathed.
A smile bloomed on his mouth. “Hello,
witchling.” He scanned the skies beyond her
for the Thirteen, for Asterin Blackbeak,
undoubtedly roaring her victory to the stars.
Manon said quietly, “You will not find
them. In this sky, or any other.”
His heart strained as he understood. As the
loss of those twelve fierce, brilliant lives
carved another hole within him. One he would
not forget, one he would honor. Silently, he
crossed the balcony.
Manon did not back away as he slid his
lily
(lily)
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