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Manon stepped beyond the line she’d
drawn in the snow.
No one spoke behind her. She wondered if
any of them were breathing.
She had not won against her grandmother.
Had barely survived, and only thanks to luck.
That fight, she had been ready to meet her
end. To say farewell.
Manon angled Wind-Cleaver upward, her
heart a steady, raging beat.
She would not greet the Darkness’s
embrace today.
But they would.
“This seems familiar,” her grandmother
drawled, legs shifting into attacking position.
The other two Matrons did the same. “The last
Crochan Queen. Holding the line against us.”
Manon cracked her jaw, and iron teeth
descended. A flex of her fingers had her iron
nails unsheathing. “Not just a Crochan Queen