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angling to take the brunt of the attack.
But her grandmother had not charged. Not
at her.
No, the Blackbeak Matron sprinted for her
wyvern. Fleeing.
The Crochans tensed, fear giving way to
wrath as her grandmother hauled herself into
the saddle.
Manon raised a hand. “Let her go.”
A snap of the reins, and her grandmother
was airborne, the great wyvern’s wings
blasting them with foul wind.
Manon watched as the wyvern rose higher
and higher.
Her grandmother did not look back before
she vanished into the skies.
When there was no trace of the Matrons
left but blue blood and a headless corpse
staining the snow, Manon turned toward the
Crochans.