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Manon spent the long night helping the
Thirteen haul the fallen wyverns and Ironteeth
riders to another ridge. The ground was too
hard to bury them, and pyres would be too
easily marked, so they opted for snow. She
didn’t dare ask Dorian to use his power to
assist them.
She’d seen that look in his eyes. Like he
knew.
Manon dumped a stiff Yellowlegs body,
the sentinel’s lips already blue, ice crusted in
her blond hair. Asterin hauled a stout-bodied
rider toward her by the boots, then deposited
the witch with little fanfare.
But Manon stared at their dead faces. She’d
sacrificed them, too.
Both sides of this conflict. Both of her
bloodlines.
All would bleed; too many would die.
Would Glennis have welcomed them?