might reveal.
The hours that passed were some of the
longest of Manon’s existence.
From anticipation, she told herself. Of
what she had to do.
Abraxos, unsurprisingly, found them
within an hour, his reins sliced from the
struggle he’d no doubt waged and won with
Sorrel. He waited, however, beside Manon in
silence, wholly focused upon the gate where
Dorian and Narene had vanished.
Time dripped by. The king’s sword was a
constant weight at her side.
She cursed herself for needing to prove—to
him, to herself—that she refused to let him go
into Morath for practical, ordinary reasons.
Erawan wasn’t at the Ferian Gap. It’d be safer.
Somewhat. But if the Matrons were there
...