wish to speak to Petrah Blueblood,” she
declared to the hall.
A young voice answered “I assumed so.”
The Blueblood Heir appeared through the
nearest archway, an iron band on her brow,
blue robes flowing.
Manon inclined her head. “Gather your
host in this hall.”
Manon hadn’t dwelled long on what she’d say.
And as the three hundred Ironteeth witches
filed into the hall, some coming off their
patrols, Manon half wondered if she should
have. They watched her, watched the Thirteen,
with a wary disdain.
Their disgraced Wing Leader; their fallen
Heir.
When all were gathered, Petrah, still
standing in the doorway where she’d
appeared, merely said, “My life debt for an