“We move when we’re told to move,” Manon said to Asterin, gazing toward the setting sun. Soon—as soon as that sun vanished over those jagged black peaks—they could take to the skies. Her stomach grumbled. “And if you’re going to question orders, Asterin, then I’ll be happy to replace you.”

“I’m not questioning,” Asterin said, holding Manon’s gaze for longer than most witches dared. “But it’s a waste of our skills to be sitting here like hens in a coop, at the duke’s bidding. I’d like to rip open that worm’s belly.”

Sorrel murmured, “I would advise you, Asterin, to resist the urge.” Manon’s tan-skinned Third, built like a battering ram, kept her attention solely on the quick, lethal movements of her Second. The stone to Asterin’s flame, ever since they’d been witchlings.

“The King of Adarlan can’t steal our mounts from us. Not now,” Asterin said. “Perhaps we should move deeper into the mountains and camp there, where at least the air is clean. There’s no point squatting here.”

Sorrel let out a warning growl, but Manon jerked her chin, a silent order to stand down as she herself stepped closer to her Second. “The last thing I need,” Manon breathed in Asterin’s face, “is to have that mortal swine question the suitability of my Thirteen. Keep yourself in line. And if I hear you telling your scouts any of this—”

“You think I would speak ill of you to inferiors?” A snap of iron teeth.

“I think you—and all of us—are sick of being confined to this shit-hole, and you have a tendency to say what you think and consider the consequences later.”

Asterin had always been that way—and that wildness was exactly why Manon had chosen her as her Second a century ago. The flame to Sorrel’s stone … and to Manon’s ice.

The rest of the Thirteen began filing in as the sun vanished. They took one glance at Manon and Asterin and wisely kept away, their eyes averted. Vesta even muttered a prayer to the Three-Faced Goddess.

“I want only for the Thirteen—for all the Blackbeaks—to win glory on the battlefield,” Asterin said, refusing to break Manon’s stare.

“We will,” Manon promised, loud enough for the others to hear. “But until then, keep yourself in check, or I’ll ground you until you’re worthy of riding with us again.”

Asterin lowered her eyes. “Your will is mine, Wing Leader.”

Coming from anyone else, even Sorrel, the honorific would have been normal, expected. Because none of them would ever have dared to cast that tone to it.

Manon lashed out, so fast that even Asterin couldn’t retreat. Manon’s hand closed around her cousin’s throat, her iron nails digging into the soft skin beneath her ears. “You step one foot out of line, Asterin, and these”—Manon dug her nails in deeper as blue blood began sliding down Asterin’s golden-tan neck—“find their mark.”

Manon didn’t care that they’d been fighting at each other’s sides for a century, that Asterin was her closest relative, or that Asterin had gone to the mat again and again to defend Manon’s position as heir. She’d put Asterin down the moment she became a useless nuisance. Manon let Asterin see all of that in her eyes.

Asterin’s gaze flicked to the bloodred cloak Manon wore—the cloak Manon’s grandmother had ordered her to take from that Crochan after Manon slit her throat, after the witch bled out on the floor of the Omega. Asterin’s beautiful, wild face went cold as she said, “Understood.”

Manon released her throat, flicking Asterin’s blood off her nails as she turned to the Thirteen, now standing by their mounts, stiff-backed and silent. “We ride. Now.”

Abraxos shifted and bobbed beneath Manon as she climbed into the saddle, well aware that one misstep off the wooden beam on which he was perched would lead to a very long, very permanent drop.

Below and to the south, countless army campfires flickered, and the smoke of the forges among them rose high in plumes that marred the starry, moonlit sky. Abraxos growled.

“I know, I know, I’m hungry, too,” Manon said, blinking the lid above her eye into place as she secured the harnesses that kept her firmly in the saddle. To her left and right, Asterin and Sorrel mounted their wyverns and turned to her. Her cousin’s wounds had already clotted.

Manon gazed at the unforgiving plunge straight down the side of the tower, past the jagged rocks of the mountain, and into the open air beyond. Perhaps that was why these mortal fools had insisted that every wyvern and rider make the Crossing at the Omega—so they could come to Morath and not balk at the sheer drop, even from the lowest levels of the Keep.

A chill, reeking wind brushed her face, clogging her nose. A pleading, hoarse scream broke from inside one of those hollowed-out mountains—then went silent. Time to go—if not to fill her belly, then to get away from the rot of this place for a few hours.

Manon dug her legs into Abraxos’s scarred, leathery side, and his Spidersilk-reinforced wings glittered like gold in the light of the fires far below. “Fly, Abraxos,” she breathed.

Abraxos sucked in a great breath, tucked his wings in tight, and fell off the side of the post.

He liked to do that—just tumble off as though he’d been struck dead.

Her wyvern, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor.

The first time he’d done it, she’d roared at him. Now he did it just to show off, as the wyverns of the rest of the Thirteen had to jump up and out and then plunge, their bodies too big to nimbly navigate the narrow drop.

Manon kept her eyes open as they tumbled down, the wind battering them, Abraxos a warm mass beneath her. She liked to watch every stunned and terrified mortal face, liked to see how close Abraxos got to the stones of the tower, to the jagged, black mountain rock before—

Abraxos flung out his wings and banked hard, the world tilting and then shooting behind. He let out a fierce cry that reverberated over every stone of Morath, echoed by the shrieks of the Thirteen’s mounts. On a tower’s exterior stairs, a servant hauling a basket of apples cried out and dropped his burden. The apples tumbled one by one by one down the steps winding around the tower, a cascade of red and green in time to the pounding of the forges.

Then Abraxos was flapping up and away over the dark army, over the sharp peaks, the Thirteen falling smoothly into rank behind him.

It was a strange sort of thrill, to ride like this, with just her coven—a unit capable of sacking whole cities by themselves. Abraxos flew hard and fast, he and Manon both scanning the earth as they broke free from the mountains and cruised over the flat farmland before the Acanthus River.

Most humans had fled this region, or had been butchered for war or sport. But there were still a few, if you knew where to look.

On and on they flew, the sliver of a crescent moon rising higher: the Crone’s Sickle. A good night for hunting, if the unkind face of the Goddess now watched over them, even though the dark of the new moon—the Crone’s Shadow—was always preferred.

At least the Sickle gave off enough light to see by as Manon scanned the earth. Water—mortals liked to live near water, so she headed toward a lake she’d spotted weeks ago but hadn’t yet explored.

Fast and sleek as shadows, the Thirteen soared over the night-shrouded land.

At last, moonlight dimly glinted over a small body of water, and Abraxos glided for it, down and down, until Manon could see their reflection on the flat surface, see her red cape fluttering behind her like a trail of blood.

Behind, Asterin whooped, and Manon turned to watch her Second fling her arms out and lean back in her saddle until she was lying flat on her mount’s spine, her golden hair unbound and streaming. Such wild ecstasy—there was always a fierce, untamed joy when Asterin flew.