“So you have been a Kin Slayer your whole life,” her grandmother purred. “Hunting down those Crochans—your relatives. When you were a witchling, your father searched the lands for you. He never stopped loving your mother. Loving her,” she spat. “And loving you. So I killed him.” Manon gazed at the drop below, the death that beckoned. “His despair was delicious when I told him what I’d done to her. What I would make you into. Not a child of peace—but war.” Made. Made. Made.
