“An Ancient,” Dorian mused, then murmured to Manon, “Baba Yellowlegs.” They all turned to him. But Manon’s fingers brushed against her collarbone—where the necklace of Aelin’s scars from Yellowlegs still ringed her neck in stark white. “This winter, she was at your castle,” Manon said to him. “Working as a fortune-teller.” “And what—she said something to that degree?” Aedion crossed his arms. He’d known of the visit, Dorian recalled. Aedion had always kept an eye on the witches—on all the power players of the realm, he’d once said. Manon stared the general down. “Yellowlegs was a
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