The branches carved into the Shepherd King’s crown—his hilt. The blade, swinging through the air, rearranging the wood. A name, whispered against a yew’s gnarled trunk. And old name. For an old, twisted tree. The Shepherd King’s face. His son Bennett’s gray eyes. The Scythe had not worked on Bennett. Just as it did not work on Ravyn. I’m nothing like you. But you are. More than you know.
