“Moth, she calls herself. An insect made holy for mastering death—but she is not holy. She’s the sixth Omen. Abbess of the tor. But you know her true name. There is not a man, woman, child, or sprite who does not. It wails on the wind. Looms, like her eponym cathedral, casting shadows, darkening this land.” And then she was right in front of me, her stone eyes locking onto mine. “Aisling.”
