Abraxos shifted his wing so that it shielded her from the wind. “I would have liked to have seen it,” Manon said quietly. “The Wastes. Just once.” Abraxos huffed, nudging her gently with his head. She stroked a hand over his snout. And even with the darkness squatting on the battlefield, she could picture it—the rolling, vibrant green that flowed to a thrashing gray sea. A shining city along its shore, witches soaring on brooms or wyverns in the skies above it. She could hear the laughter of witchlings in the streets, the long-forgotten music of their people floating on the wind. A wide, open
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