#the blackbeak matron

[that-book-bitch]

Is it just me or does the Blackbeak matron kinda give Mother Gothel vibes

[goddessofwisdom18]

The Crochan Sisters

[pergaminaa]

I’m thinking of how the Blackbeak Matron controlled the Thirteen including Manon by holding everyone against each other.

Manon knows that if she steps out of line, her grandmother will not hesitate and she will kill the entire coven just to teach her a lesson.

The Thirteen are threatened with something similar: any act of defiance from them, and the Matron will kill Manon. She knows that they are loyal to her, not to the clan. And she knows exactly how to keep them in check because they know that she will not hesitate to do this.

This way, she ensured everyone stayed put, and never entertained the thought of going against her because the stakes are very high and she has all the cards in her hands.

[sjmvillainweek]

Which villain from the SJM series Throne of Glass if your favorite? Tell us why in the notes!

Next week there will be a poll for Crescent City.

[acourtofquestions]

"I was never one to hold grudges. My grandmother held grudges, I'll always hate her for that."

— Asterin Blackbeak

[morecaffeineplease]

imagine you are sitting next to me reading on my kindle on a full plane and all of a sudden i start to shake because i'm crying over the backstory of a fictional witch...yeah i definitely couldn't imagine that

[manonslayme]

I feel like Manon’s reaction of panic and wrongness when she strikes her grandmother when she’s saving Asterin has extremely sinister intentions.

One, that the Matron has such a firm grip on Manon that, despite the fact that’s she‘s her abuser, Manon still feels that sense of wrongness for hurting her. The Matron has probably spent Manon’s whole life ruthlessly making a point that she is a superior and someone who should be followed, not rebelled against.

And two, the more heartbreaking one, that Manon probably feels this wrongness because something similar has happened.

The Matron physically abuses Manon multiple times, with Manon being unhappy about it but not striking back except with her words in a few cases. When someone is hurting or under attack in some way it’s a natural reaction to want to make it stop or struggle against it and while you could argue that Manon knows not to do those things because it’s a common sense thing I feel it’s much more haunting (and more likely) that’s it’s something that she has learned.

The Matron had no doubt hurt Manon physically in the past, probably even when she was a witchling, and younger Manon probably made moves to stop her grandmother from hurting her. She probably fought back, struggled, tried to run away, only for her grandmother to beat her harder for trying to stop it. She probably enforced the idea that trying to stop the pain the Matron inflicted would only make the pain worse, so much so that it still affected Manon years later and in a life or death situation.

It’s not because she cares for the Matron, she’s expresses no feelings of a familial connection despite the Matron being her grandmother, it’s because she fears the Matron on such an intense and deep level that she’s still afraid to fight back.

[all-about-that-rec]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Asterin Blackbeak & Manon Blackbeak Characters: Asterin Blackbeak, Manon Blackbeak, Blackbeak Matron (Throne of Glass) Additional Tags: fuck the matron, Manon wants to commit violence, Asterin also does but has sense Summary:

Asterin knows hate well.

So, perhaps it comes as a shock that she’s so surprised to see it on Manon’s face when her cousin sees the Matron.

[rowaelinsdaughter]

KEEP MY HEART CHAPTER I

a/n;; everybody, this is HAPPENING OMG!!!! this is going to be my first story and this is my first fic with my OC (read the information here). this fic is written in 3rd person so there is no use of "you".

i was thinking and maybe im going to write fics using my oc, as i said in my post of the OC, i want to improve, i want to change, i want new things, new experiences... and this is my first step. so i hope u guys enjoy this. (reblogs are appreciated and this doesnt mean im not going to write character x reader, my requests are still open)

WARNINGS;; spoilers for heir of fire, mentions of death

manon blackbeak was eager to come back. she has been hunting crochans for weeks and finally, she reached a cottage in the north of fenharrow and now, she was prepared for blood. hiding in the closet, she listened to the three men that had broken in. 

she heard them open the door to the room. 

“come out, little crochan,” one of them said. 

with their backs to the closet, manon slipped out  and quietly closed the bedroom door. 

“wrong kind of witch.”

✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮

the moon was up in the sky when ayla moonsinger approached the cliff where a certain moon-white haired witch was waiting. she looked how her hair danced with the wind and by the pose, she knew manon was enjoying the wind. knew there were few sounds she enjoyed more than the groans of dying men, but the wind was one of them.

step by step, she got closer to her figure until her arms were hugging manons waist, feeling them a smile appeared on her face, one that never allowed to show in front of the matron… or anyone except for the thirteen. her coven. she twisted around to face ayla and took her face between her hands. 

hazel eyes and golden eyes looked at each other. looked into their souls. 

“hello witchling” manon purred. 

ayla leaned her forehead until they were touching. manon was the first one who initiated the kiss. their hands explored each other's bodies while their mouths were a mix of teeth, lips and tongues. ayla was the first one who broke the kiss first, caressing her cheek, manon left kisses on her neck making ayla laugh with delightment.

“manon, your grandmother is coming here soon…”

“let me feel you, i haven't seen you in months”

“i know… i missed you too”

a low whistle sounded from behind and manon snarled, ayla turned around and found asterin leaned on a tree, a smirk displayed on her beautiful face and her braid falled down her shoulder. 

“calm down you wolf, it's only asterin.”

manon rolled her eyes and left a kiss on her cheek. if asterin was here that meant the rest of the coven was also here… and the blackbeak matron would be here anytime soon.

they were all positioned when the matron arrived. voluminous midnight robes flowed around her with the wind. the memories flooded her mind like it was yesterday. 

her parents dead. her screaming. the matron slapping her face. “you’re coming with me”. her first day, week, month, year. the anniversary of their parents. the old houses of terrasen honoring her house, honoring the last member of the family… her. her first crochan. her first kill.

she hated her. hated the way she was and the way she treated everyone, specially manon and the thirteen. and she hated how she needed to act to survive. because that was not what she learned, she wasnt that way. she wasn't cold hearted, she wasn't cruel. there wasn't a day in which she didn't regret the person she was sometimes. what would my parents think about me?  she usually asked herself, and in the long nights where she was hunting, in the nights she couldn't sleep next to her mate, she looked to the stars and searched for the lord of the north and mourned a family, a city, long forgotten.

two hours passed until the matron got out of the caravan where she had talked with a duke.  “we are leaving now,” the matron said. manon jerked her chin to the thirteen and they fell in line, ayla between asterin and sorrel. “you two will protect her with your life, is that clear?” and that was 100 years ago. a lifetime now that the magic was gone.

ayla watched manon and her grandmother talk. about what? she didn't want to hear it.

when the matron was gone, ayla and the thirteen approached manon, the first one caressing her lovers back.

“apparently, the king needs riders. wyvern riders for his cavalry” her smile was wicked “we are traveling north”

all rights reserved to ©rowaelinsdaughter. no tranlations allowed. no copy theme. don not copy my work.

tagging;; @danikamariewrites @thehighladywrites @throneofsapphics @shadowdaddies @ladybambifae

[danikamariewrites]

Can you please do fem reader x injured Manon?

Iron Nails and Pale Skin

Manon x reader

Warnings: descriptions of injuries, angst

Vesta lead you down the hall to the infirmary. You could see the healers rushing in and out, their arms full of supplies to stop Manon’s bleeding. When one of them came out, her apron drenched in blood you picked up your pace passing Vesta.

In your hurry to get into the room you crashed into a healer. You didn’t bother apologizing as you pushed past to get to the giant clump at the far end. Manon was on that bed. You needed to see her with your own eyes.

When Vesta burst into your chamber fifteen minutes ago to tell you Manon was gravely injured you didn’t hear anything else she said. You just blindly ran out the door, your mind going blank and your body moving like you’d been possessed.

You couldn’t lose her. Life wouldn’t be worth living if Manon was gone.

Pushing through the clump of healers your eyes landed on Manon’s injuries. You were almost sick on the spot.

The pale skin of her stomach was shredded. You got flashbacks to when the Blackbeak matron did the same thing, but this time it was worse. There was almost no skin left. You had never seen her writhe in pain like this. Manon had never liked to show weakness.

You knelt next to her cot as the healers rushed around her trying to mend the skin. Grabbing one of her hands you squeezed until Manon squeezed back. There were tears flowing from your eyes quickly. Your face contorted in pain for your girlfriend.

“Manon please,” you whispered frantically, “please I need you.” The Witch Queen slightly turned her face towards you. Those burnt gold eyes full of pain. It broke your heart to see her like this. She was always the strong one.

Manon’s grip began to weaken on your hand and you started screaming. “Manon please!” You heard one of the healers say something behind you but you didn’t register what she said. All you heard was your pleading screams for Manon to stay with you.

Next thing you knew Asterin’s arms were lifting you up, pulling you away from Manon. You thrashed against her screaming for Asterin to let you go. You didn’t stop until she put you down in your chambers using all her strength to keep your arms pinned to your side.

You bared your teeth at Asterin, growling through your tears. “Let me go gods damn it!” “I can’t do that, y/n. We need to let the healers work.” You could see the pain in her face.

Your knees buckled as you let out a sob. Asterin caught you, bringing you to the floor carefully. You gripped her tunic as she let you cry on her. It felt like you were there for hours. You didn’t stop crying until your throat was raw.

You were lifeless in her arms. It was well past sundown when the head healer came to give you an update. Manon was stable. They managed to heal her but the scars were still healing.

You jumped up from the floor, rushing out the door again before Asterin could stop you.

When you entered the infirmary it was much calmer. Only a few healers and Manon cleaned and resting. You put your hand over your mouth holding back another cry.

You sit on the edge of her bed and hold her hand gently. You stay with her all night. When she finally stirs the sun just started rising. You held your breath as she blinked her eyes open. Manon groaned, wincing at her bandaged stomach.

She tried to sit up but you gently placed a hand on her shoulder forcing Manon to stay down. “Absolutely not. Your skin is still healing, it could rip if you move.” She groaned again. “Can you let up on my hand, baby.” “Oh, sorry.” You softly lay her pale, slender hand back down on the cot.

Manon gave you tired smile. “You look tired. Have you slept.” You scowled at her. “Of course I haven’t. I’ve been worried sick about you. Manon I thought,” you choked on your words. You didn’t even want to say it. “I thought you were going to die.” You shook your head as new tears fell.

Manon reached a shaking hand up to wipe your tears away. “But I’m right here baby. And I’m not going anywhere.” “Promise?”

“I promise.” You rest your head on her chest to listen to her slow beating heart. Manon was here. She’s alive. And you were never letting her go.

[wingedblooms]

Song of the wind

This is a Maasverse post, and as such, there are spoilers for all Maas series. Proceed with caution.

There once was a dark cottage at the edge of the forest, and in that cottage rested a bed: 

The room was large enough for a rickety dresser and the enormous ironwood bed we slept in. The sole remnant of our former wealth, it had been ordered as a wedding gift from my father to my mother. It was the bed in which we’d been born, and the bed in which my mother died. In all the painting I’d done to our house these past few years, I’d never touched it. (acotar)

A bed made of ironwood, as @offtorivendell pointed out a long time ago. This is the only mention of ironwood in the acotar series. And as you may remember, ironwood is connected to Ironteeth witches: 

Leaning into the breeze was the closest she came to flying these days—save in rare dreams, when she was again in the clouds, her ironwood broom still functioning, not the scrap of useless wood it was now, chucked into the closet of her room at Blackbeak Keep. (hof)

-

A fierce, wild thrill pierced Manon’s chest, sharp as a knife. Following the Matron’s gaze, Manon looked to the horizon, where the mountains were still blanketed with winter. To fly again, to soar through the mountain passes, to hunt down prey the way they’d been born to … 

They weren’t enchanted ironwood brooms. But wyverns would do just fine. (hof)

Unlike Crochan witches who use redwood for their brooms, Ironteeth witches make their brooms from ironwood. It is unclear what wood is used for brooms in Midgard. Queen Hypaxia's broom is quite intricate, carved with clouds and flowers and stars, and turns into a broach of the earth goddess, Cthona, when it is not being used.

It is no coincidence that the Archeron sisters were born in an ironwood bed; it’s the only possession they kept from their past. If that doesn’t scream witches, I don’t know what does.  

In tog, we learn that Ironteeth witches carve their own brooms, as Manon recalls: 

Manon could still feel how her own hands had ached during the long days she’d whittled down her first broom from the log of ironwood she’d found deep in Oakwald. The first two ventures had resulted in snapped shafts, and she’d resolved to carve her broom more carefully. Three tries, one for each face of the Goddess. (koa)

This instantly made me think of Papa Archeron and his skill with wood. He bought the ironwood bed for his wife, and in it she birthed three sisters, one for each face of the Goddess. @starswhogaze suggests that he might even possess the gift of Sight, his eyes lost to memory, clouded. Is he a rare-born witch prince (of merchants), and did he See something in the future that compelled him to find the missing queen, Vassa, and gather an army? Or was he influenced by Koschei on the wind, as @offtorivendell has discussed before?

Ironteeth witches and their ironwood brooms are linked to the wind: 

She’d been thirteen, mere weeks past her first bleeding, which had brought about the zipping current of power that called to the wind, that flowed through the brooms and carried them into the skies. Each stroke of the chisel, each pound of the hammer that transformed the block of near-impenetrable material, had transferred that power into the emerging broom itself. (koa) 

Not only does this make me think of Papa Archeron and his chisel, spreading love and beauty with his carvings, but it also reminds me of Nesta’s trove of death-swords. She hammers raw magic into the swords like more elemental fae once did. 

I also can’t help but think about Elain imbuing objects or the land itself with power. Is that what her carved rose might foreshadow? Is it made of ironwood? Nesta describes the rose as a dark sort of wood with solid weight. Ironwood is known for being strong and dense, making it more difficult to carve. (And I just love the juxtaposition of something so delicate being so strong and solid, near-impenetrable.)

Nesta takes the dark rose from the cottage mantel and places it next to a figurine of the Mother in the House of Wind; the Mother is one of the faces of the Goddess that witches in Midgard and Erilea worship. Blooms are an important symbol for witches in Erilea, too:

A few bore flowers, but many brought small stones to lay on the site. Those who had neither laid down whatever personal effects they could offer. Until the blast site was covered, as if a garden had grown from a field of blood.

[…]

“Be the bridge, be the light. When iron melts, when flowers spring from fields of blood—let the land be witness, and return home.” (koa)

@offtorivendell pointed out that this imagery is similar to the way Elain is described in the witch accusation. She's a rose bloom among soldiers in a mud field, and at the end of the original series, she expresses a desire to create gardens after so much bloodshed and death.

Could Elain’s ironwood rose might mean we'll see her travel on the wind? Like Illyrians, Ironteeth witches fly and have a deep connection with the wind. Their power calls to the wind, and as we see with Manon, the wind sings to them in return:

Hurry northward, the wind sang, day and night. Hurry, Blackbeak. (koa) 

When Elain meets the Illyrians, the very first question out of her mouth is about their ability to fly, and we learn they hear the song of the wind from birth like Ironteeth witches. 

Elain said to Azriel, perhaps the only two civilized ones here, “Can you truly fly?” 

He set down his fork, blinking. I might have even called him self-conscious. He said, “Yes. Cassian and I hail from a race of faeries called Illyrians. We’re born hearing the song of the wind.” 

“That’s very beautiful,” she said. “Is it not—frightening, though? To fly so high?” 

“It is sometimes,” Azriel said. Cassian tore his relentless attention from Nesta long enough to nod his agreement. “If you are caught in a storm, if the current drops away. But we are trained so thoroughly that the fear is gone before we’re out of swaddling.” (acomaf)

We see the frightening scenario Azriel describes above play out when he rescues Elain and Briar, the former notably silent when they briefly lose the current. It’s as if she was Made to travel on the wind.

Azriel turned, the girl moaning in terror as he lost a few feet to the sky—before he leveled out and soared beside me. (acowar)

There are so many possibilities for how the song of the wind might connect to Elain’s powers. She might transform into a winged predator, as Blodeuwedd does, and/or she might move through the world like the Cauldron, a force that is travels unseen and constantly shifts form. Her power is repeatedly paralleled with Azriel’s abilities, and we already know that he learned the language of shadow and wind and stone when he was trapped in darkness. Elain’s sense of sound is also heightened after she is Made in the dark depths of the Cauldron:

“When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” 

She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?” 

He wasn’t sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, “No, lady. I cannot.” (acowar)

[…]

“There is a garden—at my other house,” I said. “I’d like for you to come tend it, if you’re willing.” Elain only turned toward the sunny windows again, the light dancing in her hair. “Will I hear the earthworms writhing through the soil? Or the stretching of roots? Will the bird of fire come to sit in the trees and watch me?” (acowar)

She can hear, see, and communicate with things that others cannot. It would not be a surprise if this extended to the wind, among many other things as @silverlinedeyes suggests in her Singer post. 

“Don’t,” Elain said flatly, starting once more into a walk, veils of steam drifting past her shoulders from the roasted rosemary potatoes in her hands, as if they were Azriel’s shadows. “She won’t listen.” (acofas)

Another word for steam is mist and mist can create a murky environment. Both oracles and mystics use murky environments, such as smoke-filled rooms or cloudy tubs of liquid, to access their gifts and respond to specific questions. I believe this environment is meant to mimic the murky waters of the Cauldron. The oracle in Midgard listens to answers in the smoke, much like Elain listens to a voice in her murky realm. When asked a question she cannot answer, she says it is all mist and shadow. 

Mor leaned forward. “Do you know why the other queens cursed her—sold her to him?” 

Elain studied the table. “No. No—that is all mist and shadow.” (acowar)

Mist and shadow. Like @offtorivendell, I believe Elain will need to use the language of shadow and wind and stone, or its counterpoint, for travel through the void as well as clear visions, which brings me back to witches. Ironteeth witches blink clear eyelids into place for protection, like owls. These eyelids allow them to see clearly in murky conditions while they fly. 

The smoke of countless forges stung Manon’s eyes enough that she blinked her clear eyelid into place upon landing in the heart of the war camp to the sound of pounding hammers and crackling flames. (qos)

In the Blodeuwedd post, I theorized that Elain blinks like an owl when she uses her gift of clairvoyance. Clairvoyance means clear sight or vision. Like an Ironteeth witch, she might blink to to see clearly, or focus her vision, in her murky realm. Does she possess an inner light, like owls of legend? Or can she hunt on sound alone, like an owl who has adapted to her dark environment? Move like a pale wraith through the darkness of the Void?

Her skin was so pale it looked like fresh snow in the harsh light. I realized then that the color of death, of sorrow, was white. The lack of color. Of vibrancy. I left Cassian and Rhys by the door. Nesta’s rage was better than this … shell. This void. My breath caught as I edged around her chair. Beheld the city view she stared so blankly at. Then beheld the hollowed-out cheeks, the bloodless lips, the brown eyes that had once been rich and warm, and now seemed utterly dull. Like grave dirt. 

[…]

Perhaps that was why she now kept all the curtains open. To fill the void that existed where all of that light had once been. And now nothing remained. (acowar) 

Void is darkness that devours all light. A Night Court weaver wove dark fabric in her grief and called it Void. Dark fabric is also linked to movement earlier on in the series, when Feyre learns to winnow: 

“How does that … vanishing work?” I said softly. I’d seen only a few High Fae do it—and no one had ever explained. 

Rhys didn’t look at me, but he said, “Winnowing? Think of it as … two different points on a piece of cloth. One point is your current place in the world. The other one across the cloth is where you want to go. Winnowing … it’s like folding that cloth so the two spots align. The magic does the folding—and all we do is take a step to get from one place to another. Sometimes it’s a long step, and you can feel the dark fabric of the world as you pass through it. A shorter step, let’s say from one end of the room to the other, would barely register. It’s a rare gift, and a helpful one. Though only the stronger Fae can do it. The more powerful you are, the farther you can jump between places in one go.” (acomaf)

Void seems to be the dark fabric of the world that characters weave through as they winnow.

Darkness gobbled us up, and it was instinct to grab him as the world vanished from beneath my feet. Winnowing indeed. Wind tore at me, and his arm was a warm, heavy weight across my back while we tumbled through realms, Rhys snickering at my terror. (acomaf)

And this tumbling through realms in darkness sounds like the description of Wyrdgates, black areas where life passes between worlds, that Baba Yellowlegs gives to Aelin.

“There are gates—black areas in the Wyrd that allow for life to pass between the worlds. There are Wyrdgates that lead to Erilea. All sorts of beings have come through them over the eons. Benign things, but also the dead and foul things that creep in when the gods are looking elsewhere.” (com)

@silverlinedeyes theorized that Elain may use the Void to travel unseen. In the space between, I talk about the opposing forces of Azriel and Elain and the balance, or harmony, in the place where they meet. Could Elain become a force of light and wind and color that penetrates the deepest darkness?

Azriel arrived first, no shadows to be seen, my sister a pale, golden mass in his arms. He, too, wore his Illyrian armor, Elain's golden-brown hair snagging in some of the black scales across his chest and shoulders. (acowar)

-

But sunlight on gold caught his eye—and Elain slowly turned from her vigil at the window. (acowar)

-

Even in the middle of winter, she was a bloom of color and sunshine. (acofas)

-

From the edge of my vision, purple and gold flashed—Elain. (acofas) 

-

Elain stood at the wall of windows, clad in a lilac gown whose close-fitting bodice showed how well her sister had filled out since those initial days in the Night Court. Gone were the sharp angles, replaced by softness and elegant curves. [...] Her sister turned toward her, glowing with health.

Elain's smile was as bright as the setting sun beyond the windows. (acosf)

-

The River House had finally fallen quiet after the raucous Winter Solstice party, the Faelights dimming to cast little pools of gold amid the deep shadow of the longest night of the year. [...] The Faelights gilded Elain's unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. (Azriel's bonus chapter)

Did she track Hybern and her family through her Sight, and then—like a pale wraith on the wind—weave through the dark fabric of the world to strike true? Was she Hope shining through the Void, as acofas may have hinted?

Before she appears out of shadow to rescue Nesta and Cassian, she comments on the movement of one of my favorite creatures: 

Her eyes shifted beneath her lids, the skin so delicate and colorless that the blue veins beneath were like small streams. “It moves …,” she whispered. “It moves through the world like … like the breath of the western wind.” (acowar)

Is this simply a poetic turn of phrase she uses for the Suriel’s movements, or does Elain understand the wind better than we realize? Is she familiar with the western wind specifically? Merrill, who is referred to as a witch (and reminds me of Manon), informs Nesta in acosf that she is descended from Rabbath, Lord of the Western Wind. Like witches, she too seems to have a special connection to the wind and presides over the spell-like ritual of the dusk services. Where is the Lord of the Western Wind from? Could it involve Dusk…or the Witch Kingdom in another world? All signs point to witches, as @psychologynerd reminded me of this:

Sometimes, Manon dreamed that she was in that room in the Omega, her half sister’s blood on her hands and in her mouth. Sometimes, she stood beside her grandmother, a witch fully grown and not the witchling she’d been at the time, and helped the Matron carve up a handsome, bearded man who begged for her life—his offspring’s life. Sometimes, she flew over a lush green land, the song of a western wind singing her home. (eos)

It's even more interesting that Elain specifically names the breath of the western wind, as though she has heard its call too. Though this list below is not exhaustive, the number of characters and creatures in the acotar series who are linked to the wind has grown immensely:

Suriel moving like a shadow on the wind and the western wind;

Illyrians hearing the song of the wind; 

Azriel learning the language of the wind;

Mor's blood calling her to go on the wind;

Koschei influencing others on the wind; 

Beron getting wind of Briallyn’s plans;

Queens scattering to the winds (like witches in tog); 

Autumn’s smokehounds moving as fast as the wind to sniff out any prey; and

Merrill hearing the wind through stone, a descendant of Lord of the Western Wind.

And because I was curious (and love to come back to connections between the Suriel and Elain), I reviewed how the Suriel traveled.

Like a shadow on the wind, the Suriel was off, a blast of dark that set the four naga staggering back. (acowar)

-

I glanced toward the river, as if I could see all the way to the cave, to where Rhysand slept. When I looked back at the Suriel, it was gone. (acomaf)

-

I drew my Illyrian blade, the metal singing in the thick air. But an ancient, rasping voice asked behind me, “Have you come to kill me, or to beg for my help once again, Feyre Archeron?” 

I turned, but did not sheath my blade across my back. 

The Suriel was standing a few feet away, clad not in the cloak I had given it months ago, but a different one—heavier and darker, the fabric already torn and shredded. As if the wind it traveled on had ripped through it with invisible talons. (acowar) 

The Suriel moves like a shadow on the wind, appearing and vanishing silently and suddenly, as Elain does now: 

Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.” (acowar)

“Feyre?” Elain was again at my side. I hadn’t heard her steps. Hadn’t heard any sound for moments. (acofas)

Elain spoke from the doorway, having appeared so silently that they all twisted toward her, “Using me.” (acosf)

“You came,” Elain said behind her, and Nesta started, not having heard her sister approach. She scanned Elain from head to toe, wondering if she’d been taking lessons in stealth either from Azriel or the two half-wraiths she called friends. (acosf)

Elain seems to move like the breath of the western wind too, and I have a feeling that if we could hear it as she might, it would sound like a chant.

Next: The sense chanted, or Elain's connections to witchy rituals.

Series: seer. wise woman. witch.

[chunkypossum]

Y’all wanna know some things that bother me SJM Books edition that lead to UNHINGED theories?!? : Obvious Spoilers for all of Sarah J Maas books …

*also, I told you these are unhinged thoughts, don’t come for me.. argue with your mama… just enjoy the ride.

- Why do we know the Bluebloods Matron name and not Blackbeak or Yellowlegs?

- And why does she share a name with the princess of Adriana in ACOTAR?

🧐

- Why is ACOTAR the only series in first person? What is Prythian hiding?

- And why is it only Feyres story? Nestas story is 3rd person but several different POV.

- What exactly were we not supposed to notice about the people or places Feyre saw or experienced that could easily be hidden in her 1st person POV?

🫣

- Why are feline descriptors used for everyone and everything , constantly?

😬

- The parallels between the library in the house of wind and the Torre Cesme

- Wombs

- Cats

- Darkness that stares back

- Haven for women

😉

- “I was never as good as I thought I was…” - Florence, but applied to Aelin- we gloss over the fact that she seriously considers conquering other worlds like wtf. What if Aelin, and hear me out, (I say this as I’m also on my knees for her bc she is my queen), is somehow responsible for the Asteri?

🤯

- 1. Briggs said, tugging on his shackles, “the only people I see on a daily basis are the ones who take me apart like a cadaver, and then stitch me up again before nightfall, their medwitches smoothing everything away.” 2. No injuries ever remained when she awoke. No pain. Only the memory of it, of Cairn’s smiling face as he carved her up over and over. 3. SJM:”what goes on on the dungeons might be too much, poor hunt Ruhn and baxian”… IM JUST SAYING.

🥲

- Ruhn shares a name with the mountain ranges in Erilea. Is he named after them?

- Perhaps his a nod to his mothers home.

- The ruhnn mountains are where the Stygian spiders made their home after they split with their sisters on the southern continent

- Handmaidens of Maeve who has VIOLET STARRY EYES,

- like Rhysand…

- Rhysand who looks like Ruhn….

- THE PIECES ARE THERE BUT HOW DO THEY FIT?

🙃

- When Feyre has visions/dreams of Amarantha in ACOTAR Rhys sees them…. When he recounts his story in ch 54(ACOMAF), why does he imply he didn’t know who she was dreaming about? He would know Amarantha wouldn’t he? In her dreams it was woman with red nails … we never get that little detail about Amaranthas looks. Why? Was it her? Or someone else?

👩🏻��🦯

- Cresseida, briar, Cormac… these are not common names so why the hell does she use them in more than one series?

🙃

Of course I can’t forget the classics….

- WHAT DID LORCAN DO?!? 👹

- And where the fuck is Vaughn? 👹

[ignite-stars]

between two lungs, dorian havilliard

an elaboration of this blurb!

War wasn’t fair. The blood-soaked fists that had dug into your pretty flesh and squeezed your heart with a vicious haste. The collapsed air of death that stole the breath from your lungs as everything you’d grown to vicariously love had been snatched away from you like a carrot dangled before your godsdamned nose.

Death had always taken a peculiar interest in you, trailing you like a shadow from the time you’d been born. Caring for you when you’d had no mother to rock you to sleep, and no father to protect you from the monsters that surely existed beneath your bed.

You’d seen it— you’d felt it. Sometimes, you even welcomed it.

All had gone to hell.

Chaol had gone to kill Dorian. Slunk off into the night while you’d been carefully assessing the sheer power that radiated off of the Blackbeak Matron’s granddaughter, Manon.

Fear— and a sick mix of relief— clawed up your throat as Rowan scrambled up from his position on the ground, head twisting in all directions to scent which direction Westfall had taken off into.

Aelin let out a string of curses, pushing to her knees, “where the hell did he go?” The blonde’s nose twitched before she suddenly hurtled off into the woods, not wasting any time in idly contemplating the consequences of her actions. Rowan followed shortly after, and you wondered if Aelin knew that she too, had gained a shadow of death in finding her Prince.

You were up on your feet before Aedion could grab ahold of you, heart thundering in your ears and a sudden nausea nearly knocking you back onto the cold forest ground. The war general was far too familiar with that reckless gleam in your eye, and he tilted his head. “Don’t fucking move—”

Chaol had taken off northbound, but your feet carried you the opposite, an odd tug pulling at your bones as though you were a puppet. You knew that feeling.

Grinning over your shoulder was the atonement of death and destruction. The reaper.

But he was not leading you towards death, he was commanding you to it.

The rustling of leaves and a loud growl indicated Aedion was begrudgingly following after you, instead of Aelin. You figured his queen would have his head on a silver platter if you had so much as a scratch to you under his watch. She rather liked you.

Ripping open the sheath on your thigh, you dug out a rose-encrusted blade, the very same weapon that had been used to collect every soul you’d ever stolen in your existence.

Vengeance was careening you, laughing in delight as your feet leaped over thick branches and boulders scattered on the floor of the woods, eyes pinned on the edge of the wood line, where you knew the royal carriage was carrying Dorian away.

Dorian Havilliard had been the first to look death in the eyes and swoon. He didn’t tremble, nor did he sneer. He smiled, and from that moment on, you’d been his. And he had been yours.

Death and her weakness.

“I’m telling you,” Aedion panted out, his footsteps loud and uncaring as he chased after you. “If you get the both of us killed, I’ll raise you from the fucking dead and murder you myself.”

“You can try,” you murmured, hands trembling as you were coming to terms with what you were going to do— what you had to do. The wicked scent tainting the night air was twisting your face into a scowl. Rotting flesh and undiluted violence.

Despite the blood-curdling scream that retched through the woods in the direction of where Aelin, Rowan, and Chaol had darted off into, you didn’t glance back. You didn’t falter. You would not yield.

You readjusted your grip on your blade, palms sheer with sweat.

He’d loved you. Dorian had loved you. He’d told you as often as he could, and yet you could never wrap your mind around the thought of someone being capable of seeing all of you and not minding the gore. But Dorian always had a knack for proving you wrong, and he surely loved to kiss you quite insane.

“Go find Aelin, Aedion.” You whispered into the quiet of the atmosphere. The only sound was the snapping of twigs beneath your booted feet, and the faltering of the War General’s steps. “She needs you.” You didn’t want him to think of you as a monster, when he witnessed the retribution you were going to command.

“Whitethorn and her make quite the team,” Aedion bit out, his tone venomous. “And if I let you die, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Some part of him understood you, no matter how much you hated it. Years of war and slaughter stained his hands, a mirror image of your own.

You made it to the edge of the woods, a clear view of the golden carriages that belonged to the wealth of the Havilliard family. They were heavily guarded, four soldiers patrolling each cart. The scent of decay had become overwhelming, and the land was scarce of any small folk.

You had found him.

Leaning casually against the frame of the caravan, face so unfamiliar to you that your stomach churned, Dorian had been gazing into the horizon— straight at you and Aedion— a cheshire cat smile adorning his chapped lips as though he’d been waiting for you.

You wanted to scream. Horrified.

His eyes were not his own. The way they’d once burned into you, now dull and dreadful. His mouth was not the same. Not the one he once slain over yours with so much tenderness, now wicked and hateful. His cheeks and brow bones no longer belonged to him. The same face you’d traced with your fingers and memorized with your lips, now so cold and empty.

“Dorian,” his name had left your lips, so quietly that the wind had carried your voice away. Faintly, you could hear Aedion pray to the gods.

The two of you had watched Dorian swagger his way through meeting the Blackbeak clan just moments before, but he’d never once looked your way. It hadn’t been real, then. You allowed yourself to harbor hope that you could save him.

Now, you wished he was dead.

Death would be a sweet reprieve from the egregious thing that was watching you through your lover’s eyes.

The Prince that dwelled inside him raised a hand, and sent you a haunting wave. Tears began to sting at the corners of your eyes as you realized you had let Dorian suffer for so long. You didn’t move, you didn’t blink, you didn’t breathe— you couldn’t breathe.

Aedion called your name, his own voice thick as he laid a gentle hand on your arm. “We have to go,” he rushed out. His head whipped around, trying to locate the thunderous roaring that was shaking the earth whole. “We have to go, now.”

You dug your fingers into the harsh bark of the nearest tree, using it to hold up the weight of your body while you attempted to hold yourself together. “No,” you slapped Aedion’s hand away, your skin feeling too tight and itchy. “No.”

Hushed whispers sliced through the air like knives, and you could barely register Aedion gasping out someone’s name before the heavy traces of pine and blood flooded your senses. You didn’t tear your eyes away from the man who held your beating heart in his hands.

“The witches,” a feminine voice that your brain registered as Aelin informed. “We ran straight into a den of witches. And we pissed them the hell off.”

The Prince cocked his head, daring you to make the first move. Your body wracked with uneven breaths, wanting nothing more than to bolt across the distance separating you from your lover and crush him in an embrace. To hold him close and never let go. To tell him you loved him.

“They’re already on our scent.” Rowan, wheezing through baited breath and clenched teeth. You presumed he was the one who reeked of blood. You should be moving, already urging him out of the woods to meet up with Lysandra and Nesryn. “We have to move quickly.”

You traced the edge of your blade with the pad of your thumb, blood beading at the cool kiss. That seemed to catch the Prince’s eye, and his smirk widened.

Your friends had fallen quiet, four cautious stares sharing knowing glances.

A gentle hand wrapped around your own, carefully trying to disentangle the blade from between your fingers before you inflicted any more damage to your skin. “We’ll find him again.” Chaol’s voice was raspy as he spoke, maybe even shaky. Dorian had loved him, too. “I promise.”

“Dorian,” you said, loud enough for your friends to soften, but not enough to travel across the field. You told yourself that you couldn’t leave him like this willingly, that wasn’t love— it was selfishness.

You surged forward, grief forking through your heart. You would bear the pain of losing Dorian a hundred times over if it meant he didn’t have to suffer anymore. Sometimes love was calloused, and demented, and twisted your soul in hellish ways that left you breathless.

But that was the gamble you had taken when you allowed Dorian to love you. When you allowed yourself to love him.

Arms immediately snared around your waist, a brute force hauling you backwards as you struggled to throw yourself forwards. “Dorian!” You screamed, hating the way you’d become so unrecognizable. Hopeless.

The Valg’s eyebrows drew taut, and his smile fell into a grimace.

Your insistent thrashing threatened Chaol’s grip, and wasted time. Valuable time to escape the wrath of the Blackbeak coven. You knew your friends’ patience had quickly come to an end. Where Rowan’s life was on the line, Aelin became less lenient. Vice versa.

“Aedion,” the Queen of Terrassen demanded.

A sigh loosed out before, “don’t kill me for this.” You slashed out with your blade as Aedion scooped you up and tossed you over his shoulder. The metal didn’t manage to do much besides slice open the back of his emerald tunic.

“No,” you cried out, betrayal evident in your tone while Aedion began to sprint through the woods, following a heavily wounded Rowan. “Please, I have to help him!”

“We will,” Aelin quickly assured, glancing back towards where the Valg Prince inhabiting Dorian Havilliard’s body stood. “We will.”

[pergaminaa]

I dunno why but in my brain Asterin is always taller than Manon. Manon is like 5’7 (same height as Aelin) but Asterin? She’s probably 5’10 or 5’11 she just has this tall energy. And also I think it’s because of what she represents to Manon? She’s her light, her lifeline, her support. Asterin is someone Manon can lean on and she will never let her down. She’s always there to support her, to guide her, to call her out when she’s fucking up and also— she’s always there to protect her.

Fuck, I’m going to cry now. But yes Asterin is definitely taller than Manon this is all I’m saying here.

[sjmvillainweek]

Maeve and Arobynn should fight for the title of winner.

ACOTAR Poll

(Totally don't pit Maeve and Amarantha against each other)

CC Poll

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 55-56

Chapter; Highlights, Notes, Tags, etc.

The Thirteen were on edge. They hadn't yet decided where to go. And hadn't been invited to travel with the Crochans to any of their home-hearths. Even Glennis's.

None of them, however, had looked his way when they'd prowled past. None had recognized him.

Dorian had just completed another walking circuit in his little training area when Manon stalked by, silver hair flowing. He paused, no more than a wary Crochan sentinel, and watched her storm through snow and mud as if she were a blade through the world.

Manon had nearly passed his training area when she went rigid.

Slowly, she turned, nostrils flaring.

Those golden eyes swept over him, swift and cutting. Her brows twitched toward each other. Dorian only gave her a lazy grin in return.

Then she prowled toward him.

Another assessing stare. "I would have thought you'd pick a prettier form."

He frowned down at himself. "I think she's pretty enough."

Manon's mouth tightened. "I suppose this means you're about to go to Morath."

"Did I say anything of the sort?" He didn't bother sounding pleasant.

Manon took a step toward him, her teeth flashing. In this body, he stood shorter than her. He hated the thrill that shot through his blood as she leaned down to growl at him. "We have enough to deal with today, princeling."

"Do l look as if I'm standing in your way?" She opened her mouth, then shut it.

Dorian let out a low laugh and made to turn away. An iron-tipped hand gripped his arm.

Strange, for that hand to feel large on his body. Large, and not the slender, deadly thing he'd become accustomed to.

Her golden eyes blazed. "If you want a softhearted woman who will weep over hard choices and ultimately balk from them, then you're in the wrong bed."

"I'm not in anyone's bed right now." He hadn't gone to her tent any of these nights. Not since that conversation in Eyllwe.

She took the retort without so much as a flinch. "Your opinion doesn't matter to me."

"Then why are you standing here?"

Again, she opened and closed her mouth. Then snarled, "Change out of that form." Dorian smiled again. "Don't you have better things to do right now, Your Majesty?" He honestly thought she might unsheathe those iron teeth and rip out his throat.

Half of him wanted her to try. He even went so far as to run one of those phantom hands along her jaw.

"You think I don't know why you don't want me to go to Morath?"

"Tell me to stay," he said, and the words had no warmth, no kindness. "Tell me to stay with you, if that's what you want." His invisible fingers grew talons and scraped over her skin. Manon's throat bobbed. "But you won't say that, will you, Manon?" Her breathing turned jagged. He continued to stroke her neck, her jaw, her throat, caressing skin he'd tasted over and over. "Do you know why?"

"Because while you might be older, might be deadly in a thousand different ways, deep down, you're afraid. You don't know how to ask me to stay, because you're afraid of admitting to yourself that you want it. You're afraid. Of yourself more than anyone else in the world. You're afraid." For several heartbeats, she just stared at him.

Then she snarled, "You don't know what you're talking about," and stalked away.

His low laugh ripped after her. Her spine stiffened. But Manon did not turn back.

Afraid. Of admitting that she felt any sort of attachment.

It was preposterous.

And it was, perhaps, true.

But it was not her problem. Not right now.

Manon stormed through the readying camp where tents were being taken down and folded, hearths being packed. The Thirteen were with the wyverns, supplies stowed in saddlebags.

Some of the Crochans had frowned her way. Not with anger, but something like disappointment.

Discontent. As if they thought parting ways was a poor idea.

Manon refrained from saying she agreed.

Even if the Thirteen followed, the Crochans would find a way to lose them. Use their power to bind the wyverns long enough to disappear.

And she would not lower herself, lower the Thirteen, to become dogs chasing after their masters. They might be desperate for aid, might have promised it to their allies, but she would not debase herself any further.

Manon halted at Glennis's camp, the only hearth with a fire still burning. A fire that would always remain kindled.

A reminder of the promise she'd made to honor the Queen of Terrasen. A single, solitary flame against the cold.

Manon rubbed at her face as she slumped onto one of the rocks lining the hearth. A hand rested on her shoulder, warm and slight. She didn't bother to slap it away.

Glennis said, "We're departing in a few minutes. I thought l'd say good-bye."

Manon peered up at the ancient witch. "Fly well." It was really all there was left to say.

Manon's failure was not due to Glennis, not due to anyone but herself, she supposed.

You're afraid.

It was true. She had tried, but not really tried to win the Crochans. To let them see any part of her that meant something. To let them see what it had done to her, to learn she had a sister and that she had killed her. She didn't know how, and had never bothered to learn.

You're afraid.

Yes, she was. Of everything.

Glennis lowered her hand from Manon's shoulder.

"May your path carry you safely through war and back home at last."

She didn't feel like telling the crone there was no home for her, or the Thirteen.

Glennis turned her face toward the sky, sighing once. Then her white brows narrowed. Her nostrils flared. Manon leapt to her feet.

"Run," Glennis breathed. "Run now."

Manon drew Wind-Cleaver and did no such thing. "What is it?"

"They're here." How Glennis had scented them on the wind, Manon didn't care.

Not as three wyverns broke from the clouds, spearing for their camp.

She knew those wyverns, almost as well as she knew the three riders who sent the Crochans into a frenzy of motion.

The Matrons of the Ironteeth Witch-Clans had found them. And come to finish what Manon had started that day in Morath.

The three High Witches had come alone.

Rushing steps crunched through the icy snow, halting at Manon's side just as Dorian's scent wrapped around her. "Is that—"

"Yes," she said quietly, heart thundering as the Matrons dismounted and did not raise their hands in request for parley. No, they only stalked closer to the hearth, to the precious flame still burning. "Don't engage," Manon warned him and the others, and strode to meet them.

It was not the king's battle, no matter what power dwelled in his veins.

Glennis was already armed, an ancient sword in her withered hands. The woman was as old as the Yellowlegs Matron, yet she stood tall, facing the three High Witches.

Cresseida Blueblood spoke first, her eyes as cold as the iron-spiked crown digging into her freckled brow. "It has been an age, Glennis." But Glennis's stare, Manon realized, was not on the Blueblood Matron. Or even on Manon's own grandmother, her black robes billowing as she sneered at Manon.

It was on the Yellowlegs Matron, hunched and hateful between them. On the crown of stars atop the crone's thinned white hair.

Glennis's sword shook slightly. And just as Manon realized what the Matron had worn here,

Bronwen appeared at Glennis's side and breathed, "Rhiannon's crown."

Worn by the Yellowlegs Matron to mock these witches. To spit on them.

A dull roaring began in Manon's ears.

"What company you keep these days, granddaughter," said Manon's grandmother, her silver-streaked dark hair braided back from her face. A sign enough of their intentions, if her grandmother's hair was in that plait. Battle. Annihilation.

The weight of the three High Witches' attention pressed upon her. The Crochans gathered behind her shifted as they waited for her response.

Yet it was Glennis who snarled, in a voice Manon had not yet heard, "What is it that you want?"

Manon's grandmother smiled, revealing rust-flecked iron teeth. The true sign of her age. "You made a grave error, Manon Kin-Slayer, when you sought to turn our forces against us. When you sowed such lies amongst our sentinels regarding our plans— my plans."

Manon kept her chin high. "I spoke only truth. And it must have frightened you enough that you gathered these two to hunt me down and prove your innocence in scheming against them."

The other two Matrons didn't so much as blink. Her grandmother's claws had to have sunk deep, then. Or they simply did not care.

"We came," Cresseida seethed, the opposite in so many ways of the daughter who had given Manon the chance to speak, "to at last rid us of a thorn in our sides."

Had Petrah been punished for letting Manon walk out of the Omega alive? Did the Blueblood Heir still breathe? Cresseida had once screamed in a mother's terror and pain when Petrah had nearly plunged to her death.

Did that love, so foreign and strange, still hold true? Or had duty and ancient hatred won out?

The thought was enough to steel Manon's spine. "You came because we pose a threat."

Because of the threat you pose to that monster you call grandmother.

"You came," Manon went on, Wind-Cleaver rising a fraction, "because you are afraid."

Manon took a step beyond Glennis, her sword lifting farther.

"You came," Manon said, "because you have no true power beyond what we give you.

And you are scared to death that we're about to take it away." Manon flipped Wind-Cleaver in her hand, angling the sword downward, and drew a line in the snow between them. "You came alone for that fear. That others might see what we are capable of. The truth that you have always sought to hide."

Her grandmother tutted. "Listen to you. Sounding just like a Crochan with that preachy nonsense."

Manon ignored her. Ignored her and pointed Wind-Cleaver directly at the Yellowlegs Matron as she snarled, "That is not your crown."

Something like hesitation rippled over Cresseida Blueblood's face. But the Yellowlegs Matron beckoned to Manon with iron nails so long they curved downward. "Then come and fetch it from me, traitor."

Manon stepped beyond the line she'd drawn in the snow.

No one spoke behind her. She wondered if any of them were breathing.

She had not won against her grandmother. Had barely survived, and only thanks to luck. That fight, she had been ready to meet her end. To say farewell.

Manon angled Wind-Cleaver upward, her heart a steady, raging beat.

She would not greet the Darkness's embrace today. But they would.

"This seems familiar," her grandmother drawled, legs shifting into attacking position.

The other two Matrons did the same. "The last Crochan Queen. Holding the line against us." Manon cracked her jaw, and iron teeth descended. A flex of her fingers had her iron nails unsheathing. "Not just a Crochan Queen this time."

There was doubt in Cresseida's blue eyes.

As if she'd realized what the other two Matrons had not.

There—it was there that Manon would strike first. The one who now wondered if they had somehow made a grave mistake in coming here.

A mistake that would cost them what they had come to protect.

A mistake that would cost them this war.

And their lives.

For Cresseida saw the steadiness of Manon's breathing. Saw the clear conviction in her eyes. Saw the lack of fear in her heart as Manon advanced another step.

Manon smiled at the Blueblood Matron as if to say yes.

"You did not kill me then," Manon said to her grandmother. "I do not think you will be able to now."

"We'll see about that," her grandmother hissed, and charged.

Manon was ready.

An upward swing of Wind-Cleaver met her grandmother's first two blows, and Manon ducked the third. Turning right into the onslaught of the Yellowlegs Matron, who swept up with unnatural speed, feet almost flying over the snow, and slashed for Manon's exposed back.

Manon deflected the crone's assault, sending the witch darting back. Just as Cresseida launched herself at Manon. Cresseida was not a trained fighter. Not as the Blackbeak and Yellowlegs Matrons were. Too many years spent reading entrails and scanning the stars for the answers to the Three-Faced Goddess's riddles.

A duck to the left had Manon easily evading the sweep of Cresseida's nails, and a countermove had Manon driving her elbow into the Blueblood Matron's nose.

Cresseida stumbled. The Yellowlegs Matron and her grandmother attacked again. So fast. Their three assaults had happened in the span of a few blinks. Manon kept her feet under her. Saw where one Matron moved and the other left a dangerous gap exposed.

She was not a broken-spirited Wing Leader unsure of her place in the world.

She was not ashamed of the truth before her.

She was not afraid.

Manon's grandmother led the attack, her maneuvers the deadliest. It was from her that the first slice of pain appeared. A rip of iron nails through Manon's shoulder. But Manon swung her sword, again and again, iron on steel ringing out across the icy peaks.

No, she was not afraid at all.

Around him, the Crochans thrummed with fear and dread. Either for the fight unfolding or the three Matrons who had found them.

But Glennis did not tremble. At her side Bronwen hummed with the energy of one eager to leap into the fight.

Manon and the High Witches sprang apart, breathing heavily. Blue blood leaked down Manon's shoulder, and small slices peppered the three Matrons.

Manon still remained on the far side of the line she'd drawn. Still held it.

The dark-haired witch in voluminous black robes spat blue blood onto the snow. Manon's grandmother. "Pathetic. As pathetic as your mother." A sneer toward Glennis. "And your father."

The snarl that ripped from Manon's throat rang across the mountains themselves.

Her grandmother let out a crow's caw of a laugh. "Is that all you can do, then? Snarl like a dog and swing your sword like some human filth? We will wear you down eventually. Better to kneel now and die with some honor intact." Manon only flung out an iron-tipped hand behind her, fingers splaying in demand as her eyes remained fixed on the Matrons.

Dorian reached for Damaris, but Bronwen moved first.

The Crochan tossed her sword, steel flashing over snow and sun.

Manon's fingers closed on the hilt, the blade singing as she whipped it around to face the High Witches again. "Rhiannon Crochan held the gates for three days and three nights, and she did not kneel before you, even at the end." A slash of a smile. "I think I shall do the same." Dorian could have sworn the sacred flame burning to their left flared brighter. Could have sworn Glennis sucked in a breath. That every Crochan watching did the same.

Manon's knees bent, swords rising. "Let us finish what was started then, too." She attacked, blades flashing.

Her grandmother conceded step after step, the other two Matrons failing to break past her defenses.

Gone was the witch who had slept and wished for death. Gone was the witch who had raged at the truth that had torn her to shreds.

And in her place, fighting as if she were the very wind, unfaltering against the Matrons, stood someone Dorian had not yet met.

Stood a queen of two peoples.

Yielding only those few steps, and nothing more.

Because Manon with conviction in her heart, with utter fearlessness in her eyes, was wholly unstoppable.

The other two witches had fallen back, as if waiting to see what might happen.

But she yielded no further ground. A wall against which the Yellowlegs Matron could not advance. The crone let out a snarl, attacking again and again, senseless and raging.

Dorian saw the trap the moment it happened.

No one seemed to breathe at all as Manon plunged Bronwen's sword into the icy earth beneath and bent to take the crown of stars from the Yellowlegs witch's fallen head.

He had never seen a crown like it.

A living, glowing thing that glittered in her hand. As if nine stars had been plucked from the heavens and set to shine along the simple silver band.

The crown's light danced over Manon's face as she lifted it above her head and set it upon her unbound white hair.

Even the mountain wind stopped.

Yet a phantom breeze shifted the strands of Manon's hair as the crown glowed bright, the white stars shining with cores of cobalt and ruby and amethyst.

As if it had been asleep for a long, long time. And now awoke.

That phantom wind pulled Manon's hair to the side, silver strands brushing across her face.

And beside him, around him, the Thirteen touched two fingers to their brow in deference.

In allegiance to the queen who stared down the two remaining High Witches.

The Crochan Queen, crowned anew.

The sacred fire leaped and danced, as if in joyous welcome.

"Go."

The Blueblood witch blinked, eyes wide with what could only be fear and dread.

Manon jerked her chin toward the wyvern waiting behind the witch. "Tell your daughter all debts between us are paid. And she may decide what to do with you. Take that other wyvern out of here."

Spared by the Crochan Queen on behalf of the daughter who had given Manon the gift of speaking to the Ironteeth.

Within seconds, the Blueblood Matron was in the skies, the Yellowlegs witch's wyvern soaring beside her.

Leaving Manon's grandmother alone.

Leaving Manon with swords raised and a crown of stars glowing upon her brow.

Manon was glowing, as if the stars atop her head pulsed through her body. A wondrous and mighty beauty, like no other in the world. Like no one had ever been, or would be again.

And slowly, as if savoring each step, Manon stalked toward her grandmother.

Warm, dancing light flowed through her, as unfaltering as what had poured into her heart these past few bloody minutes.

She did not balk. Did not fear.

The crown's weight was slight, like it had been crafted of moonlight. Yet its joyous strength was a song, undimming before the sole High Witch left standing.

So Manon kept walking.

She left Bronwen's sword a few feet away.

Left Wind-Cleaver several feet past that.

Iron nails out, teeth ready, Manon paused barely five steps from her grandmother.

A hateful, wasted scrap of existence. That's what her grandmother was.

She had never realized how much shorter the Matron stood. How narrow her shoulders were, or how the years of rage and hate had withered her.

Manon's smile grew. And she could have sworn she felt two people standing at her shoulder.

She knew no one would be there if she looked. Knew no one else could see them, sense them, standing with her. Standing with their daughter against the witch who had destroyed them.

Her grandmother spat on the ground, baring her rusted teeth.

This death, though ...

It was not her death to claim.

It did not belong to the parents whose spirits lingered at her side, who might have been there all along, leading her toward this. Who had not left her, even with death separating them.

No, it did not belong to them, either.

She looked behind her. Toward the Second waiting beside Dorian.

Tears slid down Asterin's face. Of pride- pride and relief.

Manon beckoned to Asterin with an iron- tipped hand.

Manon raised a hand. "Let her go."

When there was no trace of the Matrons left but blue blood and a headless corpse staining the snow, Manon turned toward the Crochans.

Their eyes were wide, but they made no move.

The Thirteen remained where they were, Dorian with them.

Manon scooped up both swords, sheathing Wind-Cleaver across her back, and stalked toward where Glennis and Bronwen stood, monitoring her every breath.

Wordlessly, Manon handed Bronwen her sword, nodding in thanks.

Then she removed the crown of stars and extended it toward Glennis. "This belongs to you," she said, her voice low.

The Crochans murmured, shifting.

Glennis took the crown, and the stars dimmed. A small smile graced the crone's face.

"No," she said, "it does not."

Manon didn't move as Glennis lifted the crown and set it again on Manon's head.

Then the ancient witch knelt in the snow.

"What was stolen has been restored; what was lost has come home again. I hail thee, Manon Crochan, Queen of Witches."

Manon stood fast against the tremor that threatened to buckle her legs.

Stood fast as the other Crochans, Bronwen with them, dropped to a knee. Dorian, standing amongst them, smiled, brighter and freer than she'd ever seen.

And then the Thirteen knelt, two fingers going to their brows as they bowed their heads, fierce pride lighting their faces.

"Queen of Witches," Crochan and Blackbeak declared as one voice.

As one people.