For all the excitement, they ­were exhausted. Even the lofty-­headed Bluebloods had their tempers on tight leashes, and Manon had been called in a dozen times now to break apart brawls.

Manon used her downtime to see Abraxos—­to check on his iron claws and teeth, to take him out for extra rides when everyone ­else had passed out in their cots. He needed as much training as he could get, and she liked the quiet and stillness of the night, with the silvered mountain peaks and the river of stars above, even if it made waking up the next day difficult.

So after braving the wrath of her grandmother, Manon won two days off for the Blackbeaks, convincing her that if they didn’t rest, there would be outright war in the middle of the mess hall and the king ­wouldn’t have an aerial cavalry left to ­ride his wyverns into battle.

They got two days to sleep and eat and see to what­ever needs only the men across the mountain could provide. That was something a good number of the Thirteen ­were doing, as she’d seen Vesta, Lin, Asterin, and the demon twins stalking across the bridge.

No sleeping for Manon today or tomorrow. No eating. Or bedding men.

No, she was taking Abraxos out into the Ruhnns.

He was already saddled, and Manon ensured Wind-­Cleaver was tightly strapped to her back as she mounted him. The saddlebags ­were an unexpected weight behind her, and she made a note to start training the Thirteen and the rest of the covens with them. If they ­were to be an army, then they’d carry their supplies, as most soldiers did. And training with weights would make them faster when it came time to fly without them.

“You sure I ­can’t convince you not to go?” the overseer said as she paused at the back gates. “You know the stories as well as I do—­this won’t come without a cost.”

“His wings are weak, and so far everything ­else ­we’ve tried to reinforce them has failed,” she said. “It might be the only material that could patch up his wings and withstand the winds. As I don’t see any markets nearby, I suppose I’ll have to go directly to the source.”

The overseer frowned at the gray sky beyond. “Bad day for flying—­storm’s coming.”

“It’s the only day I have.” Even as she said it, she wished that she could take the Thirteen into the skies when the storm hit—­to train them in that, too.

“Be careful, and think through any bargain they offer you.”

“If I wanted your advice, I’d ask for it, mortal,” she said, but he was right.

Still, Manon led Abraxos out through the gates and to their usual takeoff spot. They had a long way to fly today and tomorrow—­all the way to the edge of the Ruhnn Mountains.

To find spidersilk. And the legendary Stygian spiders, large as ­horses and deadlier than poison, who wove it.

•

The storm hit right as Manon and Abraxos circled the westernmost outcropping of the Ruhnns. Through the icy rain lashing her face and soaking right through her layers of clothes, she could see that the mist hung low over the mountains, veiling much of the ash-­gray, jagged labyrinth below.

With the rising winds and lightning thrashing around them, Manon grounded Abraxos on the only open bit of land she could spot. She’d wait until the storm had passed, and then they would take to the skies and scan the area until they found the spiders. Or at least clues about their whereabouts—­mostly in the form of bones, she expected.

But the storm continued, and though she and Abraxos pressed themselves into the side of a little cliff, it did nothing to shield them. She would have preferred snow over this freezing rain, which came with so much wind that she ­couldn’t light a fire.

Night fell swiftly thanks to the storm, and Manon had to put her iron teeth away to keep them from chattering right through her lip. Her hood was useless, soaked and dripping in her eyes, and even Abraxos had curled into as tight a ball as he could against the storm.

Stupid, horrible idea. She pulled a goat leg from a saddle bag and tossed it to Abraxos, who uncurled himself long enough to chomp it down, and then went right back to shielding himself against the storm. She cursed herself for a fool as she choked down her own meal of soggy bread and a freezing apple, then gnawed on a bit of cheese.

It was worth it. To secure victory for the Thirteen, to be Wing Leader, one night in a storm was nothing. She’d been through worse, trapped in snowy mountain passes with fewer layers of clothes, no way out, and no food. She’d survived storms some witches didn’t awaken from the next morning. But she still would have preferred snow.

Manon studied the labyrinth of rock around them. She could feel eyes out there—­observing. Yet nothing came closer, nothing dared. So after a while, she curled on her side, just like Abraxos, her head and chest angled toward the cliff face, and tucked her arms across herself, holding tight.

Mercifully, it stopped raining in the night, or at least the angle of the wind shifted to stop pounding on them. She slept better after that, but she still shook from cold—­though it felt slightly warmer. Those small hints of warmth and dryness ­were probably what kept her from shaking to death or getting ill, she realized as she dozed off, awakening at the gray light of dawn.

When she opened her eyes, she was in shadow—­shadow, but dry and warm, thanks to the massive wing shielding her from the elements and the heat of Abraxos’s breath filling the space like a little furnace. He was still snoozing—­a deep, heavy sleep.

She had to brush ice crystals off his outstretched wing before he came awake.

•

The storm had cleared and the skies ­were an untamed blue—­clear enough that they only needed to circle the western outcropping of the Ruhnns once before Manon spotted what she’d been looking for. Not just bones, but trees shrouded in dusty gray webs like mourning widows.

It ­wasn’t spidersilk, she saw as Abraxos swooped low, gliding over the trees. These ­were only ordinary webs.

If you could call an entire mountain wood shrouded in webs ordinary. Abraxos growled every so often at something below—­shadows or whispers she ­couldn’t see. But she did notice the crawling on the branches, spiders of every shape and size, as if they had all been summoned ­here to live under the protection of their massive brethren.

It took them half the morning to find the ashen mountain caves hovering above the veiled wood, where bare bones littered the ground. She circled a few times, then set Abraxos down on an outcropping of stone at one of the cave mouths, the cliff face behind them a sheer plunge to a dried-­out ravine below.

Abraxos paced like a mountain cat, tail lashing this way and that as he watched the cave.

She pointed to the edge of the cliff. “Enough. Sit down and stop moving. You know why ­we’re ­here. So don’t ruin it.”

He huffed but plopped down, shooting grayish dust into the air. He draped his long tail along the length of the cliff ’s edge, a physical barrier between Manon and the plunge. Manon stared him down for a moment before an otherworldly, feminine laugh flittered from the cave mouth. “Now that beast is one we have not seen for an age.”

Manon kept her face blank. The light was bright enough to reveal several ancient, merciless eyes looming within the cave mouth—­and three massive shadows lurking behind. The voice said, closer now, pincers clicking like an accompanying drum, “And it has been an age since we dealt with the Ironteeth.”

Manon didn’t dare touch Wind-­Cleaver as she said, “The world is changing, sister.”

“Sister,” the spider mused. “I suppose we are sisters, you and I. Two faces of the same dark coin, from the same dark maker. Sisters in spirit, if not in flesh.”

Then she emerged into the murky light, the mist sweeping past her like a pilgrimage of phantom souls. She was black and gray, and the sheer mass of her was enough to make Manon’s mouth go dry. Despite the size, she was elegantly built, her legs long and smooth, her body streamlined and gleaming. Glorious.

Abraxos let out a soft growl, but Manon held out a hand to silence him.

“I see now,” Manon said softly, “why my Blueblood sisters still worship you.”

“Do they, now?” The spider remained motionless, but the three behind her crept closer, silent and observing with their many dark eyes. “We can hardly recall the last time the Blueblood priestesses brought their sacrifices to our foothills. We do miss them.”