#literaturedit

Elide saw the sorrow on her face before she reached her. The dullness and pain in the golden eyes.
She went still. “Who?”
Manon’s throat bobbed. “All.”
All of the Thirteen. All those fierce, brilliant witches. Gone.
Elide put a hand to her heart, as if it could stop it from cracking.
But Manon closed the distance between them, and even with that grief in her battered, bloodied face, she put a hand on Elide’s shoulder. In comfort.
As if the witch had learned to do such things.