We rose from the grass, leaving two indents like those of two resting does. I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to return to Bastiaan empty-handed. But there was no more to say. “For the first time in our lives, you and I are on opposite sides, Anouk.”

She embraced me and kissed my forehead. “We may be on opposite sides, but that doesn’t mean we’re enemies.”

Chapter 24
Coralythe

“Fingers or toes?” The dungeon keeper had returned.

Coralythe peered at him through tired, swollen eyes. She wasn’t supposed to fear him. Not this time.

But he wasn’t talking to her.

Runt wouldn’t even spare the man a glance. This seemed to irritate Kravin because his face turned blotchy. He poked Runt’s dirty toes with a rusty metal pair of curved scissors. “Maybe I’ll take a couple of each, eh? Before I even ask you for the location of your master.”

“Go ahead,” Runt croaked with forced bravado. “I’m ready.”

“Oh no.” Kravin grinned. “I’ll give you some time to really think about it. To think about how it will feel to have your pinkie toe chopped off. It’s not a quick job, you know. The bone—”

“Enough.” Coralythe could not abide this man’s slimy voice or lust for violence. “Give him his time, would you?”

With a leer Kravin walked out.

“This is why I wanted a Talent,” Runt said, not much louder than the drips of water from the walls. “So I could protect myself. And others. Escape. Bastiaan said he’d always protect me. His Talent lets him do that. But this last time . . .”

“He hasn’t come for you,” Coralythe murmured. “Perhaps something happened to him. Maybe it’s keeping him from coming.”

This forced hope didn’t seem to have crossed Runt’s mind. His master was too indestructible, but at her comment he lifted his head and stared, eyes round as coins. “That must be it. Maybe he needs my help! And I’m stuck here!” He writhed against the chains, which dug into his young skin all the more, sending a string of blood down his arm to his elbow.

She wanted so badly to let that hope carry him free. To save a young boy who reminded her of her sons. But was it worth using her Bane? The very thought of using it created a draw inside her, a distant, deep voice urging her to use it. She’d spent half her lifetime resisting that voice—per the demands of her husband—yet ever since she gave in and cursed the Wishtress, she’d been set free.

Resisting the voice was no longer a desire. “I . . . may be able to help.”

“With your Talent?”

“It’s not a Talent, Runt. It’s called a Bane.”

“From the . . . Nightwell?”