She closed her eyes and dove into the dark waters of her mind. The Nightwell power rose swiftly to meet her, ready to be used once again. She lost herself to it, sifting through the curses and Banes it offered. Something to defeat another. Something that will not harm the boy. Something that will defend him and be a weapon.

She found the streams of color, of power, and wove them together. They had a mind of their own and spun foreign strands into the Bane. Thick purple smoke burst from her palms and encompassed Runt’s small body, swirling and pressing against his skin. He bucked against it.

“Don’t fight it,” she said.

The mist absorbed into his small body and his eyes snapped open—black, then purple, then their normal brown again. The flood in her mind subsided, leaving her gasping for air.

“I feel it,” he whispered. “There’s . . . a voice.”

“What’s it telling you? It will explain your Bane.”

He looked at Coralythe in horror. “What . . . what is this?”

“What’s it telling you?” she demanded again. Kravin’s whistle drew closer. “Quick!”

He shook his head, fearful. “I’m . . . my . . .” He choked on a sob. “My blood is . . . poison. It will kill whoever touches it.” He raised hollow eyes to hers. “How is that power?”

Deadly blood. Just as it gave him life while in his veins, if another person touched even a droplet, they would die. It was one of her better Banes. “It’s a defense!”

“I don’t think I want it.”

“It feels foreign and frightening right now, but you’ll be one with it. You’ll see.” She remembered all too well the pain of fighting her Bane as a young girl. Relief came once she accepted it—let it fully in and used the curses or Banes on those who deserved them.

“Did you decide, boy?” Kravin called from around the corner, his heavy clomps bringing him nearer.

“It can get you back to Bastiaan,” Coralythe hissed. “You can defend yourself, as you desired. Focus on that.”

“It didn’t give me a weapon. It made me into one.” He sounded on the verge of tears. “This isn’t like Bastiaan’s Talent. I can’t turn it off.” He leaned away from the trickle of blood that had half dried along his bare arm.

“You have to be strong, Runt. Like Bastiaan.” Invoking Bastiaan’s name seemed to be the most effective way to impact him.

Kravin walked in with a grin more sickly than decaying fruit. “I’ve decided on fingers.”

Runt curled his hands into fists. “Leave me alone.”

Kravin snapped the bone scissors open and closed in response. “Ready to tell me where your master is?” Silence hung in the tense air, shackled alongside Runt. “Fingers it is, then.”

“No!” Runt thrashed as Kravin approached. “Don’t touch me!”