A scout with a Concealing Talent. And far closer than he ought to be.

Bastiaan gave a low three-note whistle. Runt’s head snapped his direction and the boy broke into a jog. The schloss scout must have had the ears of a fox because he abandoned his cover and burst from the grasses, giving chase.

“Runt!” Bastiaan kicked Sterk into motion.

Runt threw a glance over his shoulder, then started sprinting. He spied Bastiaan and distress filled his expression.

“No!” His voice was no louder than the brief chirp of a cricket trampled beneath the powerful thunder of Sterk’s hooves. “They’re coming for you!”

The scout unslung a crossbow and let loose an arrow. It flew so close to Bastiaan’s ear that the hiss of foiled death left behind the echo of a curse. Bastiaan was too far to use his throwing discs, so he nocked his own arrow and released it just as the scout swerved. Bastiaan had a second arrow nocked before he even registered the miss.

So did the scout. He stopped. Aimed. But this time it wasn’t at Bastiaan.

“Runt!” A strangled warning. Bastiaan released his arrow and it thunked into the scout’s chest . . . a blink too late.

The scout had shot first.

Runt toppled into the grass, an arrow in his back.

Chapter 26
Bastiaan

Time stopped, but not because Bastiaan willed it. The twitter of birds and buzz of insects—the very wind—turned mute. His own breath was squeezed from his body.

The grass around where Runt fell swayed from the gust of his collapse.

A scream startled him back into the world of sound. Of life . . . except life was being drained out of Runt into the soil. Myrthe rode the mare toward them, her determined gaze on Runt.

Bastiaan’s body moved of its own accord, leaping from Sterk’s back, bow clenched beneath white knuckles. He landed mere feet from Runt.

The boy had managed to roll onto his side, his small face twisted. Weeping.

Alive.

Blood soaked the soil beneath him like red rain. He needed aid. And fast. Bastiaan moved to scoop Runt into his arms.

“No!” Runt writhed away like a frightened stray, then cried out.

Bastiaan recoiled, afraid he’d somehow hurt him. “I’m helping you.” Perhaps Runt didn’t understand. “I have to get you to Mother. To Diantha.”

“That’s too far away,” Myrthe whispered from over his shoulder.

“Don’t . . . touch me!” Runt screamed, scrambling to put distance between them. Did he . . . fear Bastiaan?

Bastiaan leaned away with his hands up in an attempt to reassure the boy. As Runt’s panic escalated, Bastiaan’s calm thickened. “Let me help you.” He’d gather Runt by force in the next few seconds no matter what the boy said, but it’d be better if he didn’t have to worry about Runt further injuring himself through hysterics.

“I’m bleeding,” Runt sobbed.