She kept her wish to herself.

Now, of all times.

His vision flashed red. Of all the selfish— “Get out of here!” Why had she even come? To watch the action? Report to Sven?

She recoiled. “I’m sorry . . .”

He gave a bark of a laugh. “Tell that to Runt.”

“You said—”

“I’m taking him to my mother.”

“But that’s so far . . .”

“It’s the only place that can help.” His words were as stiff as the winter-chilled leather on his saddle. Mother had trained and studied all there was to know about healing beyond having a Talent of that sort. She knew Runt. She had the tools and necessities.

And frankly, after Sven refused to rescue Runt and Myrthe refused to help him with a wish, Bastiaan wasn’t about to entrust the dying boy into the hands of a frantic camp and disinterested leader.

He needed to get away from these people.

He pulled his gloves onto both hands, then leaned over Runt and snapped the arrow from the shaft. Runt let out a brief shout. Bastiaan left the head and stub in to act as a dam against bleeding out. Then he used the blanket from his pack to wrap Runt carefully without moving the stub.

Runt shuddered and finally lost consciousness.

Bastiaan lifted the boy from the ground. Myrthe moved to help him get Runt onto Sterk’s back, but Bastiaan jerked away from her touch. “Get away from me.”

She snatched her hand back. A flare of hurt filled her eyes. Then cold resignation.

He mounted and managed to settle Runt in front of him. “Wake up, Runt.” No response. Not even a shift in his breathing.

Bastiaan was running out of time . . . a problem he’d never faced before. It was a three-bell ride to the windmill at a leisurely pace. He intended to make it in less than half that. Myrthe held out the mare’s reins. He grabbed them, then slapped the mare’s rump and she took off.

He wasn’t about to leave the mare with Myrthe.

He couldn’t stand to see her face. Her Talent Mark shone against the sun and he hated it—hated her. She valued her own wishes more than Runt’s life. She was worse than Sven. Worse than Hedy’s bloodlust. She never deserved a Talent in the first place.

“Bastiaan . . .” Her desperate whisper angered him further.

Without a single word of farewell, he gave Sterk a swift command and the stallion burst forward, carrying Bastiaan both toward and away from hell.

If he ever came back—if he ever saw Myrthe again—it would be to do what he should have done in the first place: turn her over to the king and let him have what wishes he could force from her.

Chapter 27
Myrthe

I had almost given up my last wish. My last breath.