I’d been caught up in Runt’s pain. In Bastiaan’s distress. In the cruelty of the scout’s attack. And before logic or self-preservation could lift its voice, I’d found myself at Runt’s side. I’d wanted nothing more in that moment than to use my final wish to give life.

Just like Anouk had warned me. My greatest weakness was others. It felt wrong that it could be a weakness—it tried to destroy me again and again.

When Bastiaan assured me Runt would live, I returned to a state of clarity. Tore my gaze away from Runt’s trembling, helpless form. Retreated into the ice cavern in my chest.

As I stood by Runt’s frail body, I got a taste of what I could have done as the Wishtress. How I could have spent the first seventeen years of my life had Oma not interfered and dictated my worth. Saving others in the direst moments. Offering rescue when hope was bleeding out. But I’d had to deny myself that fulfillment and deny Runt that relief. All to keep my lungs expanding and contracting with purposeless oxygen.

That was how quickly it could happen. Death.

This reaction to Runt’s shooting proved how little of a handle I had over my emotions. I needed to try harder, to care less. Disengage.

And Bastiaan . . . Bastiaan left.

He left.

No hope of seeing him again. No opportunity to tell him the truth—to bring relief to the tight agony in my chest over the fact that he must think me a selfish monster. I didn’t blame him. But watching him leave felt so personal. As though I was bidding a final farewell to a friend I was meant to know so much better than I did.

I dreaded returning to Sven.

I could already hear his reprimand for riding off. Winter’s breath, the idea of continuing to dance around his desire for a wish while “supporting” his status as leader was exhausting. If he’d sent a few bowmen—even the rude bald one—they could have stopped the scout. Runt need never have been shot. But I couldn’t say these things.

Because Sven was now my last hope.

*  *  *

It was a long walk back to camp. The thorns in my bones sheared my body with every step. By the end I could hardly take a step without clinging to a tree branch or trunk for support.

I hardly recognized camp. Fires doused. Tents collapsed and packed up. Weapons no longer in piles, but in sheaths and quivers and pockets of the gathering crowd.

I found Sven conversing in low tones with Hedy while Kees rolled up the last tent. I could let them finish their conversation . . .

. . . or not.