Bastiaan was impressed by the young queen. She didn’t complain when the cold hit. She didn’t snub her nose when they bedded down on the lumpy ground for a mere three hours. She joined in chipping ice from the sides of the canal and melting it for the horses to drink. She removed her own tack, brushed her horse, and picked its hooves.

Whether she’d been raised caring for her own horse or simply had stamina, Bastiaan was proud to have her as his queen. Mattias did not deserve such a gentle yet resilient bride.

They pushed the horses as much as the beasts allowed. Since their pace left no room for conversation, Bastiaan spent much of the ride thinking. Too much thinking.

He was unused to the feeling of not having enough time. His destroyed Talent Mark itched and sometimes burned the more he thought about it . . . the more he wished he could stop time for all but them. Instead he had to function as the rest of the world. And he felt weak because of it. Less than. Like his identity had become nothing more than average.

There once was a time when he felt unique. Chosen by the Well to wield a powerful Talent. He’d spent years and years both in the Stillness and in the Awake gathering information, journaling his travels and discoveries so that someday the next generation would know everything they needed to about the Well.

He wanted to be the Talented who changed the course of history.

But he had not yet written about Mattias’s Bane or its effect on his Talent. He was too ashamed. Defeated—deflated—by a mere touch from the king he was supposed to serve. Now he had to get himself, Runt, and the queen to the Well before it was too late.

Not only that, but before Sven and Myrthe arrived. If Mattias caught Myrthe there, he’d stop at nothing to claim the Wishtress for his own.

Bastiaan gave Sterk another nudge with his heels.

Time fought him. He held on to the slim hope that the water would restore his Talent. He always believed the Well of Talents was superior and more powerful than the Nightwell.

Mattias’s Bane hinted otherwise.

If it could destroy Talents, there was nothing stronger.

“Did you ever find that canal rat you were searching for?” Runt asked the queen when they slowed their horses to a walk around midday the following afternoon. “Cairden?”

“Not yet.” She patted her horse on the neck.

“You’re still looking for him?”

She let out a long breath. “I’ll continue looking until I find him.”

Runt cringed. Bastiaan knew what the boy was thinking. That crat kid is long dead. There were no crats by the name of Cairden. Countless crats froze to death each year, especially young ones.

The kid must be her brother. Why else would she be so adamant about finding him?