What was more, they’d beaten King Mattias and his militairen.

Had Mutti not found me—had Mutti not died—I would have made it long before Sven.

I’d spent the last day thinking about her. Her sacrifice. She’d used the last of her energy and life to find me. To be with me. She’d known she was dying and had gone into it with joy. Calm.

I’d been so focused on saving my own life, I never considered maybe this curse was going to be my end. And maybe something was worth dying for in order to use my last wish.

The concept shook me. I couldn’t manage to tuck it away or silence it.

I tried to focus on the Trials again. Sven. My original goal. I’d studied the map. A tiny thread of a canal led around the mountain to the back. Could it possibly lead to the Well a different way than through the Trials? I couldn’t risk losing the time to find out.

Sven was going to empty the Well—steal the water for himself to use for bargaining with Mattias. I needed to get to it before he gained control.

Which meant I needed to face Sven.

When I first stole that map, I thought it was to break out on my own. To finally be free, reach the Well, write my Wishtress story. Instead, maybe it was so I could be found. Not by myself but by my mother. To learn that I could be—had been—loved deeply for exactly who I was despite my mistakes, my regrets, my guilt, and even my future.

That was real freedom.

It empowered me to go through with whatever came next.

I removed my skates, replaced my boots, and walked along the tree line, keeping out of sight as long as possible. Eventually I crossed the exposed plain toward the Trials . . . and the woodsfolk. I felt their anger before I saw their gazes turn to me. Their fingers point. Their mouths whisper. Luuk and Archer looked ready to nock their bows and fire at my heart. The woodsfolk welcomed my approach as one would a leper. I was distinctly aware of my limp and the chaos in which I had left them.

The almost-lie of the wish in the vial.

What had Sven told them about me after I fled? What tale had he spun to remain the hero and paint me the villain? He stood ten yards from the Trial, planting himself between them and their fear. A stepping-stone from old ways to new freedom.

I walked to the wall of mist. I couldn’t turn back. There was nothing to turn back to. I had chosen this path and I must face it.