Sven shrugged. “Quarter of a bell. Maybe more.”

The man’s flippancy scalded the blood in Bastiaan’s veins, and his fingers curled to deliver a blow. But there was no time. Bastiaan whistled for Sterk. A minute later the horse was at his side. He mounted and Sterk lunged forward toward the Trials.

“With your dead Talent and her curse, you’re perfect for each other!” Sven hollered from a place of fractured pride. He knew more about what happened to Myrthe. Maybe even had done something to her. Bastiaan hoped he could get to her in time.

Screams broke the crisp morning air as Bastiaan thundered away.

“Militairen are coming!” someone shouted. “The king’s militairen are coming!”

“Gather your weapons!” Sven hollered. “Hedy! Get somewhere safe!”

As the people panicked like bees, Bastiaan didn’t tear his eyes away from the Trial. Let the militairen come. Let the people fight. Let the Nightwell be unleashed.

In that moment he didn’t care.

Myrthe was in the Trial. Alone. Possibly dead. He reined Sterk parallel to the mist. A magic veil of death. The one thing he feared most . . . the thing that had claimed the lives of father, friend, and foe.

He would not let it take her. At the very least, he refused to let Myrthe die alone.

Bastiaan launched himself from the saddle straight through the white mist.

Chapter 41
Myrthe

The frostbite was instant.

I sucked in a gasp, still reeling from Sven’s words. His shove. He’d pushed me into the Trial. To . . . die. That was the extent of his bitterness—as unrelenting as the cold battering my underclothed body.

Howling wind stole my hearing and my very thoughts. Sven’s name—and the fury, betrayal, and hurt that came with it—disappeared from my mind as quickly as the red from my cheeks. I stood in thigh-deep snow—crusted on top and light as feather dust beneath. The wind kicked it up, pummeling every inch of exposed skin with needles. I clamped my lips shut do I didn’t choke on it.

Hoarfrost branches. White blizzard. The familiar shock of cold accosting a previously warm body.

The first Trial was Winter. How did one defeat a season?

I tried to take a step. The ice crust atop the snow cut into my thigh like razor tips. Dots of blood seeped through my pants and froze in droplets atop the fabric.

What little warmth had filled my body turned prickly and thin, drawn out of me like an insect being emptied by a spider.

A hopeless surrender took hold. Why fight? This type of cold would take my breath, pulse, and will within minutes. Why not allow myself to die? Here, in this magical storm designed to kill, I tallied my reasons for living the same way I used to tally loaves of bread for sale at markt.

And came up wanting. Unsatisfied. Longing for something . . . more.