The first time, Sven pushed me unwillingly into the Trial. But this time, on the heels of his shredding words, I sprinted—skates and all—into it.

Chapter 43
Bastiaan

His Talent had fooled him.

Rather, he’d allowed himself too much hope. He’d thought it was coming back, fighting the Bane, but when he tried to stop time against Sven . . . nothing had happened.

“Bastiaan, where are you?” Myrthe’s voice came from far off. Though they’d crossed the mist together, somehow it had separated them. His hand felt cold without hers.

“I’m here,” Bastiaan called loud enough for her to hear, but he made no sudden movements. He stood in a forest of tall, smooth trees and a thin undergrowth of vines and grass. No dead sticks to snap or dried twigs to break to alert him to anyone—or anything—approaching.

He’d been in this Trial several times but never to fight it. The first time it had already been defeated, and all the subsequent times he’d entered it in the Stillness. It had always struck him as the most beautiful, but that was because it had not been his hunter.

The off-kilter patter of Myrthe’s feet announced her approach mere seconds before she was at his side, stuffing her gloves into her pockets. Her skates hung from her pack, wooden guards strapped over the blades. She was barefoot.

Her breath echoed with every exhale. The forest was too quiet. Unnatural. No beasts or birds or wind. Neither of them spoke, but her eyes darted from tree to tree. She didn’t seem afraid, just wary. Observant.

How was she unafraid? His own pulse seemed to be filling the silence with its pounding.

“It’s not like Winter,” she whispered. “There’s no voice here.”

No voice? He didn’t ask for clarification, just followed her lead. She’d defeated Winter all on her own. He’d arrived to see her silhouetted and fierce through the surrendering snow.

“What dangers can spring bring?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, brushing off the soles of her feet.

“Floods. Mudslides. Deadly insects. Strong winds if the temperature changes too quickly . . .” He could think of a thousand other threats. The leaves rustled as though his very mention summoned the wind.

Myrthe yelped and leaped on Bastiaan’s back. He barely kept his balance but had his throwing discs in hand within seconds. Tense and ready for battle. “What? What is it?”

“The ivy!” Her legs clamped tight around his waist and one hand gripped his shoulder. Her other hand held a skate aloft, blade at the ready.

The forest floor moved. What he had mistaken for the rustle of leaves was actually the crawling and growing of vines underfoot. Vines with red-tipped star leaves. “That’s fire oak!”

“Aptly named,” she griped. “I should have left my skates on.”