For the twelfth time, Bastiaan took in the Well of Talents. It was just as plain, just as unassuming as it had been the first time he’d approached it. Only this time, instead of his rough, selfish boy-master Dehaan demanding a Talent from the water, Myrthe stood at its edge. Tentative, hopeful, curious.

It was a stunning contrast, and he determined to tuck the moment away in his memory.

She was meeting the Well for the first time. Could she hear its voice? Was it explaining her Wishtress Talent the way it had explained his Time Talent? Did her Talent Mark tingle with the magic?

His hands itched for his journal, his tongue biting back the questions. If the Well gave her answers, he was about to unlock a whole new understanding of Talents, the Wishtress, curses, Banes, and the Well—if she chose to share. He wouldn’t pressure her. It had been such a long time since the thrill of new knowledge had been before him.

Myrthe leaned over the stones. He kept his distance, held his breath. Gave her space.

“It’s dry.”

Was she speaking to him? “What?”

“It’s dried up.” Her voice sounded as hollow and empty as she claimed the Well to be. Of all the things he’d expected her to say, that was not one of them.

“Impossible.” He ascended the mound—ran to the Well—and leaned over the ring of stones. The wide mouth led to a parched throat of dirt. At the bottom . . . dust.

He shook his head. “But . . . this isn’t possible.”

“Wells run dry.” Myrthe grew stiffer by the moment. “This one ran its course.”

She didn’t understand. “I said that’s impossible.” Why was he growing angry? It wasn’t her fault. “This isn’t just a well, it’s a spring. Springs don’t dry up. Not this one. This one’s alive.” It wasn’t mere water.

She didn’t answer.

The Well—now a depressing pit—sat there. Silent. Drab. Dead. “I’ve studied the Well my entire life! Two lifetimes, even. This can’t happen—”

“Then explain it!” Myrthe spun on him. “If you know everything about it, explain why there is. No. Water.”

He couldn’t. Nowhere in his extensive study had he read a single word about the Well running dry.

“The Well has existed since the beginning. It’s supposed to be timeless.” He shook his head as if he could brush away the confusion. “The water used to flow down this mountain and into the rivers and canals. Even when men contained it in this Well, they couldn’t stop it.”

“It seems there’s an end to everything . . . and everyone.” Her voice rang with defeat.

Bastiaan spared her a glance. Her glassy eyes wouldn’t lift from the gaping maw of dry dirt before her. A shadow caught his eye in the center of the pit. Had that earth been dark before?