The kleinschloss rested on the top of a hill, and as we entered the keep, my eye caught a line of torches snaking across the plains from the little palace toward where I assumed the Nightwell rested. A giant, empty canal lay like a deflated snake awaiting its morning meal.

Very little movement interrupted the flicker of torches. From what I could tell the canal was finished. All it needed now was the water from the Nightwell. And then it would spread all the way to Fairhoven.

We walked a dark path lit by the moon and what light shone through the kleinschloss’s windows. Untamed foliage choked the pathway—no gardeners out this way. It was a wild schloss meant for wild hearts seeking either Talent or Bane. Service or Self.

The longer I spent away from the markt—away from Oma—the more I realized how many lies had twisted their knotted laces around my understanding of my purpose. The Well made me the Wishtress for a reason. There must be something in me that would wield that Talent rightly.

The militair leader stopped at the edge of a fountain. “Here we are.”

Sven glanced back at the kleinschloss. “Where’s the king?”

“Waiting for you.”

An arrow tip poked me in the back. Judging by Kees’s and Hedy’s outcries, they were prodded too.

“What is this?” Sven demanded.

A figure loomed from the darkness, wrapped in shadows and Bane mist. Her dark hair tumbled to her waist, and when her dark eyes met mine, I nearly choked. Coralythe.

She jerked her chin at me. “That one.”

Hands grabbed my arms and hauled me toward the fountain. I tried to shout, but no words emerged from my broken voice. My useless feet posed no resistance.

“Stop!” Sven hollered. “That’s the Wishtress! She’s who the king wants!” If he thought this proclamation would slow the militairen’s efforts, he was wrong. It seemed to incense them.

A third militair joined the two pulling me toward the water.

“Of course she is,” the leader said. “And after a little dip in the Nightwell water, she’ll be loyal to him until death. Giving him any wish he needs.”

They lifted me from the ground and with one swing threw me into the depths.

The water closed around me like a blanket of midnight. I tried swimming for the surface, but the surface seemed to have disappeared.

As the world went silent, the water found its voice.

You finally made it.

I stilled. Unlike when I was in regular water, my filled lungs did nothing to provide buoyancy. I sank deeper as though the fountain had no bottom. But my lungs didn’t burn for air. Instead, they rested. Waiting.

Myrthe.

It knew my name. It knew me. And it sounded kind. Understanding.

I didn’t trust it. Let me go.

You’re not my captive. No one wants you free more than I do.