He turned to face the heavens, though the movement withdrew a groan from his shattered body. The sky had lightened. Sunrise? Icy wetness met the dry patches of his skin as he rolled. He shivered. Had he bled that much? Water slicked the side of his face.

Bastiaan dropped his hand to the ground. Splash. Almost an inch of water! The Well of Talents was refilling.

That meant . . .

Myrthe was using her wish.

“No!” He struggled to sit up and failed. She’ll die!

The water swelled and rushed over his body. He barely managed to lift his head above it with a gasp.

“Myr—!” Water caught him in his mouth. His lungs heaved and he tried to cough, but his dying body didn’t allow him to.

He convulsed, which sent its own jolts of pain through him.

The water rose higher, lifting him from the floor of the Well. It seemed to be taking deep breaths, as if preparing for a mighty shout.

Bastiaan got his head above the surface and managed a cough. He blacked out. A moment later he was above water again. It was higher. His feet couldn’t touch the ground.

Myrthe was dying.

Dying.

Dying.

“No!” He lifted his hand—the one that should have held a Talent Mark. It was crusted with blood and bits of hanging skin turned black. His finger gone.

But the Talent Mark had never been the source of his Talent. Just the evidence of it. Moonrise had come and gone over his fading body. His Talent should have renewed.

He pressed his thumb and ring finger together. Snapped. The movement was weak, but his heart and intention were the strongest they’d ever been.

The Well of Talents slowed its swirling. He felt the change of time in his blood.

It had worked.

He’d stopped time. And hopefully stopped Myrthe’s path to death.

Relief was short-lived because what could he do? He couldn’t even cough. He’d paused Myrthe’s lungs, the flow of her blood, the beat of her pulse . . . but once death finally came for him, time would start back up.

Myrthe would die anyway.

As though to remind him of his weakness, his legs stopped kicking. He had no core strength. He slipped beneath the surface. No buoyancy filled his lungs.

There’d be no resurfacing.

He allowed the silence to press against him. Fill him. Erase him. He’d failed.

Except . . . Water? You said . . . you said . . . Are you really here?

The silence after his question almost ended Bastiaan. But then. Small. Still. Gentle as the day it first whispered in his mind:

I am.

Relief filled his body like an inhale. Somehow, his fears washed away into the depths. Crushed like withered weeds.

Please . . . save her. Take away her curse. You put her Talent in her even when separated by leagues and leagues. I know you can save her. Take me instead.

I don’t trade life for life.