He’d surrendered fully to the Well, and in turn, it renewed him. He had died to his old life. Taken on a new mantle with his Talent. To use it as it was meant to be used. To enter into the oncoming battle between Bane and Talent. He’d studied Talents and Banes his whole life. Today—the day the wells were being released to flood the lands—he had a new purpose.

He strode across the surface of the Well of Talents and climbed over the edge onto dry ground. His pack lay against the edge of the ring of stones. Inside he found a set of clothing and dressed himself.

His hand hovered over his weapons. The stacks of discs he’d forged and sharpened himself and then spent years perfecting his throwing accuracy. He couldn’t bear to arm himself.

Although he was striding in among enemies, he would kill no one. Not one person more. Not Hedy. Not Mattias. Not Coralythe. Not Sven. Nor did he even want to threaten them. They would call him a fool for even thinking like this.

He didn’t care.

He had to trust that the Well of Talents had given him all he needed.

Time remained stopped—no flickering on and off. He now knew the flicker had been caused by the battle in his own heart. Mattias had silenced his Talent for a time, but when it started returning to him, Bastiaan treated it as an idol, not a gift. Once he surrendered to the true purpose of Talents, the Well cleansed him of Mattias’s Bane attack.

He’d never felt this new—not even when he first received his Talent.

Now clothed, he dipped his canteen into the water and filled it. He took a long draught. It was perfectly cold and quenching. Then he slung his pack over his back. The Well water ebbed and flowed, light still swirling in its midst.

“I’ll see you soon.” He turned toward the open valley, then paused before he rounded the corner. “And . . . thank you.”

He wasn’t leaving the Well. He was merely leaving the ring of stones he’d once foolishly believed could contain the water. The Well was in him.

He set his eyes forward.

It was time to save Myrthe.

Chapter 56
Bastiaan

Bastiaan shoved through the knee-deep water. His course to the kleinschloss had been a zigzag like that of a drunken snake as he made his way around and through the paused Nightwell waters. Unlike the Well of Talents, the Nightwell had been paused . . . or at least slowed. It still lapped at his ankles and nearby stumps and boulders. Rising ever so slowly. Straining against stopped time.

He could feel its anger at being forced to halt its roiling attack on the canals. It seethed as he waded through it. Awake. Hungry. Watching him.