The water turned warm. Hot even—not to burning, but like a drawn bath after a long winter day on the canals. Something he’d experienced only once. His shivers and lungs calmed. His limbs worked for him. With him. Like the water was helping him. Boosting him.

The comfort made him want to stay. Only his head and neck remained cold. It would feel so nice to dip them into the warmth for a moment. Maybe even clear his mind.

But he hadn’t lived 107 years to give in to the first little temptation the Nightwell had to offer. “You’ll have to do better than that!”

Icy cold swept back in, removing any semblance of warmth. His limbs turned sluggish. Numb. He kept kicking, but a headache rose from where the water pounded against the back of his skull like a garden pick. He was hardly halfway across the expanse of sea. With this frigidity he’d never make it.

He wanted to tuck his limbs close to his body, find what little warmth he could from his core. The water rose to his ears. Or was he sinking? He tilted his head upward and flailed his limbs. It sent him downward.

“No!” He fought the liquid and gained an inch, sucking in as deep a breath as he could manage to create that buoyancy King Vämbat had talked about. Warm water met his feet, trying to lure him under.

Water splashed his face. He gasped and a wave surged down his throat. He choked. Sputtered. Managed a painful cough and tried to spit out what he could.

He would not fail.

Even if he couldn’t breathe. Even if he grew so numb his entire body emerged frostbitten. This was not his end. You cannot have me.

A furious whisper came from below.

You cannot beat me.

And then the water turned to tar.

Bastiaan fought the weight. This was like another Trial. Except the consequences of this one were everlasting. No amount of kicking, inhaling, or fighting accomplished anything. Buoyancy had no place against a sea of poisoned honey.

Bubbles popped around him, releasing a dark laugh with each pop. Help me! he called frantically to the Well of Talents coursing through his veins. The Well resided within him. It could do . . . something!

The tar passed his ears. Stuck to his hair. He tilted up his chin, taking a final breath.

Then the Nightwell sucked him under.

Chapter 57
Bastiaan

The Bane latched onto his mind like a parasite, piercing his will and clawing into his body and mind.

Not once did Bastiaan invite it. Not once did it resume its gentle, luring tone. This was a battle.

The Nightwell spit him out of the water, and he landed hard on the opposite bank at Coralythe’s feet. But he was no longer the same man who had entered the water on the bank of the kleinschloss.