Bastiaan cried out and bent over, clutching his stomach. A splash of Nightwell water tumbled farther into the valley. “The longer we stay in the Stillness, the more pain I feel.”

“Then it’s time to start time again.”

“With what hope? How can we save people?”

I smiled. “Are you ready to see what my final wish was?”

He groaned and tried to stand. “I gave it to Coralythe. Sven had it . . . in a bottle.” His breathing turned labored.

“Sven was too late.” I laid a hand on Bastiaan’s cheek. “Trust me, Bastiaan. Trust the Well.”

His veins bulged. He didn’t have much fight left, but I saw when he surrendered. He straightened, lifted his free hand, and snapped his fingers.

Sound slammed into our ears as the rush of the Nightwell pouring into the canals and the valley resumed, like liquid thunder. Purple smoke and mist billowed up from the waters. I stood tall and faced the mountain where the Well of Talents resided.

“Look there.” I pointed. Bastiaan followed my gaze.

Then the Well of Talents exploded.

Chapter 60
Myrthe

The water from the Well sprang into the air like a geyser. Higher than the mountain, disappearing into the clouds and filling the sky with a spray of white rain. The wind caught it and gusted it toward the kleinschloss. The water grew and grew, tumbling over the tops of the mountain, drowning the Trials, gushing over hill and plain and rock and tree. It did not follow the downward slope of the hills.

No, the Well of Talents galloped across the plains toward the Nightwell water. And the Nightwell swerved in its course, trying to dodge the oncoming warrior.

The waters collided in a wall of wrestling. I squinted against the spray but refused to close my eyes.

This is happening because of you. You were faithful to me.

People burst out of the kleinschloss—the battle interrupted by the melee outside. Militairen and woodsfolk alike stumbled to a halt to watch in awe.

The impact of Talent against Bane sent the two bodies of water into the air like another geyser, but their drops did not fall back to the earth. Instead they rose into the sky like a writhing mess of warring snakes. It grew and grew, sucking up the water—both Nightwell and Well of Talents. Both drawing from every drop of power they possessed.

I clung to Bastiaan who, in turn, clung to a marble garden bust as the mighty wind pulled against us, trying to toss us into the battle taking place.

But we’d already fought. We’d already won. And we knew who the victor would be.