King Mattias’s voice followed him out, moving on now that Fairhoven’s spider had been caught. “So you see, gentlemen, why we cannot allow Talents. Particularly to commoners. Now who wants to enter the Nightwell water fir—”

The door slammed shut. Since his infiltration of King Mattias’s council had failed, there was no time to waste. No reason to comply.

Bastiaan cracked his elbow into the shorter militair’s nose. The militair cried out and Bastiaan wrenched himself free, dropped into a roll, then stood and sprinted up the corridor back the way they’d come. He reached the line of dutiful servants within a minute. “Time to go, Runt!”

The boy was not among the servants. He had likely heard the commotion and tucked himself into a spy nook. Bastiaan flew down the hallways and into the entryway, boots sliding along the polished marble.

“Bastiaan!” A cluster of militairen held Runt bound between them.

Bastiaan skidded to a halt and reached for his throwing discs only to come up empty. Blast. They were with his horse.

“You have to use one!” Runt hollered.

A time snap. Runt reached out his hand. In any other circumstance, Bastiaan would have used that moon’s time snap to freeze all the world and then pull Runt into the Stillness. But today his Talent was dead. He felt it.

“I can’t,” he croaked.

Runt’s face registered confusion, then hurt. The militairen pursuing Bastiaan caught up. His skills with throwing weapons and archery were unmatchable, but he had little to no chance of victory in physical combat, despite the training from King Vämbat. That left only one option—the one he loathed the most.

“I’m coming back for you, Runt!” He feigned a sprint toward the door. Militairen moved to intercept and he redirected toward the window. He heard the click of an arrow locking into a crossbow. Three . . . two . . . one . . . He ducked. The window shattered from the released arrow. “I’ll be getting that promise!”

The wish. He hoped Runt pieced it together—he’d be with Myrthe. Getting a wish. Until he could rescue Runt.

He leaped over the sill, bursting through the crumbling lattice and glass shards. At a whistle his stallion abandoned the stables and intercepted him. Within moments he was galloping away from the schloss, leaving behind a weeping boy.

Chapter 19
Myrthe

I scanned the camp for Sven before sneaking to the firepit with an armload of kindling. This truly was ridiculous. I shouldn’t feel guilty for gathering firewood.

I set it down, then stacked it quickly. Large pieces in one pile, smaller sticks in another.

“I thought I told you to stop that.” Sven strode from his tent to my side.

Winter’s breath. “I want to be useful.”

“You know how you can be useful . . . and this isn’t it.”