Sven threw himself against the top railing and bellowed, “The king is dead! King Vämbat is dead! Assassinated! By a Talented.”

The trampled earth beneath Bastiaan’s bare feet lurched. He pressed a hand against the bell tower until his head—and heart—cleared. They couldn’t save him. The king—Bastiaan’s king—had died.

The communal shock was broken by shouts. As Sven descended the scaffolding and set foot back on the ground, people swarmed him seeking answers. He lifted his hands. “That’s all I know. I came straight from my position at the schloss. Heard the news from a militair.”

The murmurs grew. A report straight from the schloss—the palace of their country. It held enough clout to stir the whole city.

Once people realized Sven had no further information, they pressed coins into his hands as thanks. Then the theories began, all shopping abandoned.

“Assassinated by a Talented? Now the crown will never let commonfolk travel to the Well of Talents.”

“Maybe his heir will be different.”

“Not likely. We should strike out for the Well while there’s chaos at the schloss.”

Even though Bastiaan’s glove covered his Talent Mark, he slid his hand into his pocket. If people realized he had a Talent, their growing frenzy would find a new target. Commonfolk had always been hungry for Talents—for an edge over their constant hunger and working to make ends meet. Talents were seen as a strike of gold, better than coming into an inheritance from a rich dead uncle.

A trip to the Well of Talents was always suggested as the easy fix. As though traveling for days to an unmarked Well to then battle four Trials in order to access its magic water was easy.

After the Talent talk died, a new question arose again and again as though repetition itself might procure an answer.

“How did the king die?”

“What sort of Talented did this?” This question contained an undertone of awe—as though the Talented who killed the king was fighting for the people. Making a statement.

“Maybe it was a wish,” Sven said.

Bastiaan straightened at this bold suggestion. A wish? This boy’s head had been in the canal too long. The last known Wishtress had died over two hundred seasons ago. He’d spent half of his own life searching for records of the Wishtress Talent. There weren’t many.

Myrthe rolled her eyes. “That’s quite a speculation.” She, at least, seemed grounded.

“I’ve heard rumor of wishes being sold right here in Fairhoven.” Sven’s voice rose as his theory picked up speed. “For all we know, this could be the home of the Wishtress herself!”