The Well of Talents had dominion over the Nightwell, but both wells were beyond Bastiaan’s own Talent. Their water was rising, coming no matter how long he left time stopped.

He needed to move quickly. He wasn’t willing to risk getting a Bane by submerging himself in the water.

Where was Myrthe? Was she underwater somewhere? Drowning? Urgency pulsed in his chest. He would not restart time until he’d found her. Until he’d fixed this.

The kleinschloss made the only sense for where Sven took her. He said he’d turn her in to King Mattias. Bastiaan had spent many months using the kleinschloss as an abode during his times in the Stillness. Ahead it rose like an island of deadwood and spires from a swamp of dark water.

He found the road beneath the water by memory. The water rose to his waist, but never any higher. Every step forward was a step up toward air and light.

He approached the gate. Two militairen stood guard, their frozen faces turned toward the paused rush of the Nightwell. Despite their servitude to their king, fear clearly gripped their core.

Bastiaan strode through the front gate. It didn’t take long to realize the kleinschloss was in a panic. Doors hung open. Small groups of militairen cowered on raised balconies against the rush of rising water.

If Sven brought Myrthe here, they would have been presented to King Mattias. Even if Sven thought he had the upper hand, King Mattias liked the power of authority. He enjoyed standing above others, sitting on a throne, being called king. His Bane was evidence of the desires of his heart: Power. Control.

Bastiaan arrived at the door to the main hall. It was shut and the water reached his waist. No matter how he heaved, he couldn’t get it open. He found and ascended the servants’ stairs until he was toward the back of the main hall where King Mattias would have entered. The door here was a little more elevated than the main entrance and hung open.

Bastiaan entered and stopped short.

Purple mist floated in the room like a fire smoking of magic had been left to burn. His lungs constricted at the sight of the Bane’s dominance.

The haze wasn’t so thick that he couldn’t see silhouettes and forms through the madness. He ducked under a snake of purple smoke that rose from the fingers of a militair whose face twisted in fury. Bastiaan followed the man’s gaze to his target.

Hedy.

Hedy had a thin purple cord around the neck of one of her own woodsfolk, dressed in a militair uniform. It wasn’t hard to see what Mattias had done—he’d given all of Sven’s followers a Bane and then commanded them against Sven, Kees, and Hedy.

Now Hedy was choking one to death to save her own life.