But I didn’t blame her for stepping out of our company. By aligning herself with Mattias, she’d given us an ally back on the side of power. She would look out for us as best she could. It might not be much, but I far preferred that over Anouk being in a prison cell.

“Hartmut, hear me.” Sven attempted to straighten beneath the strain of his captors.

Hartmut’s eyebrows shot up at the interruption, and he faced Sven.

“You are the voice for the people now. You have a Talent—like I do. You don’t need to bow to the king’s whims anymore.”

“Even now—captured as you are—you’re against the king?”

I didn’t know if Sven was desperate or truly ignorant, but the note of challenge in Hartmut’s voice didn’t deter him from giving a blunt answer.

“King Vämbat was a scoundrel, and I see no reason why the Murder Prince would be anything less. The only thing Mattias has done for us is rid us of his father!”

“Hmm.”

Fuming, Mattias fumbled with a piece of parchment, scribbling, but Hartmut didn’t wait for whatever Mattias was about to write. He turned to a militair. “Kill him.”

The militair didn’t even turn to his king for permission. He drew his sword and plunged it through Sven’s belly.

I screamed and pounded the invisible wall separating us. Despite what Sven had done to me, I didn’t want to see him killed. At the very least he deserved a trial.

King Mattias looked as shocked as I felt. More from the fact that the command had come from Hartmut than from actual remorse over a snuffed life.

“I can see the future,” Sven choked, sinking to the cold, still-wet floor. “I can . . . help you.”

“With all the Talents and Banes currently spreading across the land, you’re expendable.” Hartmut turned to Mattias. He didn’t apologize. Didn’t ask for forgiveness. Only gave the king a shrug.

Sven shuddered, then stilled.

Dead.

I trembled and Bastiaan’s reassuring hands gripped my shoulders. His strength transferred to me and I kept my feet. Bit my tongue.

King Mattias left with Anouk. Militairen dragged Sven’s body out of the room.

Hartmut waited.

He was not wrong. We had nowhere to go and no defense. So when Runt finally removed the shield line, we went quietly with the militairen. Bastiaan had no intention of fighting back—he still considered himself guilty for King Vämbat’s death.

I wasn’t sure what my charge would be: denying the king a wish, perhaps? Murder of Coralythe’s sons? Freezing the Vier and taking countless lives and livelihoods?

Runt looked so small in chains, but he allowed a militair to shove chain-mail gloves on his hands and then shackles around his wrists.

“Nothing I haven’t escaped from twice already.”