Two militairen stepped into view. One had a set of keys. Bane smoke rose from both hands. Half the strength of Banes came from their mystery. The militair didn’t say what his Bane was.

Bastiaan wasn’t planning to resist. He deserved to be in this cell. He deserved to face justice for his actions.

The militair with the keys stopped before his cell. “The regent has requested an audience.”

“Is this my trial?” Bastiaan asked, then registered the rest of the sentence. “Regent? What happened to the king?”

“Winterune currently has no king. Mattias was deemed unfit to rule due to his . . . impediment.” The militair smirked.

Mattias’s inability to speak. The council had used that as their opening to dethrone him. Since he couldn’t use his militairen against them, he was as powerful as a limp fish at markt. His militairen had never been loyal to him anyway, except by Bane command.

The militair fitted the key into the lock and opened the door. Bastiaan stepped out. The second militair took up post beside him, weapons still sheathed but hand on his hilt. Then the one with the key ring moved to Runt’s cell.

“You too, boy.”

“What does the king—the regent—want with Runt?”

The militair gave no answer but swung open Runt’s door. Runt sat in the corner playing a cross and rings game with himself in the dirt, his restricting Talent gloves discarded to the side.

“Come on, boy.”

“Hold your hedgehogs, I’m about to win.” Runt drew some swirls in the dirt.

“Get out here!” the militair shouted.

“Why don’t you come get me?” He still didn’t look up.

“Runt . . . ,” Bastiaan warned, though he was pretty sure his own amusement crept into the warning. Runt was always one to test wills and see where the wiggle room or loopholes were.

The militair marched into the cell. A foot away from Runt, he ran into an invisible barrier with a cry.

“Get out of there,” Bastiaan’s militair barked. “He still has a Talent!”

“Put your gloves on,” Runt’s militair growled, nursing a swollen lip.

Runt stood. “Oh. Oops. Sorry about that, mate.” He slipped on his gloves and wiped the line in the dirt clear. “Shoulda warned you.”

“The king will silence that Talent of yours!”

Runt made a mock pouting face. “What king? Didn’t you say you ditched him for a regent?”

Before the militair could grab him, Runt sauntered out of the cell and stood beside Bastiaan like an obedient angel. The militairen left the cell doors open and yanked Bastiaan and Runt toward the stairs.

“What about Myrthe?” Bastiaan asked.

The militair’s hand tightened around his arm. “Her presence isn’t requested.”

Bastiaan glanced over his shoulder at her. She shrugged. “It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine. Would he see her again? Would she be okay?

“She needs food and medical care.”

“That’s not your concern.”