He yanked free. Runt leaped free of his own militair, planted himself at Bastiaan’s side, and swept a line between them and the militairen. “We’re not coming with you until you take care of Myrthe.”

The militair pounded a fist against the invisible barrier, then planted it stiffly at his side. He’d likely hurt his knuckles. “Undo your wall.”

“Nope.” Runt cocked his head to one side. “So what’ll it be? An angry regent or a healer for Myrthe?”

“It’s not like it’s going to cause harm,” the second militair muttered, then without permission from his friend he disappeared up the stairs. It didn’t take long for him to return with Hilda. When she saw Bastiaan and Runt, she raised an eyebrow. Neither of them gave her a greeting. They didn’t want to expose her for helping Runt.

Runt brushed away his barrier, offered her an elaborate bow, and swept his arm toward Myrthe’s cell. The militair unlocked it and let her in. “We’ll be back for you in an hour.”

“It won’t take me that long,” Hilda squawked.

“Then best get comfortable. You can thank these two for that.” The militairen pulled Bastiaan after them and left Myrthe and the healer in the cell. Myrthe managed to mouth Thank you before Bastiaan rounded the corner and left her sight.

The minute they were separated he shifted his focus forward. Upward. Into the throne room where he was about to encounter . . . something. The regent wanted him. This could be his trial. Or perhaps he wouldn’t even be given a trial.

It didn’t take them long to enter the room in which he first met King Mattias. This time the throne sat empty, but a smaller, less elaborate throne rested off to the side of the platform upon which Baron Hartmut sat. Bastiaan should have guessed.

The rest of the council sat along either side of him, as though ensuring everyone knew that even though Hartmut was the regent, they were the deciding power. Mattias was nowhere to be seen.

Anouk stood off to the side, her queen throne behind her but unoccupied. Winterune law did not allow a queen to take the king’s place. She was a supporter and nothing else.

Bastiaan and Runt were deposited in the middle of the room.

A young girl with choppy black hair walked across the space with nervous, jerky movements, glancing up at Hartmut with every other step. Hartmut nodded. The girl stopped next to Bastiaan.

“This is Verena. Her Talent is to detect falsehood. Lying. Which means everything you say shall be tested.”

With every Talented Bastiaan encountered, he swelled. People were choosing Talents over Banes. Not everyone, but at least there was resistance—enough that the schloss had to enlist the help of the Talented. Perhaps Talents could still win.