Anouk stepped forward. The council went silent. Watching her. Wary. She was the queen—they couldn’t control or silence her, but Bastiaan could see from their tension that they wanted her to remain in the shadows.

She stopped a few yards away. Cautious, as though afraid to get too close to them. Or maybe afraid she’d scare Bastiaan and Runt. The council members wrinkled their noses as if in disgust.

Anouk had eyes only for Runt. “Runt . . . when we were in the kleinschloss, I grabbed your hand. In that moment my Talent sparked. It showed me your story.”

Runt listened, attentive and polite. Curious, even. Meanwhile Bastiaan’s mind whirled, trying to hear what Anouk had not yet said.

“I have reason to believe that . . . that you are my son. Mattias is your father. Runt . . . you’re the heir to the throne.”

Chapter 62
Bastiaan

For the first time since Bastiaan met him, Runt had no witty comeback. He stared at Anouk. She waited, pale and a knot of nerves. Bastiaan hardly breathed . . . until Runt inched a few steps closer to him, pressing against his side the way a son would a father.

Was he afraid?

Bastiaan placed his arm around the boy, and that seemed to return his voice to him.

“I’m not your son.” Runt sounded defiant. Angry, even. “You said Cairden’s six years old. I’m ten! He’s probably dead!”

Anouk gazed at Bastiaan, waited for him to offer the explanation that he—like a fool—had never considered.

“You’re ten only because you entered the Stillness with me for several years. Had you remained in regular time with everyone else . . . you’d be six.”

Runt peered up at him. “You actually think I’m her son?”

“I don’t know.” Bastiaan met Anouk’s gaze. “But I trust her.”

Whatever fear or uncertainty had been stiffening Runt’s limbs passed. He shifted his weight and folded his arms, and his voice came out strong. “Fine. So I’m king then?”

Anouk smiled. One council member laughed, but it wasn’t enough to cover Hartmut’s whisper. “That was easy enough.”

Runt. Heir to the throne. Royalty. All this time Bastiaan had been fixed on changing Vämbat’s mind, advising Mattias in matters of rule and the Well, and neglecting the relationship he had with a certain canal rat who deserved every bit as much care and guidance as a future king.

“You’re not king yet,” Hartmut said. “You’re the heir. You will not take the throne until you are of royal age. Fifteen. Until that time . . . we will train you.”

“Bastiaan will train me.” Already Runt spoke in commands and not requests. Young king indeed.

Hartmut took a deep breath through his nose. “Bastiaan is a matter we’ll discuss among ourselves. For now we’ll give you a room. You’re free of your cell.”

“Bastiaan too!” Runt demanded.