Bastiaan dunked his bucket into the creek water. “Can you locate this spot in the forest?”

“Of course.” Runt lifted his chin, offended. “I can get you there by sundown.”

“Tomorrow.” Bastiaan hauled out the filled bucket and proceeded to fill Runt’s. “You still need that bath. And a good meal. We need to pack accordingly in case we’re in the forest several days.”

Runt took his filled bucket from Bastiaan, determined to use every measly string of muscle in his gangly limbs. Bastiaan matched Runt’s labored stride, but when he lifted his gaze, it landed on his mother hurrying toward him, a parchment in hand.

“You’ve had a message,” she said upon reaching them. “From the schloss.”

Bastiaan tore the seal open. The time had come at last. King Mattias had granted him an audience. “Well, Runt, change of plans. Let’s go see this new king for ourselves.”

Runt heaved the bucket into the crook of his elbow with a great sigh. “I’d better bathe twice then.”

Chapter 8
Coralythe

The last time Coralythe had worn such a nice dress was on her wedding day. When she married an unfaithful beast. Now she wore one to meet the Murder King, though her plan had not included being dragged before him by his militairen.

In fact, her original plan had never involved losing her sons, begging for a wish, cursing the Wishtress, or coming to the schloss in hopes of a new life. And new power.

“Let me at least walk upright.” She tugged against the hold of one militair. “I’m not going to run.” She needed her dignity.

The man’s grip tightened around both her and the hilt of his sword. She rolled her eyes. She could curse him within seconds but didn’t. The mere knowledge that she could gave her a measure of peace.

The militair shoved open a heavy double door and yanked her inside a study far smaller than an audience chamber. A single window lit the space, allowing in a hint of the fading sunset, so her eyes took a moment to adjust. Then she saw him. A mere reach away.

The Murder King.

The man who could—if he’d hear her out—give her some semblance of a future. He stood over a table of parchments while another man spoke with him. Both cut off their conversation upon her entrance. King Mattias frowned when his iron-grey eyes alighted on her, then turned to the militair on her left. “Explain.”

“She arrived with a ‘gift,’ but we believe it’s an assassination attempt.”

“What?” she sputtered. They’d told her the water seemed an odd gift. No one mentioned thinking she was here to kill the king. “Your Majesteit, I would never—”

“Are you a Talented?” King Mattias demanded.

She straightened as a rod of indignation shot through her. “I am not. And I never will be.”

“Who are you and what’s your gift?”