The letters from her family were more frequent, though not enough for Kiva’s liking. Even so, Raz was always cautious about how he sneaked them through the walls, slipping them into the clothes of new arrivals when he helped the guards pull them from the prison wagons, knowing they would then be sent to the infirmary and made to disrobe. It was dangerous, but so far, no one had discovered their ploy. Probably because they didn’t take risks—unlike now. Kiva had no idea why Raz was drawing her attention, especially with Rooke and Naari mere footsteps away.

“I have something for you,” Raz said, barely audible over the continuing rain.

Kiva was careful not to make any sudden moves as Raz drew a mud-streaked note from his coat and raised it toward her.

Glancing quickly at the Warden and Naari, only when Kiva was certain they were still talking heatedly did she duck under the horse’s head until it partially shielded her, before reaching over the stall for Raz’s offering.

Heart pounding, she read the code penned in her sister’s familiar scrawl, excited for what it might say, hopeful for any news of a rescue. But then the words processed.

Don’t let her die.

We are coming.

The message was exactly the same as the last one.

Exactly the same.

Tears of anger prickled Kiva’s eyes. She balled the note in her fist, overcome with a mixture of fury and despair. But then recklessness took hold and she flattened the parchment again, dragging her hand through the muddy tangles in the horse’s mane and pressing her pointer finger to the space beneath her sister’s writing.

“What’re you doing?” Raz hissed urgently.

Kiva said nothing, only looked quickly at Rooke and Naari again, before silently begging the horse not to move, keeping a barrier between them.

Frantically, Kiva scrawled out her own muddied code, symbol after symbol, the longest she’d ever written.

She’s sick.

I’m her Champion in Trial by Ordeal.

Need rescue—when???

Quickly, quickly, she folded the muddy, shorthand note and thrust it back down to Raz.

“Kiva, I can’t—”

“Please,” Kiva whispered, her lips barely moving since Rooke and Naari had finally stopped speaking and were striding back toward her. Even the rain had eased up, as if it had offered all the help it could and now it was done. “Please.”

A resigned sigh was Raz’s only answer, but the sound filled Kiva with relief. He would take the note back to Vaskin with him; he’d send it on to her family. And then—then she would finally get some answers.