“K-K-Kiva!” Tipp said, rushing forward. He looked for a moment as if he might try and hug her—as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, rather than days—but he resisted at the last second, reading her body language. “I d-didn’t know what Naari was b-b-bringing me here for! I was s-s-s-s-s—” He pulled a face and tried a different word. “I was w-worried.”

Kiva looked to the guard, unsurprised that Tipp, friendly as he was, knew her name. Naari. At least Kiva would no longer have to think of her as the amber-eyed woman.

“The healer needs assistance, boy,” Naari said in a bored voice. “Go fetch her some clean water.”

“On it!” Tipp said enthusiastically, lunging for the pail, all elbows and knees. For a moment, Kiva feared that the bloodied, muddied water would end up all over the infirmary floor, but Tipp was out the door with his load before she could warn him to be careful.

An awkward silence descended, until Kiva cleared her throat and murmured, “Thank you. For getting Tipp, I mean.”

The guard—Naari—nodded once.

“And . . . for the other night, too,” Kiva added quietly. She didn’t look down at the raw burn marks on her arm, didn’t draw attention to how some of the guards had decided she was to be their entertainment that night.

It wasn’t the first time.

It wasn’t even the worst time.

But she was grateful for the intervention, all the same.

Naari nodded again, the repeated action stiff enough for Kiva to know better than to say more. It was strange, though. Now that she knew the guard’s name, she felt less trepidation, less . . . intimidation.

Careful, little mouse.

Kiva didn’t need the echo of her father’s warning. Naari had the power of life and death in her hands—Kiva’s life and death. She was a guard of Zalindov, a weapon in her own right, death incarnate.

Giving herself a mental kick, Kiva shuffled back toward the surviving man, busying herself by checking his pulse. Still weak, but stronger than before.

Tipp returned from the well in record speed, the wooden pail filled to the brim with fresh, clean water.

“What happened t-to them?” he asked, pointing to the two dead men as Kiva began to gently wash the living man’s face.

“Not sure,” Kiva answered, glancing at Naari briefly to gauge her reaction to them speaking. The guard seemed unconcerned, so Kiva went on, “This one was covered in their blood, though.”

Tipp peered thoughtfully at the man. “You think he d-did it?”

Kiva rinsed the dirty cloth, then continued wiping away layers of muck. “Does it matter? Someone thinks he did something, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.”