It was only logical that he’d been allocated the position upon arriving at Zalindov. He’d been sent straight to the infirmary on his first day, working under the head medic, a bitter woman named Thessa. Faran was much more qualified, but Thessa had been in charge for years, and refused to listen to him, let alone learn from him—or yield to him.

Kiva hadn’t thought about Thessa in a long time. As she knelt down to pluck some thistles choking the bed of goldenroot, she cast her mind back to those early days filled with fear and sadness, but also holding moments of joy, like when her father had brought her into this garden for the first time.

Promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll never lose hope, he’d whispered to her in this very spot, kneeling before the goldenroot. Your brother and sister, your mother—his voice had cracked then—they will come for you, one day.

Don’t you mean us, Papa? They’ll come for us?

Faran had reached out and brushed his fingers along her cheekbone. Of course, sweetheart. That’s what I meant.

Only a few short weeks after that, Thessa had died from a stomach sickness, and Faran had stepped into her position as the head medic, leaving Kiva alone much of the time, especially when his hours were soon taken up by—

Kiva’s body froze, her fingers spasming in the soil.

Thessa had died from a stomach sickness.

Her father had become the head medic.

And then . . .

And then . . .

Kiva strained her memory, trying to recall everything she could about that first year. She’d only been seven. Too young to fully understand. Too young to remember.

And yet, there were some things she would never forget.

Even if she had forgotten.

Until now.

The stomach sickness—it had happened before.

Nine years ago.

Dozens dead.

Hundreds.

. . . Including, eventually, her father.

Tears sprang to Kiva’s eyes, her fingers still frozen in the earth, her gaze unfocused as the memories played out.

Faran had given everything to his patients; Kiva had barely seen him in those last few weeks as prisoner after prisoner fell to the illness. Her father had told her not to worry, that she was young and healthy and had nothing to fear, but she’d seen the pallor of his skin, the bags under his eyes, the concern bunching his forehead, even as he’d tried to reassure her, day after day.

He’d promised she was safe, and she’d trusted him.

He’d never promised that he was safe.

And she’d never thought to ask.

Then one day, he didn’t return to their cell block.