From that moment on, Kiva had resolved to continue his legacy, knowing he was gone, but that he was still with her—and he always would be.

More tears leaked from Kiva’s eyes now, and she rose to her feet, breathing in the fresh, earthy scents of the garden.

Her father’s sanctuary.

Her sanctuary.

Their sanctuary.

Faran Meridan had died because of a stomach sickness—perhaps the very same one that Zalindov’s prisoners were again suffering from.

It had been nine years, but Kiva would not let his death be in vain. He’d given everything—including his life—to try and save the sick back then. Kiva was determined to finish what he’d started. She was determined to find a cure this time, to stop the illness in its tracks. She didn’t know if it had been done before, or if last time, it had just faded out organically. But she wasn’t willing to wait out the weeks, perhaps months, that could take.

She didn’t have that long, anyway.

After her Trial tomorrow, she would have only another four weeks left to carry out her tests, and that was if she survived all of the remaining Ordeals—and if her family and the rebels didn’t help her escape before then. That didn’t leave her much time to come up with a cure, but Kiva would still do what she could, for as long as she could.

Nodding to herself, Kiva brushed her hands on her pants, dislodging the soil, and made her way back along the path. The garden had offered her peace, just as it always did, but it had also lit a fire in her, a desperation that she felt honor-bound to act on.

She would make her father proud; she would succeed where he had failed.

That night, Kiva left the infirmary, her eyes bleary from spending the late afternoon hours writing down everything she could think of about the illness. Her hand ached, her fingers still twitching from how vigorously she’d worked them, but she was satisfied that if she were to suddenly leave Zalindov—or die—then someone would be able to take up her research. She wished her father had thought to document his findings, or even Thessa before him, but there was nothing. Kiva had checked every inch of the infirmary, and the only parchment she’d found was her predecessor’s secret recipe for a more potent version of angeldust. Fury had simmered within her at the discovery, since his job had been to help prisoners, not turn them into addicts. She hoped he was rotting in the everworld, reaping what he’d sowed.

Muttering under her breath about the abysmal nature of humankind, Kiva entered the refectory, a large building filled with long wooden tables, most of which were currently populated by hungry, tired prisoners being served by other hungry, tired prisoners.