Had her family been among those who had risked their lives? If the guards had caught them . . . Before the man had spoken, Kiva had feared they’d been captured—or killed. Her relief in knowing they’d fled to safety was overwhelming. And yet . . .

That’s why they’ve doubled the watch, in case they try again. They won’t, though. The rebels aren’t fools.

The man was right. The rebels weren’t fools. But . . . what did that mean for Kiva?

We are coming.

They had come. Would they do so again? Did they have another plan to get to Tilda, to free both her and Kiva?

For the first time ever, Kiva contemplated seeking out Cresta in the hope of gleaning more information. But the risk—it wasn’t worth it. The prison rebels were unpredictable, especially their leader. If Cresta decided to take her anger out on Kiva, it was Tipp who would suffer, Tipp who could die if Cresta lost control. No, for now, Kiva had to wait.

Anxiety churned within her as she walked along the path between the refectory and the cell blocks. More than ever, she longed for an easier way to communicate with the outside world. Surely the rebels had other plans; surely they would try again. Perhaps even now they were searching for a different entry point, a weakness in the perimeter, a means to slip in and out again. Their queen was imprisoned—they would come for Tilda, no matter what.

And Kiva’s family would come for her.

No matter what.

Feeling slightly more confident, Kiva was nearing the first of the cell blocks when someone called out to her.

“You, healer!”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Kiva halted on the path. She turned slowly, having already recognized the voice, dreading what it could mean.

Bones was striding toward her, his long legs eating up the distance, his crossbow draped casually over his shoulder, his black eyes like death.

“We need you at the barracks,” he said, a clear order.

Kiva swallowed and nodded, then trailed quickly after him when he beckoned her to follow.

Bones was like a wild animal. Sometimes he was temperate. Sometimes he was not. Every week, she treated prisoners who had suffered his wrath—broken fingers, wrists, ribs. Anything that made a hearty snap sound, that was his preference. Kiva had long since trained herself not to feel sick in his presence, though there were times when she still had to force down bile.

She feared that, whatever he was leading her into tonight, it might be one of those times.

Kiva couldn’t stop thinking about Naari’s warnings of late, how she’d been deliberate in staying back at the infirmary with Kiva, or making sure Kiva knew not to leave on her own. It was winter. The guards were agitated. It happened every year, and every year, Kiva managed to survive the worst of it.

Just as she would survive tonight.