“In,” barked Bones once they reached the entrance to the barracks.

Kiva stepped through the wooden doorway into the stone building, even as everything within her wanted to run screaming in the other direction. She couldn’t risk Bones seeing her reluctance, or what he might do to her because of it. If he caught so much as a whiff of rebellion from her, he would revel in making her pay. His black eyes told her as much, the anticipation gleaming in them as he watched her like a hawk eyeing its prey.

“This way,” he said, moving past her close enough that their bodies brushed.

Kiva stopped breathing, dread rising within her, before she forced her heartbeat to settle. Nothing had been done to her yet. There was no reason to believe anything would be done to her. The guards needed her alive—not just as their entertainment in the Ordeals, but as their prison healer. Especially with this sickness spreading. She was their best hope, and they knew it. They would not risk breaking her, physically or mentally.

Bolstered, Kiva followed Bones down a hallway, past closed doors that she knew led into private quarters, and toward a large communal room at the end of the long corridor. Someone was playing music, which Kiva rarely heard at Zalindov, and while she couldn’t pinpoint the source, she recognized the song as an old lament her mother used to sing when she was a child.

Nostalgia washed over her with the force of a wave, but as her eyes scanned the room, the comfort of the memory was swept away in an instant.

The guards were having a party—or the Zalindov equivalent of one.

Opened bottles of spirits lined the wooden tables, food piled up beside them, mostly untouched despite the drink being almost all gone. Guards were at ease around the room, all of them men. Curled up in their laps were prisoners in various states of undress, all with glossy, fevered eyes and rosy cheeks.

Kiva had an inkling of why she had been brought here. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not, her initial fear being that she was to become a plaything, but now . . .

“That one had a bit too much fun,” Bones said, pointing to the far corner where the Butcher sat leaning back in an armchair, a half-naked prisoner draped across his legs.

Kiva didn’t know the prisoner, but she could see that the woman was unconscious. Just as she could see that the Butcher didn’t care—or perhaps didn’t realize, his own eyes out of focus, his head lolling to the side, a watery smile on his lips as he nuzzled the woman’s hair, his hands—

This time, Kiva did have to swallow back bile.