“If you can look at me like that,” he’d said, grinning, “then I know you’re going to be all right.” Then he’d brushed his fingers down her cheek and left for the bathing chambers.

That was it. No awkwardness, no embarrassment, no bringing up what had happened the previous night—before or after he’d joined her in bed.

It was clear he was letting her come to terms with it—all of it—without pushing. And for that, she was grateful.

She’d spent the morning compartmentalizing the previous day, from Tilda’s near death, to her revelation in the garden about her father and the stomach sickness, to what she’d overheard in the refectory, and finally her run-in with the guards. Mulling over it all, Kiva had been left knowing one thing: she’d survived ten years at Zalindov. Ten years. Yesterday had been rough, but she’d suffered through worse, even from the guards. At least this time there was no physical damage aside from the bruise blossoming on her wrist.

Kiva was alive, that was what mattered most. And it was also what made her realize that there was no point in dwelling on what had happened. It was over, and all she wanted was to let it go and move on.

She’d had a moment of weakness with Jaren last night—or perhaps strength, depending on perspective. He’d given her what she’d needed, when she’d needed it. And she was thankful. So thankful. Even now, he was here with her again, offering comfort once more, not because of what she’d been through yesterday, but because of what she was facing today.

The second Trial.

Yet another reason Kiva needed to rid her mind of the previous day and focus.

Following  Jaren’s instructions again, she made herself breathe deeply a second time.

“Better?” he asked.

“You still need to go,” Kiva said instead of answering.

“I wanted to see you before your Ordeal,” Jaren said. “Are you ready?”

“Of course I am.”

Jaren’s eyes remained locked on hers, waiting for the truth, and Kiva sighed.

“Fine. I’m a nervous wreck. Happy?”

A gentle squeeze of Jaren’s hands on her shoulders as his gaze softened. “You’ve got this, Kiva.”

“No one survives all the Trials, Jaren,” Kiva whispered, her stomach in knots, as it had been ever since she’d slathered her skin with Mot’s karonut oil concoction that morning. Now that the time was nearly upon her, she lacked confidence in its protection, more aware than ever that if the rebels failed to mount a second rescue attempt, then the princess’s amulet was her best chance for survival. Perhaps her only chance for survival. Her life was in the hands of a Vallentis—a cruel twist of fate, indeed.

“You’ve already made it through one,” Jaren said, low and soothing. “You can do it again.”

“But—”