Strong. The word churned in Kiva’s gut. There was no way he would be allocated to the kitchens or the workrooms. He would be tasked with the hard labor, there was no doubt about it.

Six months, he would have. A year, if he was lucky.

Then he’d be dead.

Kiva couldn’t allow herself to care. She’d seen too much death in the last ten years, witnessed too much suffering. The fate of one more man would change nothing. He was just a number—D24L103, according to the metal band already fastened around his wrist by the transfer guards.

With the first stroke of the scalpel along the back of his left hand, Kiva ignored the renewed itching of her thigh and reminded herself of why she was doing this, why she was betraying everything a healer was meant to be by deliberately harming others.

We are safe. Stay alive. We will come.

She hadn’t heard from her family since the last note, and with winter well and truly under way, she didn’t expect to hear anything until a steady flow of prisoners arrived again come spring. But she still held on to their most recent words, the assurance, the demand, the promise.

Kiva did what she had to—she healed people, but she hurt them, too. All to stay alive. All to bide time until her family could come for her, until she could escape.

This young man . . . he was one of the better ones to carve, making her guilt easier to bear. Since he was already unconscious, she didn’t have to look into his pain-filled eyes as her blade dug into his flesh, didn’t have to feel him shaking beneath her touch, didn’t have to see him look at her like the monster she was.

Tipp knew—he’d seen Kiva carve too many prisoners to count, and he never judged her for it or looked at her with anything other than understanding.

The guards didn’t care about her task, they just wanted it done quickly. Naari was no exception, not even when she’d first arrived. However, of all of them, the amber-eyed guard was the only one to ever show a hint of disgust. Even now, her jaw was clenched as Kiva sank her blade into the young man’s flesh, with Naari’s gloved hands pressing his shoulders into the metal slab lest he awaken.

Kiva worked fast, and when she was done, Tipp was ready with the pot of ballico sap and a fresh scrap of linen. As if now satisfied that the new arrival wasn’t at risk of moving and ruining his freshly carved Z, the guard retreated to the door, reclaiming her position without another word.