Those four words tore something in Kiva. Not the statement of fact, but the emotion behind them. She remembered what Tilda had said during their previous conversation: Why keep me alive only so I can die?

Tears prickled behind Kiva’s nose as the thought hit her hard and true: it sounded like Tilda wanted to die. Like many who came to Zalindov, it sounded like she had nothing to live for, nothing to make her want to survive. But Kiva knew that wasn’t the case. As the Rebel Queen, she had a purpose, she had people looking up to her, she had a kingdom to reclaim. She should have been the last person in the world to want to die, not before fighting with everything she had to take back her family’s crown.

“Kiva . . . why?” Tilda asked, her words begging, as sweat began to glisten on her brow, the effort of this conversation costing her.

“Why, what?” Naari asked, speaking for the first time.

Kiva jumped, almost having forgotten the guard was monitoring them, watching closely.

“Why?” Tilda repeated, emotion threading her voice.

“I think she w-wants to know why she’s still here—still a-alive,” Tipp whispered, even though they already knew that was what she’d asked.

Kiva, however, wondered if Tilda sought a different answer, one that she couldn’t give her.

“I’m sorry,” Kiva said around the lump in her throat. “I’m not sure why you’re sick, but I’m doing everything I can to help you get better.” Including taking on Tilda’s sentence as her own, but Kiva didn’t plan to reveal that, and a quick warning look at both Tipp and Naari silenced them as well.

“That’s w-why you’re still alive,” said Tipp in an upbeat voice. “Because of K-Kiva. She’ll have you f-feeling like your old self in no time.”

A low moan left Tilda, the sound piercing straight to Kiva’s heart.

“Kiva,” the woman said, her voice trailing into a whisper. “Kiiiiva.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Naari asked quietly.

“She’s sick,” Kiva said, barely keeping from snapping.

A loaded pause from Naari, before she cautiously, almost gently, said, “I know she’s sick, Kiva. I meant, why does she keep saying your name like that?”

Kiva only shook her head, unable to say anything around her constricted throat.

“Tell me . . . the story,” Tilda said, closing her eyes and laying her head back.

Naari and Tipp both frowned with confusion, but Kiva had to breathe deeply to hold in the tears that were no longer just prickling her nose, but stinging her eyes. This woman, this poor, sick woman . . . Kiva didn’t know how long she had left. Didn’t know what she could do to help her.

“Your . . . father . . . Kiva,” Tilda said, raising a weak, trembling hand toward her. “And . . . the thief. Tell me . . . the story.”