Her thumping heart made her head ache even more, but it also brought much-needed clarity, and Kiva was able to shakily rise to her feet and look properly around the room she was in. The cell she was in. For that was what it was—no more than a small, empty space surrounded by thick stone walls, a metal door at one end, the dimmest of luminium beacons offering just enough light to see by.

Kiva had never been in such a cell before. Dread rose within her as she considered what she knew of Zalindov. Of all the buildings she’d visited as the prison healer, there was only one she’d never set foot in.

She was in the punishment block.

The Abyss.

A scraping sound at the metal door had her whirling toward it, then backing away as far as she could. Her pulse was racing, nerves shooting through her limbs. If her bladder had been full, she would have soiled herself, so stark was her terror at what she was about to face, at who was about to step through that door.

It wasn’t the Butcher.

It wasn’t even Bones.

Just another guard, someone Kiva didn’t recognize.

She knew better than to feel relief, especially when that guard barked, “Come, healer. Your presence is required.”

Kiva’s legs were quaking as she followed the man out of her cell and down a dark stone hallway. There were more metal doors spaced along it, and she was sure she heard crying and moaning as she passed by some of them. Was Jaren behind one? Was he hurt?

The air smelled of fear—blood, sweat, vomit, and other waste. Bile rose in Kiva’s throat, but she forced it down and breathed through her mouth, blocking her ears to the cries.

“In here,” the guard said, his hand clutching her shoulder, as if to keep her from running.

He opened a door, this one wooden, and they stepped into the room beyond.

It was larger than the cell she’d just left, enough for a number of people to move around comfortably. The walls were still thick stone, and the floor sloped downward slightly toward a small drain in the center of the room, into which fresh blood was slowly flowing.

. . . Blood that came from Jaren, who was tied to a flogging post, his head bowed, his back a mess of deep, red slashes.

“No,” Kiva gasped, her knees buckling. Only the guard’s tight grip kept her from falling.

Jaren made the smallest of movements at her voice, as if trying to lift his head, but his strength gave out before he could manage it.

“Good, you’re here.”

Kiva turned woodenly to the man holding the whip. The Butcher’s pale eyes were glowing with sadistic delight, a smirk stretching across his ruddy face as he rolled the cat-o’-nine-tails in his hands.