Kiva could barely see as the Butcher dragged her up the stairs and along the stone hallway, her eyes having become so accustomed to the dark that she was squinting even in the low light of the dimmed luminium beacons.

For eight days, she’d spoken to no one, alone in her isolation. When Naari had left, she’d feared she wouldn’t survive, but knowing there was an end date, that someone would eventually come to take her to the Trial, it had helped, if slightly. She was careful to keep drinking the foul water, to keep eating the food that was delivered sporadically, knowing that she would need her strength to get through what came next.

The Trial by Earth was her final test. Today would decide whether she lived or died, whether she was to be set free or executed. Tilda, too, since her life—or death—was tied to Kiva’s.

For eight days, that was what she had been left thinking about: what she might face in the Trial and how it might end, fully aware that she was spending what could be her last hours alone in a dark, smelly cell.

But that wasn’t all she’d been dwelling on. Thoughts of the poison, Rooke, and Jaren had possessed her mind. Jaren, especially. She’d come to realize that there was nothing left that she could do about the Warden and his nefarious actions; she had to trust that Naari would handle it, as she’d sworn she would. Kiva also had to believe the Warden would adhere to the law and release her, should she survive the final Trial, even with the knowledge she now possessed. He had killed her father and murdered hundreds of innocents, both now and nine years earlier. She was determined he would pay for his crimes, even if it was out of her hands—for now.

But Jaren . . .

Kiva still couldn’t get over who he was, how he’d lied to her. But also . . . how he’d saved her.

No matter how long she’d spent in that cell, no matter how much time she’d had to think over everything, she hadn’t been able to come to a decision about how she felt, whether she could get past her anger and hurt. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop hearing the crack of the whip as it met his flesh, his moans of pain, the sight of his blood pooling on his back, covering the Butcher, dripping to the stone floor.

He had done that for her. The crown prince—a Vallentis—had risked his life by jumping into the quarry to rescue her, and in return, he’d been whipped to within an inch of his life. She couldn’t ignore that, even if she wanted to.