Stone slabs were spaced at equal distances around the drain, and while there were currently no cadavers on them, the smell was just as strong as on days when the room was full. The prisoner in charge of the morgue, Mot, was immune to it, but not even the guards monitored this building for long periods of time, unable to stomach the constant odor.

“Evenin’, Kiva,” Mot said, sitting on a stool behind the worktable, his back slightly hunched, his gray hair thinning on top. “What can I do for yeh?”

From her side, Kiva heard Jaren whisper her name to himself, and she sighed inwardly.

“I have two for collection,” Kiva said to the elderly man. He was relatively new to Zalindov, having arrived only eighteen months ago. Too old to be of any use when it came to hard labor, he’d been allocated work in the infirmary, but his fascination with death had made him more of a hindrance than a help. More than once, patients with simple ailments had died on his watch. It had become so problematic that, for the first—and only—time ever, Kiva had made a request of the Warden to transfer him elsewhere. That turned out to be a boon, since prior to arriving at Zalindov, Mot had been an apothecary, so he transitioned comfortably from infirmary to morgue, becoming the head mortician within a short span of months. Indeed, he had even thanked Kiva for her role in his transfer, claiming that he almost felt as if he were back home.

Kiva still wasn’t sure how to reconcile the thoughtful old man who, she’d later discovered, had been sentenced to Zalindov for deliberately misdiagnosing his customers so that he might trial new experimental remedies, resulting in multiple deaths. But it didn’t matter what he’d done outside of these walls. In here, they both had a job to do, and for obvious reasons, the infirmary kept close ties with the morgue.

“Two, yeh say?” Mot said, shuffling some parchment. “Tunnel fever still takin’ ’em?”

Kiva shook her head. “New arrivals. They didn’t survive the journey.”

Mot’s cloudy eyes shifted to Jaren. Naari had remained at the doorway, and Kiva envied her the fresh air.

“Yeh’re new today, boy?” Mot asked, his joints cracking as he stood.

Jaren looked at Kiva, as if seeking her permission to speak. Perhaps he did understand the gravity of being at Zalindov. But she wasn’t the one he needed to defer to. Regardless, she gave a quick nod, and he answered Mot with a simple, “Yes, sir.”

“Ha!” Mot cried with a beaming grin, his brown teeth revealed by the luminium beacons affixed to the stone walls. “Yeh hear that, Kiva? ‘Sir.’ That’s respect.” He winked at her. “I like this one.”

“Mot—”

“Stay close to yer healer, boy.” Mot spoke over Kiva. “She’ll take good care of yeh. Mark my words.”