Kiva said nothing, casting a quick look at Naari, but the guard didn’t betray whether or not she’d heard about Tipp’s misadventures. If she had, Kiva could only hope she wouldn’t care enough to report him. The Warden had overlooked some of Tipp’s foolishness in the past, but only when Kiva had something to exchange for the boy’s safety. Prison gossip was scarce of late, leaving her with no bargaining chips and an unsettled feeling in her gut.

Looking around the grounds, Kiva pushed aside her gnawing worry and considered her next move, trying to recall her own orientation. The sights, the sounds, the smells . . . all of that had faded in her memory. All she could remember was what she’d felt.

Fear.

Grief.

Hopelessness.

The potent mix had clouded all else.

Jaren, however, didn’t seem overcome by emotion. Wary, perhaps. Uncertain, definitely. But . . . he was also looking at her with curiosity, waiting patiently to see what she would say or do next.

Kiva made her decision.

“Whatever you were told about Zalindov before arriving here, forget it,” she said, turning to the left and doing her best to ignore the crunching of Naari’s feet trailing after them.

“I heard that it’s a death prison,” Jaren said. “That very few people ever make it out alive. That it’s full of murderers and rebels.”

Kiva only just refrained from shooting a look back at Naari to say that this was exactly why she shouldn’t be doing orientation for new prisoners.

“Fine, yes, you should try to remember all of that,” she amended.

“Are you a murderer?” Jaren asked. “Or a rebel?”

Kiva’s mouth hitched up at the side, her amusement mocking more than anything else. “If you want to survive longer than the night, don’t ask anyone why they’re here. It’s rude.”

Jaren studied her thoughtfully, before his focus turned back to the gravel path. He drew his wounded hand in close to his stomach—the first sign he’d given that he was in any pain, though she doubted the carving was the worst of it.

“Don’t you want to know what I did?” he asked quietly.

“Something you need to know about Zalindov,” Kiva said, “is that who you were out there”—she pointed beyond the limestone walls—“means nothing in here. So, no. I don’t want to know what you did, because it doesn’t matter.”

She was lying to them both, but Jaren didn’t know her well enough to call her on it, and he let it drop.

Releasing a slow breath, Kiva came to a stop when they reached the next building along from the morgue. It, too, was made of darkened stone, the ground near the entrance dusted with ash. Two large chimneys poked out from the roof, one of which was lightly smoking.