Next she saw Grendel, the crematorium worker throwing what looked like ash into the faces of the guards nearest her, blinding them before ducking away to safety, only to repeat her actions all over again.

Then Kiva saw Bones and the Butcher fighting back to back in the middle of the open ground, the two brutal men drenched in blood and slaying any prisoners who dared come near. Kiva felt sick watching them; their gleeful looks showed how much they delighted in the violence.

Hurry, she told herself, looking away. She couldn’t linger, couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

Forcing herself to move faster, she pushed her wobbly legs until she was running again, sprinting again, weaving around dueling prisoners and guards, until finally—

There. Kiva could see the infirmary. A relieved sob gasped out of her. She couldn’t believe her luck when she realized that there was no fighting near the entrance, the masses clearing the further she moved from the center of the grounds, where the numbers were still the thickest. A second sob escaped her, even as she continued flying toward it. She was so close, so close, but then—

She saw the door.

It was smashed open.

Kiva stumbled, her feet moving too fast over the uneven ground, her arms cartwheeling to keep herself upright—just as another arrow sailed right over her head, exactly where her heart would have been had she not tripped.

Shock and terror warred for her attention, but she shoved them aside. She couldn’t spare a thought for her near miss and focused only on getting to the infirmary, her lungs burning, her muscles aching, every part of her desperate to find out, desperate to see if—

She flew through the doorway, coming to a screaming halt now that she was no longer in immediate danger. The remaining breath fled her as she looked around, her heart stopping as she took in what had become of her healing sanctuary.

Glass vials were smashed on the ground, the rat pen was broken to pieces with the vermin gone, linens were shredded, sticky remedies covered everything from the benches to the walls to the floor. The infirmary was destroyed, but Kiva didn’t care about the room—she cared about who was in it.

On quaking legs, Kiva moved toward Tilda. She had no need to rush anymore. She could already see it from across the room.

Blood.

Tilda’s blood.

It was everywhere, her bedsheets soaked red.

And her eyes . . . Tilda’s blind eyes . . . they were staring up at the ceiling, unblinking, unmoving, just like the rest of her.

As if watching from a dream, a nightmare, Kiva placed her trembling hands over Tilda’s heart, over the gaping stab wound that could mean only one thing.

Nothing.

Not a single beat.

As still as death.

Don’t let her die.

There was nothing Kiva could do for her.

Don’t let her die.