Dryly, Jaren said, “Forgive me if I have some doubts.”

Kiva was well aware that his bruised and battered muscles would stiffen up during sleep, likely leaving him feeling miserable come morning. But proper rest would still aid his recovery, nonetheless.

“This way,” was all she said, leading him onward.

Jaren and Naari trailed silently behind her for a time, three pairs of footsteps crunching as they moved across dirt and then onto gravel again, their breaths fogging the air as the temperature dropped swiftly. While snow was common in the mountains surrounding Zalindov, it rarely fell as low as the prison. Even so, the cold was relentlessly bitter, with ice often coating the grounds. The worst days would come after the solstice, which was due in just over a week. Kiva was already bracing for all the weather-related ailments she would have to treat before the arrival of spring.

They were close to reaching their destination when Jaren pointed to the northeast wall and said, “You didn’t say what’s in that direction.”

Naari cleared her throat loudly, and Kiva wondered if that meant she wasn’t supposed to answer. But the guard did nothing more, so Kiva said, “That’s where the Abyss is.”

“The Abyss?”

“Zalindov’s punishment block.”

Kiva could hear the incredulity in Jaren’s voice when he said, “So, on top of working us to death, there’s more punishment?”

Jaren didn’t know the half of it, and Kiva really didn’t want to be the one to tell him. But he needed to be warned, so she reached for his sleeve and tugged him to a halt, squinting in the low light to catch his eyes. While the watchtowers had roaming luminium beacons that the guards could pinpoint toward any location of their choosing, the grounds of Zalindov were otherwise pitch-black once night fell in full—and it was very close to that, with them having wasted the last of the light walking from the tunnels.

“No one knows what happens in the Abyss,” Kiva told Jaren in a serious voice. “Just that it’s bad. The guards stationed there are known for their . . . creativity.” She let that sink in. “Most prisoners don’t come out again, and those who do are changed forever. So if you value your life, do whatever it takes to avoid being sent there, understood?”

Jaren, thankfully, didn’t question or argue. “Understood.”

Kiva looked to Naari, and, with as much respect as she could muster, asked, “Which block is he allocated to?”

“Seven. Second floor.”

Kiva gritted her teeth and headed that way. Of course he was assigned to the same cell block as she. At least they were on different floors, with him being a level above her.

Only when they finally reached the long rectangular building that now housed them both—and three hundred others—did Kiva stop in front of the large entrance doors.