Another able-bodied male. That was all that mattered to the Warden. Never mind that Zalindov was already bursting at the seams, even with the excessive mortality rate.

In the ten years Kiva had lived at the prison, she’d come to accept that the Warden wasn’t an evil man, but he was coldly pragmatic. And powerful—so very powerful, with a heavy burden of responsibility on his shoulders. His jurisdiction over Zalindov meant he answered not to one kingdom, but to all of them, since all of their condemned citizens were jailed under his watch. But while he did have to obey direct orders from the rulers of all eight territories, he was mostly left to his own devices, trusted to oversee the day-to-day management of the inmates and guards without supervision. How he did that was his business.

Kiva held little love for Warden Rooke. Her allegiance to him was a means for survival, nothing more. But even so, she knew that she and her fellow inmates could have done a lot worse. Rooke, at least, had a sense of morality, limited as it was. She didn’t want to imagine what might happen if the Butcher or Bones or any of the other more abusive guards were given the position of Warden. Nothing would be left but blood and ashes.

“Have you anything else to tell me tonight, Kiva?”

The Warden was watching her closely. He was smart, she knew. Too smart for her liking. He lived and worked among the worst kinds of people, and had long since learned how to read them. How to read her.

“The prisoners are unhappy,” she answered. “But you already know that.”

Rooke sighed, taking another sip of his drink. “There’s always trouble at this time of year. They’re hungry. Cold. Tired. There’s little I can do about any of that.”

Kiva disagreed, but she remained silent. More food rations, warmer clothes and blankets, shorter work hours—these were all things the Warden could change. But prisoners weren’t supposed to be comfortable. None of them were in Zalindov for a holiday. They were there to work, and then to die.

“What about the rebels?” Rooke asked.

Kiva shifted in her seat, the Warden tracking her every move.

“Is Cresta still leading them?” he prompted.

Licking her lips, Kiva nodded slowly and said, “As far as I’m aware.”

Rooke’s eyes narrowed as he repeated, “As far as you’re aware?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “The rebels don’t like me. Especially Cresta.” Kiva couldn’t blame them. As Rooke’s informant—reluctant or not—she’d well earned their scorn. “They don’t keep me apprised of their leaders. Or their plans.”