Kiva bit her lip. Her eyes swung back to the blade on the table, again noting that it had no blood on it. But . . . she’d seen Tilda stab Naari. She’d seen the blade sticking out of Naari’s wrist.

“At least let me give you something to clean the wound,” Kiva said quietly. “You can do it yourself, if you don’t want me to. But you don’t want to get an infection, so—”

Naari turned from Tilda, her dark eyes locking onto Kiva before she stepped forward, her jade earring glinting as she closed the distance between them. Kiva wasn’t sure if she should back away or not. She couldn’t read the guard’s expression and feared she’d been too assertive. Naari didn’t act like the other guards at Zalindov, brutal and unforgiving. But for all Kiva knew, she was exactly like them.

“I—” Kiva opened her mouth to apologize, but Naari stopped her with a look.

And with an action.

The guard was tugging the glove off her left hand, the one that had been stabbed. As the black leather came free, Kiva’s eyes widened.

There was no blood, because there was no wound. And there was no wound, because there was no flesh.

Naari had a prosthetic hand. And there, at the joint where the skin of her forearm met the prosthesis, was an indented mark where the blade had sunk in.

“Oh,” Kiva said stupidly. Even more stupidly, she added, “That’s convenient.”

Naari’s lips twitched. “It comes in handy.”

A startled laugh left Kiva at the pun, and she swiftly turned it into a cough, which prompted bolts of pain to shoot up her throat.

Seeking a distraction, as Naari pulled her glove back on, Kiva couldn’t resist asking, “Do you mind if I ask how it happened?”

She held her breath, wondering if she should have remained silent, but Naari didn’t seem upset by the question.

“I was protecting someone I care about,” the guard said, flexing her regloved hand. “They made sure I was taken care of afterward.”

“And now you’re here,” Kiva said.

She regretted the words instantly, but again, Naari didn’t show any signs of anger.

“And now I’m here.”

It explained a lot, Kiva thought. While still relatively new, Naari had already stayed at Zalindov for longer than most of the other female guards. Despite the high quality of her prosthetic hand, she would be challenged to find another position, let alone be allowed to work her way up through the military ranks. A prison guard was at the bottom of the ladder, and yet, because of her limb difference, still one of the best options Naari had if she wanted to serve the kingdom in a protective capacity.

“Does it hurt?” Kiva asked, switching to healer mode.

“Sometimes,” Naari admitted.

Kiva held her eyes and offered, “If you ever need anything for the pain . . .”