“I want to make you a trade,” the young woman continued.

Kiva kept her face blank, though she couldn’t deny that she was curious. What did Cresta want? And what did she think it was worth to Kiva?

“You’re going to save Tilda Corentine’s life,” Cresta stated. “You’re going to make sure she stays alive long enough to be rescued. And in return, I won’t kill that boy you’re so fond of. The one with the stutter. Tipp, isn’t it?”

All the breath left Kiva. “What?” she whispered.

“You heard me,” Cresta said, her hazel eyes flashing. “Save the Rebel Queen, and you save the boy. If she dies, he dies.”

Before Kiva could begin to calm her panicking mind, the shower block’s luminium beacon fizzled and popped, enveloping her in darkness. It sparked to life again mere seconds later, but by the time it did, Cresta was gone.

“What I don’t understand is why she thinks she needs to bargain with you,” Warden Rooke said, peering at Kiva from across his desk, his fingers steepled under his chin.

After her run-in with Cresta, Kiva had headed straight to the southern wall and told the guards on duty that she needed to speak with the Warden. Despite it being the middle of the night, Rooke was still awake and working in his office, his polished perfection at odds with her rumpled, damp, and shaking self.

“You’re already under orders to get Tilda Corentine healthy enough for the Trial by Ordeal. Why would Cresta think you need more motivation?” Rooke asked. His expression turned pensive as he continued, “Unless she doesn’t know about the Trials. We haven’t announced them yet, but I’d assumed word had begun to spread, regardless.” A small, satisfied smile touched his lips. “Perhaps the prison rebels aren’t as informed as they would like to think.”

“Whatever her reasons, it doesn’t matter,” Kiva said, sitting on the edge of her seat, a solid weight of anxiety balling in her stomach. “She threatened Tipp’s life. You need to let him leave.”

Rooke’s dark brows arched up toward his hairline. “Excuse me?”

It took everything within Kiva to push aside her trepidation and say, “He’s only here because he was with his mother when she was caught. He was eight years old at the time, just a boy. He’s still just a boy. He doesn’t deserve this life.”

Neither did Kiva, having arrived a year younger than Tipp, but she’d long since given up trying to talk her own way free of Zalindov.

The Warden made an impatient sound. “We’ve already discussed this. Multiple times. My answer remains the same—as long as he has no guardian to claim him, he’s considered a ward of Zalindov. He can go free, but only if someone comes to collect him.”