In that moment, Kiva hated her sister, hated Cresta, hated Warden Rooke and the Vallentis family and even the Mirraven rulers who had sent Tilda to Zalindov to begin with.

And yet Kiva had made her own choice. And she would live—or die—with the consequences.

When she was only feet away from the captain, he shifted, the movement slight but enough for her to know to come no closer.

Kiva made herself look at him, taking in his salt-and-pepper hair and his trimmed mustache leading to a short, neat beard. His weathered features suggested he wasn’t just a figurehead of the Royal Guard, but that he had seen action, and plenty of it.

As if Kiva didn’t already know.

It’s all right. Everything will be all right.

Her father’s voice slammed into her, tearing open her heart, causing her breath to hitch. But she shoved the memory away, needing to give her full attention to the man before her while offering no indication that she knew who he was, that she remembered him.

The captain’s brown eyes locked with hers as he said, “Explain yourself, Kiva Meridan.”

Just hearing her name in his gravelly voice had her struggling to keep from bolting off the platform and disappearing into the watching crowd. But she couldn’t do that—she wouldn’t do that. She’d made her decision, and now she would see it through.

“As I said, Captain,” Kiva said in a clear voice, relieved when it didn’t reveal her inner turmoil, “I claim the Rebel Queen’s sentence as my own.”

“And what gives you the right to do that?” he countered, arching a dark gray eyebrow.

Kiva was aware of how many eyes were on her, the collective audience straining to hear her words—prisoners, guards, royals. She could feel the Warden’s gaze, burning in its intensity. Somewhere in the crowd, Cresta and her rebels were watching. Jaren and Tipp and Naari were watching. Everyone was watching.

Sweat trickled down Kiva’s spine, while goose bumps pricked her chilled skin.

Praying that she recalled the correct wording and the whispers she’d heard about it were accurate, Kiva declared, “The fifth rule of the Trial by Ordeal, as written in the Book of the Law, states that, ‘Should another claim the accused’s sentence as their own, then he or she shall face the Trials as the accused’s Champion.’” Kiva held the captain’s eyes, noting the look of surprise—perhaps even respect—on his face. It made her more confident that what she’d said was true, enough that she continued, “I’ve made my claim. By the laws you uphold, I’m hereby Tilda Corentine’s Champion.”

A sudden bark of laughter had Kiva’s neck swiveling toward the royals.

“I like her,” the crown prince said, amusement clear in his voice even if the mask hid his expression. “She’s got spirit.”