“The rest of your family has already fled,” the guard said, pointing an armored hand up the hill to the cottage where Kiva’s mother and older siblings had last been. Smoke was beginning to curl from their home, a flickering orange glow bleeding from the windows into the night. “You should thank the everworld that we want you badly enough not to chase them, or they’d be heading to Zalindov with you.”

“Zalindov?” Faran swayed on his feet, prompting Kiva to strengthen her hold on him, their palms slick with sweat despite the wintry air. “You can’t—You can’t send me to—”

“Enough,” the gold-crested guard interrupted. He looked toward the two nearest soldiers and ordered, “Take him.”

Those two clipped words loosened Kiva’s tongue—and her panic.

“No!” she cried, holding her father even tighter.

“Papa!” Kerrin screamed.

The soldiers raised their drawn swords and marched forward, closing the space between them. Faran wrenched his hand from Kiva, shoving her away with enough force that she went back three steps before losing her balance and falling to the ground.

Kerrin should have fallen with her, but his berry-slicked fingers slipped from hers as he leapt away—not toward their father, but to the dagger Faran had been using to cut his supply of aloeweed.

“KERRIN! DON’T!” Kiva yelled.

Kerrin didn’t hear her, didn’t listen. Instead, the young boy scooped up the blade and, with a roar, launched himself toward the approaching guards.

It happened in an instant, so fast that, from her position on the ground, Kiva didn’t see, didn’t realize, until it was too late.

One moment, Kerrin was barreling forward; the next, he was dropping to the ground, clutching at his chest—and at the sword that was embedded there.

Years passed in the time it took for the soldier to withdraw his blade . . . for the sickening squelch of steel moving through flesh and bone to fade . . . for all those watching to fully comprehend what had happened.

“NO!” howled Faran, falling to his knees beside his son and pressing his hands to the boy’s small chest. “No, no, no!”

“Kerrin,” Kiva whispered, tears flooding her eyes. She scrambled through the mud toward them, jerriberry juice staining her hands, her knees, her clothes. “K-Kerrin!”

“Somebody get me—get me—” Faran couldn’t finish his choked command, for there was nothing anyone could get him, no remedy that could help, nothing anyone could do as Kerrin’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.

“N-no!” Kiva said, reaching her sticky hands toward him. “No! KERRIN! NO!”

Before she could press her fingers to his wound just like her father, before she could so much as touch him, a steely arm banded around her waist, hoisting her up into the air.

“This wasn’t meant to happen,” growled a voice in her ear—the man with the golden crest. “This never should have happened.”