Rolling her shoulders, Kiva pushed her ratty sleeves up to her elbows, wincing as the coarse gray material irritated the still-healing flesh along the inside of her right forearm. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about what the guards had done to her three nights ago, or what might have happened if the newest guard—the young woman with the watchful amber eyes—hadn’t arrived when she did.

Kiva still didn’t know why the woman had intervened and warned the others of the Warden’s displeasure. The guards weren’t fools. They knew that while Zalindov was ruled with an iron fist, the Warden didn’t condone abuse of power from his guards. That, however, didn’t stop them from violating the prisoners. They just took care not to get caught.

The newest guard hadn’t yet lost the spark of honor, of life, in her amber eyes, which usually faded after the first few weeks at the prison, turning into bitter resentment. It was the only reason Kiva could come up with for her interference. But as grateful as she was, she now felt as if she owed the amber-eyed guard, and it never boded well to owe anyone anything at Zalindov.

Stifling her troubled thoughts, Kiva collected a wooden pail of fresh water and returned to the man’s side. Carefully, methodically, she began to clean him, peeling away the layers of his tattered clothing as she went.

Never forget, little mouse: no two people look the same, but we are each beautiful in our own ways. The human body is a masterpiece that deserves our respect. Always.

Kiva sucked in a sharp breath as her father’s voice drifted across her mind. It had been a long time since she’d been overcome with a memory from her childhood, a long time since she’d heard the nickname “little mouse”—something she’d earned from squeaking audibly anytime she was startled as a child—a long time since she’d felt the sting of tears in her eyes.

Stop it, she told herself. Don’t go there.

Inhaling deeply, she gave herself three seconds to regain control, then resolutely continued her work. Her heart ached at the whisper of her father’s gentle instruction, her thoughts involuntarily traveling to the days she’d spent in his workroom helping with the villagers who had sought him out for one malady or another. Her earliest memories were of being by his side—fetching water, tearing linens, even sterilizing blades once she was old enough to not hurt herself in the process. Of all her siblings, she was the one who had been born with their father’s passion for healing, the one who wanted to ease the suffering of others.

Now here she was, about to carve out yet another man’s flesh.

Her thigh itched. She ignored it.