Gritting her teeth, Kiva pushed aside her memories and focused on removing the last of the man’s clothes, leaving him only in his underthings. She felt no discomfort at the sight of him lying before her nearly naked. It was second nature for her to look at him with professional eyes, merely assessing the damage to his flesh. In the back of her mind, she could appreciate his toned build and the honeyed skin peeking out from beneath the blood that she continued to wash away, but rather than wonder what kind of life had led to him having such a healthy physique—and what had then led him to Zalindov—she instead feared what it would mean for him upon his awakening. He had enough muscle definition to indicate his strength, which could draw the wrong kind of attention and earn him the worst kind of job allocation.

Maybe it would be better if he didn’t wake up, after all.

Berating herself for the thought, Kiva redoubled her efforts to clean him, aware, as always, of the guard watching her every move. Today it was the Butcher who stood in the doorway, having replaced Bones during shift change. Those weren’t their real names, but Kiva’s fellow prisoners had valid reasons for using them. The Butcher was rarely seen outside of the Abyss, the punishment block pressed up against the northeastern wall. His name was both a warning and a promise for all those who were sent there, few of whom ever returned. Bones, on the other hand, was seen regularly around the prison grounds, often patrolling the top of the limestone walls with a crossbow over his shoulder, or stationed in the watchtowers. While not as dread-inducing as the Butcher, his predilection for snapping the bones of inmates on a whim meant Kiva was always careful to give him a wide berth.

It was uncommon for either of the brutal men to be on duty in the infirmary, but the prisoners were restless of late, with winter’s bite making everyone more agitated than normal. Recurrent frosts meant food rations were at an all-time low, the produce damaged by the harsh weather and limiting what the laborers could harvest from the work farms. When they didn’t reach their daily quotas—which they hadn’t for weeks now—they felt the effects more than anyone, both in their stomachs and at the hands of the guards overseeing them.

Winter at Zalindov was unforgiving. Every season at Zalindov was unforgiving, but winter was particularly hard on the inmates—as Kiva knew, after ten years of experience. She was all too aware that the twin corpses within her reach weren’t the only two that she would be delivering to the morgue this week, and many more would end up following them to the crematorium before winter was through.