There was nothing she could do in the meantime—nothing for herself, at least. But there was something she could be doing to help others.

Switching her focus, Kiva sought to understand why a growing number of prisoners were contracting the stomach virus. When the first cases had been brought to the infirmary, she had diagnosed them as having a gastrointestinal infection, with such illnesses notorious for spreading like a plague in a confined place like Zalindov. But aside from being messy and uncomfortable, that form of virus usually came and went quickly, with a lifespan of two to five days.

It was becoming clear that Kiva had made a misdiagnosis, for not only was the virus lingering in the systems of those who contracted it, but it wasn’t spreading as it should have. While more prisoners were becoming infected, there was no pattern as to who caught it, and since all of those suffering were too sick to speak in full sentences, Kiva had no clue what linked them.

On top of that, and perhaps more disturbing, they weren’t getting any better. No matter how many remedies she tried, how many sedatives she gave them for rest, how many antivirals and antibacterials she shoved down their throats, nothing helped. She even tried bleeding a few of the sicker patients, and still, none showed any signs of improving.

They were, however, beginning to die.

One by one they were falling into the everworld, with the earliest patients already having been sent to the morgue, and many of the later patients swiftly joining them. The incubation period was different for each person; some died within days, some died within hours.

Kiva couldn’t make any sense of it, each new victim only adding to her frustration—and her helplessness.

“Don’t w-worry,” Tipp told her one night, ten days after the Trial by Air. “You’ll g-g-g-g-g—figure it out.”

It was late, and the young boy had been running around helping Kiva all day. He was so tired that he was swaying on his feet, even though she had repeatedly told him to sit down and rest. She wanted to avoid him falling over, but she also wanted to keep him from getting angry with himself, since he always grew distressed when exhaustion made his stutter more pronounced.

“I just don’t understand it,” Kiva said, scrubbing her hands clean and wiping them with silverseed oil as an added precaution. She handed the flask to Tipp and eyed him until he did the same. “Their symptoms are identical: high fever, dilated pupils, headache, vomiting, diarrhea—”

“Don’t f-f-forget the rash,” Tipp interrupted, handing the sterilizing oil back and wrinkling his nose at the bitter smell.

“—and a stomach rash,” Kiva added, ticking off her fingers. “They all have the same thing, I’m certain of it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”