The Prison Healer

“It’s a shame about the c-c-cut on his face,” Tipp said, as Kiva finished wrapping the man’s hand and began to make her way around the rest his body, adding sutures to the open wounds as she went and applying the antibacterial sap over the top.

“Why’s that?” Kiva murmured, only half listening.

“It’ll ruin his p-pretty face.”

Kiva’s fingers paused midstitch over the cut she was closing on his right pectoral. “Pretty face or not, he’s still a man, Tipp.”

“So?”

“So,” Kiva said, “most men are pigs.”

There was a loaded silence, the only sound being a quiet huff from Naari at the door—almost as if she were amused—before Tipp finally said, “I’m a man. I’m not a p-pig.”

“You’re still young,” Kiva returned. “Give it time.”

Tipp snorted, thinking she was joking. Kiva didn’t enlighten him. While she hoped Tipp would stay as sweet and caring as he now was, the odds were against him.

“Are you g-going to swoon, Naari?”

Tipp’s words drew Kiva’s attention, and she sucked in a sharp breath at realizing he was questioning the guard.

Prisoners should never question the guards.

Worse, he was—he was teasing her.

Kiva had tried to protect Tipp as much as she could since his mother’s death, but there was only so much she could do. And now, after this . . .

Naari’s amber gaze finally moved away from the young man’s face, narrowing as she took in Tipp’s mischievous grin and Kiva’s poorly suppressed fear. But all she said was, “He needs to be held down in case he wakes.”

Kiva’s trapped breath fled her lungs, relief making her dizzy, even as she noted where Naari’s gaze had moved to and saw what was in Tipp’s other hand. The scalpel, already heated, the tip sharpened to a white-hot point.

Healthy hair, healthy physique. Both rare in new arrivals.

Again, Kiva found herself wondering what kind of life this man had come from that had led him to fall so far.

“You’re not g-going to swoon, are you?” Tipp said, appearing at her elbow with a bone needle and spooled catgut in hand.

“What?”

Tipp nodded down to the man. “Swoon. Because of h-how he looks.”

Kiva’s brow furrowed. “How he . . .” Her eyes flittered to the man’s face, taking him in properly for the first time. “Oh.” She frowned deeper and said, “Of course I’m not going to swoon.”

Tipp’s mouth twitched. “It’s all right if you d-d-do. I’ll catch you.”

Shooting him a look, Kiva opened her mouth to retort, but before she could get a word out, Naari appeared right beside them, having approached on swift, silent feet.

A quiet squeak left Kiva before she could help herself, but the guard didn’t shift her eyes from the man lying on the metal bench.

No, not a man. Now that he was clean enough to reveal his features, Kiva could see that he wasn’t fully grown yet. But he was no longer a boy, either. Perhaps eighteen or nineteen—a year or two older than she was, give or take.

Vallenia—the capital of Evalon, the largest kingdom in Wenderall.

With shaking fingers, Kiva unfolded it and read the coded words contained within.

Kiva released a whoosh of air, her shoulders drooping with relief as she mentally translated the code: We are safe. Stay alive. We will come.

It had been three months since Kiva had last heard from her family. Three months of checking the clothing of new, oblivious prisoners, hoping for any scrap of information from the outside world. If not for the charity of the stablemaster, Raz, she would have had no means of communicating with those she loved most. He risked his life to sneak the notes through Zalindov’s walls to her, and despite their rarity—and brevity—they meant the world to Kiva.

We are safe. Stay alive. We will come.

The same eight words and other similar offerings had arrived sporadically over the last decade, always when Kiva needed to hear them the most.

We are safe. Stay alive. We will come.

The middle part was easier said than done, but Kiva would do as she was told, certain her family would one day fulfill their promise to come for her. No matter how many times they wrote the words, no matter how long she’d already waited, she held on to their declaration, repeating it over and over in her mind: We will come. We will come. We will come.

One day, she would be with her family again. One day, she would be free of Zalindov, a prisoner no longer.

For ten years, she had been waiting for that day.

But every week that passed, her hope dwindled more and more.

Zalindov showed no mercy, not even to the innocent.

Especially not to the innocent.

Kiva who were considered loyal to the Warden of Zalindov, a traitor to her fellow prisoners. An informant. A spy.

No one loathed Kiva more than she did herself, but she couldn’t regret her choices, regardless of the cost.

“Because I found a reason to stay.”

“I have a lot of dreams. A lot of nightmares, too. Only time will tell which path my life will take.”

the smallest spark can cause a flame