Page 107 of The Prison Healer

A crack of light.

Kiva turned her face to it, her eyes so blinded that she saw nothing, and yet she couldn’t keep in her quiet gasp of longing.

Light.

Any light.

She reached for it with her hands, as if to trap it within her fingertips.

And then it was gone.

Six times this had happened.

Six times in what felt like weeks.

Months.

Years.

Kiva didn’t know how long she’d been locked inside the pitch-black cell, the true Abyss of Zalindov. The Butcher had been right—the psychological torture was worse than any physical pain. She had no sense of time, no sense of space ... no sense of self. Aside from those six brief moments when food had been delivered, set on the ground just inside the door for her to scramble over to and feel blindly for, Kiva had no other breaks in the darkness. If not for those six deliveries, she might have thought she was dead, the sensory deprivation enough to make her believe it.

The only thing helping her keep the slightest grip on her sanity was thedrip, drip, dripin the corner, where a small drain sent dirty water into a pail. Kiva had been loath to drink from it early on, but when her first delivery of food arrived and no water came with it, she knew no one would be bringing her any. Unless she wished to die of dehydration, her only choice was the filthy water.

She didn’t know its state from looking at it; she couldn’t see it, only heard the slow trickle as it fell and collected in the small container not just for drinking, but also for cleaning herself. It smelled like wet dog, and when she finally summoned the nerve to swallow it, cupping it from her hand to her mouth, it tasted the same.

But it didn’t make her sick, didn’t kill her.

And foul smell or not, thedrip, drip, dripwas her constant companion, all she had breaking up the otherwise nothingness.

That, and her thoughts.

Those were perhaps the worst torture.

For hours, days, weeks, years—however long she had been locked away—she kept replaying everything that had led her to this moment, all the things she still had to do, all the questions that remained unanswered.

Was Jaren safe? Were they still hurting him? Was he even stillalive?

And what about his magic? Was he the only anomaly, or were there others? Why was he in Zalindov when he could have used his power to evade arrest? What crime did he commit to begin with?

Then there was Naari—how did she know Jaren’s secret? Why had she kept it from the other guards, from the Warden? Was that why she’d watched Jaren so closely, because she’d feared he would try and escape?

But even after Kiva spiraled around her questions about Jaren, as the time passed, there were more things she didn’t know, more she was desperate to hear any update about.

Was Tipp all right without her? Was Tilda?

Had Naari discovered who was poisoning the prisoners? Had she figured out that Olisha and Nergal were pawns? Had she told Rooke? Had they found a cure, or were people still dying?

Was Kiva still to face the final Ordeal, the Trial by Earth? Would they just forget about it and keep her locked up in isolation forever? If so, what would that mean for Tilda? Would she be allowed to live as a prisoner, should she survive her illness? Would she be killed? Had shealreadybeen killed? It wasn’t just the sickness or the guards who were a threat to her—the other prisoners were, too. Kiva had heard them whispering, the anti-rebels plotting her demise:... snuff out that so-called queen in her sleep ...

Kiva hadn’t lingered on the threats, knowing Tilda had been safe while in her care. But being locked away ... Anything could have happened in the time she’d been gone.

And what about Kiva’s family? Had Cresta sent word to the rebels that Kiva was in the Abyss? That Tilda’s life was at risk if Kiva didn’t make it out again? Did her family know about her suffering in the dark? Did theycare?

Don’t let her die.

We are coming.

They had failed to keep their promise, and Kiva was no longer sure if she could keep hers—to Tilda, and to herself.

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