“He survived Zalindov,” Kiva said, sitting cross-legged on the blanket, the panoramic view unobstructed before her. “He can survive Naari.”
“— and if you ever run off like that again, I’ll lock you in the dungeons myself, do you hear me?”
Naari’s irate voice floated over to them, prompting Kiva to wince and amend her previous statement. “Probably.”
Tipp snickered, but quickly shoved a pastry in his mouth when Naari stomped their way, rearranging her weapons so she could sit. She speared a look at Kiva and threatened, “If I find out you had anything to do with —”
Kiva quickly raised her hands. “I was innocently minding my own business before he dragged me here.”
“Thanks for the solidarity,” Jaren muttered, collapsing beside Kiva, close enough for her to feel his body warmth. She contemplated shifting away, but she hadn’t dressed with a nighttime outing in mind when she’d left that morning, her thin cardigan doing little to ward off the evening chill.
One night, she reminded herself. It would do little harm for her to remain where she was.
“At least we have p-plenty of food,” Tipp said, reaching for some grapes.
“What a relief,” Jaren said, his tone dry.
Kiva realized something then: Jaren had cursed upon seeing Naari and Tipp, as if he hadn’t expected them to be there. All of this — the view, the blanket, the hamper — he’d set it up for her.
She turned to find a sheepish expression on his face. He shrugged slightly, as if to say that he’d tried, and something within her melted. But then she reminded herself of who he was and what she planned to do to him — what she had to do to him — and she looked away, slamming a wall around her heart.
“For future reference,” Naari declared, “the next time the two of you sneak off for some alone time, please do so inside the palace grounds.”
Kiva opened her mouth to deny her involvement, but Jaren jumped in first by saying, “Where’s the fun in that?” He tossed an apple to the guard. “Eat something, Naari. You’re grumpier than usual when you’re hungry.”
The look she sent him promised retribution, but she raised the fruit to her lips and bit into it.
“Not long to go,” Jaren told Kiva, offering her a plate of pastries. “Eat up and get comfortable.”
Nibbling on a custard tart, Kiva marveled at the novelty of being able to eat freely. For the first time since she was a child, she actually had flesh on her bones, not to mention curves that had been previously nonexistent. Tipp, too, had flourished in the time since leaving Zalindov and its meager rations, his boyish frame filling out, his freckled skin glowing with youthful radiance.
Kiva wondered how she’d ever survived for so long on so little. But Zalindov was behind her. One day, she would seek justice for the crimes committed by Warden Rooke, the man responsible for her father’s death and so many others. But that day, she knew, would have to wait.
“Any second now,” Jaren said, just as the last of the sun’s rays sank below the horizon.
Tipp rose eagerly onto his knees, while Naari continued chewing on her apple, her alert amber eyes darting around the rooftop. Kiva squinted into the twilight, having no idea what she was supposed to be looking for, especially with the darkness quickly setting in.
“Will we —” Kiva broke off with a gasp as a kaleidoscope of color lit the night, accompanied by an orchestral symphony amplified throughout the city. The music’s origin was impossible to pinpoint, but the rainbow spotlights streamed from the palace’s gilded bridge right into the heart of the Serin River, reflecting off the water in a psychedelic haze.
The crowd cheered loud enough to make Kiva’s ears ring even from a distance. The noise transported her straight back to Zalindov, to the moment she’d volunteered to take her mother’s sentence, and the resulting roar from the gathered inmates. Her palms began to sweat, but the city crowd was celebrating, not jeering, the sound joyful enough to ease the sudden constriction around her chest.
“Here we go,” Jaren said from Kiva’s side as the colored lights began to spiral. He was unaware of the mental battlefield she’d just navigated, but he of all people would understand her lingering trauma, especially since she knew he was suffering in his own way, having heard his restless nightmares through the walls during their weeks at the winter palace. She’d acted oblivious, never revealing that she’d lain awake until his distressed sounds had faded, never sharing that she endured her own torturous dreams.