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Wisdom told Kiva to retreat back up the passage and hide in the darkness of the other forked tunnel until she saw Jaren and the council members arrive, after which she could sneak back down and eavesdrop with her ear pressed to the door. The wood wasn’t too thick; their words would be muffled, but she should be able to hear them.

But that unscrolled parchment was too tempting to resist.

Listening carefully, Kiva could hear nothing to indicate anyone was heading her way. She had to hurry — she couldn’t chance crossing paths with them on her way back to the fork.

Her hands shook as she rushed around the circular table toward the cabinet. She didn’t touch the parchment in case someone noticed it had shifted, but she also didn’t need to, since a quick glance revealed that it was a handwritten letter — in another language.

Kiva swore under her breath and scanned for any recognizable words. While all of Wenderall’s citizens spoke the common tongue, some of the other kingdoms also had their own native languages. She might have kept to herself inside Zalindov, but she’d still picked up a few phrases from her more talkative patients.

Squinting in concentration, Kiva skipped to the bottom of the letter and found the name of the sender: Navok Kildarion.

Shock coursed through her body, and she read the name again, just to be sure.

The Kildarion family were the ruling monarchs of Mirraven. When she was a child, Kiva had overheard her parents talking about the ruthless northern royals and the rumors claiming that King Arakkis’s wife was so afraid of him that she’d fled in the night, leaving behind their two children, Princess Serafine and Prince Navok.

But ... why would a Mirraven prince be writing to Evalon’s Royal Council?

Kiva scanned Navok’s letter again, desperate for any hint of what it contained. Aside from the words Arakkis and Serafine, she also saw another name she recognized from long ago: Voshell. If she recalled correctly, that was Voshell Aravine, the crown prince of Caramor. But no other words stood out to her, making her sigh with frustration.

For a moment, Kiva entertained the idea of stealing the parchment and taking it to someone who could read Mirravish, but from the few names she’d gleaned, she knew it was valuable enough to be missed. The letter had to stay — she would just have to find out what it said some other way.

Shoulders drooping in resignation, Kiva inspected the rest of the cabinet’s surface, finding nothing more interesting than a near-empty crystal decanter, the amber-colored spirits rippling as she pulled off the stopper, her eyes watering at the strength of the fumes. Quickly sealing it again, she noted a set of delicate tumblers stacked and ready for use, and deduced that the Royal Council must keep them on hand for celebrations — or perhaps commiserations.

Aware that every second she lingered was adding to the danger of being caught, Kiva swiftly tugged open the cabinet doors, only to find the inside bare except for some blank sheets of parchment and a few spare bottles of alcohol.

Disappointed, Kiva closed the cabinet again, her skin itching with desire to leave the room. She didn’t know how long she’d have to wait for the council’s arrival, but her anxiety was growing enough that she knew it was time to go.

Hurrying back around the mahogany table, Kiva’s gaze trailed over the maps once more, a feeling of insignificance flooding her as she realized just how vast Wenderall was. There was so much she had yet to see even in her home kingdom of Evalon, and she’d never so much as set foot in another territory. Long ago, she’d dreamed of traveling to the pristine forests of Nerine, the salt mountains of Valorn, the desert kingdom of Hadris, and the sun-drenched lands of Jiirva. She’d imagined wandering through the harsh landscapes of Caramor and adventuring beyond Mirraven’s renowned Darkwell Fortress into the Uninhabited North. She’d even entertained thoughts of chartering a ship and exploring the wilds of Odon, perhaps sailing all the way down to the abandoned Serpent Isles, or journeying to one of the near-mythical continents far across the ocean.

Her childhood fantasies had remained with her during her years at Zalindov, offering a mental escape on the darkest of days. Even now, Kiva still longed for the dreams of her youth, for the utter freedom of her imagination. Maybe one day she would have a chance to travel beyond Evalon, to experience the wonders of Wenderall for herself. Maybe one day she would be free to —

Kiva froze as a sound met her ears, yanking her viciously from her nostalgia. She stretched her senses as far as they would go, straining to hear beyond her panicked pulse.

There. In the distance.

Voices.

CHAPTER TEN

Ice flooded Kiva’s veins as she stared at the open doorway, before she came to her senses and lunged forward to shut it. The voices seemed too far away for them to have reached the fork and noticed the light streaming into the tunnel, so her presence remained undiscovered, for now.

But the Royal Council was heading her way.

Jarenwas heading her way.

And in closing the door, she had just trapped herself in the room.

For a single, heart-stopping second, all thoughts eddied from Kiva’s mind as fear took hold, but then she snapped out of it and began searching desperately for a hiding place.

She looked at the bookcase overflowing with tomes, dismissing it immediately. She then considered whether she could remain unseen beneath the mahogany table, only to reject that idea just as fast. Gazing frantically around, her eyes came to rest on the ashwood cabinet, a gasp of hope leaving her as she bolted toward it, yanking open the doors and shoving aside the bottles of spirits and unused parchment. Her sore muscles burned in protest as she twisted her body into the cramped space, curling at the waist and wrapping her arms around her legs in order to fit. It took three tries before she was able to close the cabinet doors, but finally she managed to seal herself inside.

For a moment, Kiva could see nothing, the musty smell of wood overloading her senses, coupled with the more pungent scent of alcohol indicating that a bottle must have spilled at some point. The darkness was consuming, the walls closing in on her, hauling her back to her time in the Abyss when she’d been locked in the pitch-black cell for a fortnight.

Trapped.

Just as she was now.

Her breathing began to grow louder as her lungs constricted, recollected terror causing sweat to break out on her forehead.