Chapter 3
THREE
ZRYNOK
The monastery’s interior presses close. Stone walls slick with moisture, the air thick enough to chew. Flowering vines creep through cracks in the mortar, their crimson petals brushing my arms as I follow the woman—Arwen—through passages too narrow for comfort.
I shouldn’t have learned her name. Names create complications. Make targets into people.
Too late now.
She moves through the darkness with the certainty of long familiarity, her bare feet silent on worn stone. No hesitation at the branching corridors. No pause to orient herself.
I’ve met survivors before. Killed some. Freed others. Never one quite like this.
The spores thicken as we descend. I can taste them now—cloying sweetness coating my tongue, sliding down my throat with every breath. My skin prickles. My armor becomes distracting, leather straps pressing against flesh in ways I shouldn’t notice.
Ignore it.
The passages open into what must have been a servant’s corridor—low ceiling, walls lined with pegs for aprons and tools. Arwen pauses at the junction, her head tilting as she listens to sounds I can’t quite parse. Footsteps somewhere above. Voices raised in urgent command.
“They’re organizing search parties.” Her voice stays low, controlled. “Standard protocol. Half the Keepers will sweep the forest. The other half maintain interior security.”
“The girl?”
“Chapel’s this way.” She gestures toward a narrow staircase spiraling upward. “Two levels. Then a corridor that runs past the kitchens. The chapel is at the compound’s center—we’ll hear the ceremony before we see it.”
She doesn’t wait for acknowledgment. Just moves, trusting me to follow.
I follow.
The stairs are treacherous—worn smooth by generations of feet, slick with condensation. My bulk barely fits between the walls. Arwen navigates them without slowing, her hand trailing along the stone for balance, every movement economical.
The scratches on her arms catch torchlight as we pass a sconce. Fresh wounds layered over old scars. Some from the forest. Others...
Not my concern. The mission is my concern. Burn the monastery. Kill the leadership. Extract the prisoners if possible, eliminate them if not.
Standard parameters. Nothing personal.
Except the warlord paid triple the standard rate and specified no witnesses. Men who want justice don’t pay for silence. I filed that detail somewhere uncomfortable and kept moving, the way I always do.
Except I’m following a traumatized escapee into the heart of her prison because a seventeen-year-old girl screamed, and something in Arwen’s face when she heard it made my hands want to break things.
Complications.
We emerge into a wider corridor. Torches line the walls at regular intervals, their flames casting dancing shadows across stone floors worn into shallow grooves by centuries of shuffling feet. The ceiling arches overhead, carved with symbols I don’t recognize—prayers, maybe. Or warnings.
The smell intensifies. Incense layered over something sweeter. Something that makes my blood run hot despite the corridor’s chill.
Arwen glances back at me. Once. Her face is pale in the torchlight, shadows pooling beneath eyes that hold too much history.
No. Don’t catalog her features. Don’t notice the way exhaustion sharpens her cheekbones or how her short hair exposes the vulnerable curve of her neck.
“You’re breathing too deep.” Her observation comes without judgment. “The spores affect orcs differently than humans, but the principle’s the same. Shallow breaths. Keep your mind on the job.”
“I know how to control myself.”
“Everyone thinks that. Until they don’t.” She turns back to the corridor ahead. “The Abbot’s been refining the Bloom for eighty years—the monastery for three hundred. He knows exactly how much exposure it takes to break someone.”
Her voice doesn’t waver. Doesn’t betray the personal experience buried in those words. But I hear it anyway—the careful flatness that comes from discussing wounds too deep to let bleed.
I’ve used that voice myself. More times than I can count.
“The chapel.” I redirect focus to the mission. Safer ground. “How many Keepers guard it during ceremonies?”
“Depends on the ceremony. Regular services, maybe four or five. Punishments...” A pause. Her shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly. “More. The whole congregation attends punishments. Attendance is mandatory.”
“Congregation. How many?”
“Thirty, maybe forty on a normal day. Less now—some will be hunting for me.” Her jaw sets. “The Keepers will be at the front. Armed. The rest are initiates and long-term faithful. Most won’t fight.”
“Most.”
“Some of them believe. Really believe.” Her voice hardens. “They’ll die for the Abbot. They’ll kill for him. Don’t assume the white robes mean helpless.”
Noted. Cultists with conviction are more dangerous than mercenaries with pay. I’ve learned that lesson in blood before.
We reach a junction. Arwen presses herself against the wall, gesturing for silence. I flatten beside her—or try to. My shoulder brushes hers.
She flinches. A full-body jerk, instinctive and immediate, like I’ve touched a fresh burn.
I step back. Give her space. Watch her fight to control her breathing, her hands pressed flat against the stone, her jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping.
“Sorry.” The word comes out rough. I don’t apologize. Ever. But the look on her face—
“Don’t.” She cuts me off. Her voice steady, controlled, betraying nothing of what I just witnessed. “It’s not—I’m fine. The spores make everything... more. That’s all.”
That’s not all. We both know it. But I let the lie stand because pushing would be crueler than accepting it.
Footsteps echo from the corridor ahead. Multiple sets, moving fast.
Arwen’s hand finds my arm. Deliberate this time—a grip rather than accidental contact. She pulls me toward an alcove I hadn’t noticed, hidden behind a moth-eaten tapestry depicting flowers blooming from human forms.
We press into the shadows. The space is barely large enough for her; with me filling it, we’re forced close. Her back against my chest. Her head tucked beneath my chin. Every breath she takes pushes her body against mine.
The Bloom’s spores surge through my blood. Heat pools low in my gut, spreading outward, making my skin feel too tight for my bones. I can smell her now—beneath the fear and exhaustion, something warmer. Something that makes my teeth ache with the urge to—
Stop.
I focus on the footsteps. Count them. Four sets, maybe five. Moving past our position without slowing. Keepers responding to the hunt, heading for the forest sweeps.
Arwen doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Her pulse hammers against my chest where we’re pressed close—rapid, frightened, struggling for control.
She’s not afraid of the Keepers. She’s afraid of me. Of this proximity. Of how the spores transform simple contact into something neither of us asked for.
The footsteps fade. Silence returns.
Arwen slips from the alcove without looking at me. Her movements are too controlled, too careful—the studied composure of someone forcing themselves not to shatter.
“Clear.” She gestures ahead. “The chapel’s around the next turn. We’ll hear the chanting before—”
The sound reaches us. Voices raised in harmony, the words unintelligible but the tone unmistakable. Worship. Fervent and focused and building toward something.
“Ceremony’s started.” Arwen’s face goes tight. “That means the punishment’s about to begin.”
She moves. I follow. The corridor opens into a wider passage, stone giving way to polished marble that reflects the torchlight. Tapestries line the walls—more of those flowering figures, beautiful and disturbing, bodies transformed into gardens.
The chapel doors loom ahead. Massive oak, carved with symbols that match the ceiling. Torchlight spills from the gap beneath them. The chanting swells, harmonies layered over harmonies, designed to overwhelm thought.
Arwen stops. Her hand presses against the wood, not pushing—feeling. Judging.
“There’s another entrance.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Gallery level, above the congregation. Better sightlines. Worse escape routes.”
“I don’t need escape routes.” My hand finds my sword hilt. The leather wrapping is warm from proximity to my body. Familiar. Grounding. “I need the Abbot in reach.”
“He’ll be at the altar. Front of the chapel, raised platform. The Keepers will be between you and him.” She turns to face me. In the flickering light, her expression is unreadable. “Once you start, there’s no stopping. No retreat. Every person in that room will know you’re here.”
“Good.” I draw my blade. The sound of steel clearing leather seems impossibly loud in the close corridor. “Let them.”
Her expression shifts. Not fear—she’s past fear, has been since she chose to come back here. This is something else. Recognition, maybe. Someone seeing a weapon they didn’t know they needed.
“The girl will be on the altar. Restrained. I’ll get to her while you...” She gestures at my sword.
“While I work.”
“While you work.” A pause. Her chin lifts, and for a moment she looks nothing like a victim. Nothing like prey. “Don’t die before you kill him.”
Agreed terms. The Abbot’s death in exchange for her intelligence. A fair trade. Transactional. Nothing personal.
Except everything about this has become personal, and I can’t pinpoint the moment it happened.
“Stay behind me until I’ve cleared a path.” I position myself before the doors. The chanting inside builds toward crescendo. “Get to the girl. Get her out. I’ll handle the rest.”
“And the Abbot?”
“After.” My grip tightens on the hilt. Muscle memory takes over—the stance, the breathing, the cold clarity that descends when violence becomes inevitable. “First we survive. Then we kill.”
She nods once. Accepting. Just as I did when accepting her terms in the forest.
We understand each other. More than we should, probably. Two damaged tools, pointed at a common enemy.
The chanting peaks. A single voice rises above the harmony—older, cultured, warm with false benevolence.
The Abbot.
Arwen’s whole body goes rigid. I see the reaction roll through her—the involuntary response to a voice that’s commanded her suffering for years. Her hands clench. Her jaw locks. Every muscle in her frame battles between flight and fight.
Fight wins. I watch it happen—the fear transforming into something colder, something with edges sharp enough to cut.
“That’s him.” Her voice is ice. “End him.”
I kick the doors open.