Chapter 7
SEVEN
ARWEN
The lower gardens smell of death.
Not the sharp copper tang of fresh blood—something older, sweeter. Decay layered under flowers, rot dressed in beauty. The Bloom grows thick here, vines crawling up trellises of ancient stone, petals unfurling in the dim light that filters through windows set high in the walls.
I keep low. Move slow. The spore concentration is manageable at ground level—the particles drift upward, hanging in the air above head height. As long as I don’t stand fully upright, I can function.
The herbs I need grow in the far corner, near the compost heaps where the cult disposes of its failures. Bitter root. Thornleaf. White sage that only flourishes in soil fed by human remains. A combination that slows Bloom progression, gives the body time to fight back.
I learned the recipe by watching. By listening. By playing broken while I memorized everything the Keepers did to maintain their partial transformations.
The garden paths wind between raised beds overflowing with crimson flowers. Some of the blooms are larger than my head, their petals layered in gradients from pale pink to deep arterial red. Beautiful. Horrifying. I force myself not to think about what fertilizes them.
Movement in my peripheral vision. I freeze behind a trellis, pressing myself into shadow, barely breathing.
A Keeper passes. Partially transformed, his skin rough with the texture of bark, Bloom flowers budding from his shoulders. He moves with the careful precision of someone fighting constant urges, every step measured and deliberate.
I know him. Brother Matthias. He was kind to me once, years ago, before his transformation completed. Slipped me extra bread when I was being starved for disobedience. The memory aches—kindness that couldn’t save either of us from what this place demanded.
He passes without noticing me. His enhanced senses should have picked up my presence—the Bloom gives Keepers abilities that border on supernatural—but his attention is fixed elsewhere. Distracted. Worried.
The chapel massacre has them rattled. Good. Rattled enemies make mistakes.
I wait until his footsteps fade, then continue toward my goal. The herb patch is just ahead—I can see the distinctive silver-green of thornleaf catching what little light reaches this corner.
My hands work quickly, gathering what I need. The thornleaf pricks my fingers, drawing tiny beads of blood that the plants seem to drink eagerly. The bitter root comes up with a resistance that feels almost intentional, like the garden itself doesn’t want to surrender its medicine.
The white sage is last. I have to reach past a flowering vine to get to it, and the thorns drag across my forearm, leaving trails of fire. The Bloom’s influence pulses through the wounds immediately—sensation magnified, making my skin feel too tight, too alive.
I grit my teeth. Push through. Bundle the herbs in a cloth I brought for exactly this purpose.
Done. Now get out.
I retrace my path through the garden, moving faster now, the bundle clutched against my chest. The exit is close—a maintenance door that leads to the passages I used to enter. Another minute, maybe two, and I’ll be—
“Hello, Sister.”
The voice comes from ahead. Blocking my path.
Sister Maret steps out from between the flower beds. Her white robes are pristine, her expression gentle, her hands folded in front of her with the serene composure that made her the most effective torturer the monastery ever produced.
Every muscle in my body locks. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at the woman who broke me and rebuilt me and broke me again, over and over, until I learned to hide the pieces she wanted to destroy.
“You look well.” Maret’s voice is warm, concerned, exactly the tone she used when she was breaking me. “Freedom agrees with you. But you also look tired. Frightened. Surely you’ve had enough of running by now.”
I measure the distance to the door. Ten feet. Maybe twelve. She’s not blocking it directly—there’s space to get past if I’m fast enough.
But Maret has never needed to be fast. Her weapons are words, patience, the ability to make you believe your suffering is love.
“I’ve had enough of a lot of things.” I keep my voice steady. Don’t let her see the fear. “Including you.”
“You don’t mean that.” She steps closer—not threatening, never threatening. Just warm. Inviting. A predator disguised as comfort. “We were friends once. We can be friends again.”
Friends. The word curdles in my memory. We were never friends. We were two broken girls in the same cell, and Maret chose to become the thing that broke her while I chose to endure.
Her gaze drops to the bundle in my hands. Understanding flickers across her face.
“Treatment supplies. For the Bloom infection, yes?” Her smile widens.
“Your executioner must be suffering. The Abbot says the concentrated exposure worked beautifully. Says even now, the orc burns for you. Can you imagine? An executioner brought low by desire for a traumatized cult escapee.” A soft laugh. “It’s almost romantic.”
Rage flares hot in my chest. I shove it down. Rage is what she wants—emotion she can use, leverage she can exploit.
“He’s not my anything.”
“The Abbot says otherwise.” Maret moves closer.
Each step measured, unhurried. The approach of someone who has all the time in the world.
“He says you chose to return—not just to save the girl but to save him. That you pulled him back from the edge when the spores should have claimed him completely.” Her head tilts, curiosity sharpening her gentle features.
“You gave him something to want more than surrender. What was it, Arwen? What did you offer?”
I didn’t offer anything. I demanded he want something real—want me to survive, want to finish the job, want anything that wasn’t the Bloom’s manufactured hunger.
But I’m not explaining that to her. Not giving her ammunition.
“I’m not going back.” I shift my stance, preparing to run. “The Abbot can’t have me. You can’t have me. I’m done being owned.”
“You’re already back.” Maret spreads her hands—welcoming, open, the gesture of someone offering sanctuary.
“You came back with a weapon, thinking you could destroy us. Instead, the Bloom claimed your weapon. Now you’re alone, in a place you can’t escape, with a man who will eventually betray you because his body won’t give him any other choice. ”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” She takes another step. Close now. Close enough that I can smell the incense in her robes, the faint sweetness of Bloom essence on her skin. “The Abbot wants you alive, Arwen. He’s willing to forgive everything—the escape, the violence, all of it. Come home. Stop fighting.”
Come home. As if this place was ever home. As if anything that happened here was anything other than captivity dressed in prayer.
I run.
Not toward the door—Maret’s positioned to intercept that path.
Sideways, into the flower beds, thorns tearing at my legs as I crash through the raised plantings.
I know this garden. Know the hidden paths between the rows, the gaps in the trellises, the maintenance access that even long-term residents forget exists.
Maret’s voice follows me, still gentle, still patient: “You can’t run forever, Sister. The Bloom is in your blood too. Maybe not as deep as your executioner, but deep enough. Deep enough that you’ll come back to us eventually.”
I don’t respond. Don’t waste breath on words that won’t change anything.
The secondary exit is ahead—a grate set into the floor, leading to the drainage tunnels that run beneath the gardens. I rip it open, drop through, ignore the stench of stagnant water and worse things.
The tunnels swallow me. I crawl through darkness, herbs clutched against my chest, Maret’s words echoing in my skull.
He’ll betray you because his body won’t give him any other choice.
She’s wrong. She has to be wrong.
But doubt is its own poison. And Maret knows exactly where to inject it.
I emerge in the storage chamber shaking, bleeding, triumphant.
The candle has burned halfway down—I was gone longer than I planned. Circe is exactly where I left her, knees to chest, watching me with wide, worried eyes. And Zrynok—
Zrynok is on his feet. Moving toward me before I’m fully through the entrance, his hands reaching, then stopping, then dropping to his sides as he forces himself to maintain distance.
“You’re bleeding.” His voice is rough. Raw. The words pulled from somewhere primal.
“Thorns. The garden.” I hold up the bundle of herbs, proof of my success. “I got what we need.”
“There’s someone else’s scent on you.” He takes another step, then stops himself. The struggle is visible—every muscle in his body tensed, fighting against impulses the Bloom has amplified beyond reason. “Who?”
“Sister Maret. My old friend. My former torturer.” I move past him, deliberately close, testing his control. He doesn’t grab me. Doesn’t touch me. Just breathes deep, shuddering, and lets me pass. “She knows you’re infected. Knows I came back for you.”
“Came back for me?”
“For these.” I hold up the herbs again. “For treatment. To keep you alive long enough to kill the Abbot.”
The deflection is obvious. He sees through it. I watch him see through it, watch him choose not to push.
“How bad is it?” He nods toward my arms, where fresh scratches layer over old wounds. “The exposure.”
“Manageable.” I begin preparing the treatment—crushing herbs, mixing them with water from a canteen I stashed here years ago. “I’ve had worse. Years of exposure teaches you how to function through it.”
“Function. Not recover.”
I look up at him. At this massive, scarred, infected executioner who’s fighting against his own body to protect me from what he might do.
“No one recovers from the Bloom. Not completely.” I finish the mixture and hold it out. “But this will slow the progression. Give you time. Maybe enough.”
He takes the cup. Our fingers brush in the transfer.
Heat shoots up my arm. Not pain—something else. Something that makes my pulse stutter and my thoughts scatter in directions they shouldn’t go.
His eyes meet mine. And I see it there—the same heat, the same confusion, the same desperate battle against wanting things neither of us can afford.
“What the Bloom is doing to you—” I don’t look away.
“It’s not manufacturing something from nothing.
That’s what the Abbot wants you to believe.
It magnifies what’s already there. Takes something real and strips away your ability to moderate it.
” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“Which means the feeling is yours. And that means you have a choice about what you do with it.”
He’s very still. The cup held in both hands, steam rising between us.
“That’s supposed to help.”
“It’s supposed to be true.”
“Drink,” I say. “Then rest. We plan our next move when you wake.”
He drains the cup without breaking eye contact. Sets it down. Returns to his position against the wall, sliding down until he’s sitting, his massive frame dwarfing the small space.
“She was wrong.” His voice is quieter now, the treatment taking effect. “Your torturer. About me betraying you.”
“You heard that?”
“Enhanced senses. The infection’s side effect.” His eyes drift closed. “I could smell your fear from here. Hear your heartbeat when you ran.”
I should be disturbed by that. Should feel violated, exposed, my privacy stripped away by his Bloom-enhanced abilities.
Instead, my chest tightens with something unexpected. He heard me in danger. He was ready to come for me. Would have, probably, if the infection hadn’t anchored him here.
“Get some rest.” I settle against the opposite wall, putting the maximum distance the small chamber allows between us. “We’ll need our strength for what comes next.”
“What does come next?”
I think of Maret. Of the Abbot’s plan to claim us both. Of the Bloom spreading through Zrynok’s blood even as the treatment fights to slow it.
“We finish what we came here to do. Every Keeper who lifts a blade against the innocent. Every stone that sheltered this place from consequence. Every root of what the Abbot built.”
“And the Abbot himself?”
I let myself smile. It feels sharp on my face. Dangerous.
“Him most of all.”