Chapter 12 ARWEN
TWELVE
ARWEN
Iwatch the information take hold in him. The way his expression moves from resistance to processing to something that looks almost like acceptance.
Most people fight this moment. Rage against the unfairness of permanent infection. Demand to know if there’s a cure, a reversal, anything to undo what’s been done. Zrynok doesn’t rage. Doesn’t demand. Just sits with it—absorbing the blow, adjusting his approach based on new information.
“By not fighting every moment.” I wipe my hands clean on the cloth I brought for the herbs.
“By accepting that the hunger is part of me now and working with it instead of against it.” A pause.
The next part is harder to say. “It took years to understand that what I feel is mine. Not a weapon they gave me. Not a punishment. Mine. What I do with it—that’s where agency lives. ”
He’s very still. “You’ve been infected for years.”
“Since my first year here.” I let him see it—the admission I don’t usually make. “They put me in the Initiation Pools when I arrived. The water is infused with Bloom essence. After that, it was in my blood permanently.” I hold steady on his gaze. “It doesn’t have to destroy you. I’m proof of that.”
Movement from the corner. Circe, pressing against the wall, her eyes open and fixed on us. She’s been silent since we returned—but now her gaze moves between us with something approaching curiosity.
“The Bloom doesn’t control you.” Her voice is small. Uncertain. But there’s a question underneath—a desperate need to believe that what she’s heard is true. “You’ve been infected for years, and you’re still... you.”
I turn to face her. This girl who was about to be sacrificed for my escape.
“The Bloom doesn’t remove who you are. It amplifies what you feel. If you let them convince you that the feelings are shameful, wrong, dangerous—that’s when they win. That’s when the infection becomes control.” I hold steady on her. “But if you accept what you feel as yours—they lose their hold.”
Circe’s eyes well with tears she doesn’t shed. She nods—once, sharp, the motion of someone clinging to hope they’re afraid to release.
“Get some rest.” My voice softens despite itself. “We’ll need our strength for what comes next.”
She closes her eyes. Within minutes her breathing evens out—exhaustion claiming her.