Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
ZRYNOK
The Bloom has tasted victory, and it wants more.
I don’t tell Arwen how much ground I’ve lost. Don’t need to add to the burdens she’s carrying.
But the infection’s path through my body tells its own story—the red web has spread past my collar, claiming ground the herbs couldn’t hold, and every heartbeat brings surges of need that take more effort to suppress than they did yesterday.
What happened in the chapel broke something in the infection’s cage. The treatment bought time, held the line, kept me functional. But the Bloom fights back with every breath, and midnight approaches with all its promises of violence.
I channel the craving into focus. Into anticipation. Into the steady rhythm of checking my weapons one final time.
The drainage grate waits ahead, barely visible in the darkness. Beyond it—the Keeper barracks. Thirty guards at full strength, maybe fewer now after the chapel massacre. Enough to overwhelm us if the assault goes wrong. Not enough to stop an executioner who has nothing left to lose.
Arwen crouches beside me in the shadows.
Her breathing is controlled, her body still, her attention fixed on the barracks’ outer wall.
She’s dressed for movement—loose clothing, soft boots, the knife I’ve seen her draw a dozen times strapped to her thigh.
Not a warrior. But a survivor. And survivors know how to kill when killing is required.
“Cael’s signal.” She points toward the watchtower on the barracks’ eastern corner. A torch flickers three times, then goes dark. “Outer sentries are down. We have maybe ten minutes before the next patrol discovers them.”
Ten minutes to reach the sleeping quarters. To begin the slaughter that will cripple the Abbot’s enforcement arm. To wade through blood until the cult’s power breaks.
The infection thrums in my veins. Hungry. Eager. Ready for what comes next.
“Stay close,” I murmur. “Watch my blind side. If I lose control—”
“You won’t.”
“If I do.” My attention locks onto hers in the darkness. Those eyes that see too much, that read things in my face I don’t want shown. “Pull me back. However you have to.”
She doesn’t argue. Just nods once—sharp, decisive—and moves toward the drainage grate.
The grate comes loose with minimal noise.
Arwen mapped this route yesterday, tracing paths through the monastery’s infrastructure that most of the faithful don’t know exist. The drainage system predates the cult by centuries—built for a monastery that served different gods, maintained just enough to keep the barracks from flooding during heavy rains.
I fit through the opening with effort. The stone scrapes against my shoulders, too narrow for comfort, forcing me to twist and compress in ways my body doesn’t want to accommodate.
The Bloom makes every point of contact register—the cold stone against my skin, the moisture seeping through my clothes, the faint vibration of Arwen’s movements ahead of me.
Sensation. The infection feeds on it. Craves it. Turns every stimulus into fuel for the need that never stops burning.
I breathe through the intensity. Force myself forward.
The drainage channel opens into a maintenance shaft beneath the barracks’ foundation. Arwen waits there, pressed against the wall, listening. Her head tilts—reading sounds I can’t hear, interpreting patterns in the silence.
“Two guards in the entry hall. Four more in the first sleeping chamber.” Her voice is barely audible. “The leadership quarters are in the back. Brother Mallus commands the night shift—he’ll be there.”
“Mallus first?”
“Mallus last. We clear the rank and file, deny them organization, then take the leadership.” She draws her knife. The blade catches what little light exists in the shaft. “Quiet as long as possible. Once the alarm sounds, we have minutes before reinforcements arrive from the main monastery.”
I draw my own blade—not the executioner’s sword, too large for close quarters, but a shorter weapon better suited to silent killing. The grip settles into my palm with familiar comfort. The Bloom responds to the weapon’s presence, anticipation spiking through my blood.
Soon.