Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
ARWEN
He’s going to throw it.
I see the tension in his arm, the slight shift of his stance, the way his fingers adjust their grip on the crystal vial. The Abbot has been transparent to me—his tells obvious after years of watching him control others. He’s enjoying this moment. Savoring the fear he can see on our faces.
But he’s also preparing to act.
Zrynok is too far away. Too compromised by the spores. If the Abbot throws the Crimson Seed now, my executioner will take the full force of it. The transformation will be instant, irreversible, complete.
I do the only thing I can think of.
I step between them.
“If you want to seed someone—” The words come from somewhere beyond fear, beyond calculation. From the part of me that discovered tonight that I would rather die than watch him suffer. “—seed me. Leave him out of it.”
Silence.
Zrynok’s voice cuts through it, raw with horror: “Arwen—no—”
But the Abbot’s expression has changed. Surprise giving way to something that looks almost like delight. His arm lowers slightly. The vial stops moving toward throwing position.
“Volunteering for the transformation?” He takes a step closer. Then another. His robes whisper across the stone floor, silk shadows that seem to move with their own purpose. “My dear child. That’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever offered me.”
Behind me, I hear Zrynok struggling. Trying to reach us. Failing. The infection has him too compromised to move faster than the Abbot.
Which means I’m on my own.
Good.
“I never offered you anything.” I adjust my grip on the knife. Make my body as small a target as possible. “I survived you. That’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” He’s close now. Close enough that the cloying sweetness of the Garden rolls off him like heat from a furnace.
“I made you, Arwen. Everything you became in this place — the mind that planned your escape, the instincts that kept you alive. And everything you feel for him.” His smile curves like a blade.
“That need is my gift. Something I designed.”
His hand reaches out. Hovers near my face without touching.
“No.”
The word comes from behind me. Zrynok’s voice, stronger than it has any right to be. I turn—can’t help it—and find him standing straighter than he has since we entered the Garden. The tremors are still there. The sweat still beads on his brow. But something has changed in his expression.
Determination has replaced desperation.
“The Bloom didn’t make me want her.” He takes a step forward. Then another. His sword rises, no longer shaking. “I wanted her before I ever entered this place. Before I knew what the Bloom could do. Before any of your spores touched my blood.”
The Abbot’s attention shifts. I can feel the pressure of his gaze leaving me, focusing on the executioner who shouldn’t be able to move this well.
“Impossible. The chapel—”
“The chapel accelerated what was already there.” Zrynok is moving steadily now.
Closing the distance. “You can’t create desire, Verantus.
You can only magnify it. And what I feel for her—” His jaw tightens.
“—what I’ve felt since the moment she told me to be useful—that has nothing to do with your parasite. ”
The Abbot’s expression flickers. Uncertainty cracking through the confidence.
“You can barely stand—”
“I can stand well enough to kill you.”
Another step. The sword comes up. Ready position.
“The woman I love told me to survive. Told me to fight. Told me she’d burn the Bloom out of me if she had to.” His damaged eye catches the Garden’s filtered light. “I’m not going to disappoint her.”
Time stops.
The word echoes in my chest—
love
—and for a heartbeat, I can’t breathe for reasons that have nothing to do with the spores. He said it. Out loud. In front of the monster who tried to break me.
The woman I love.
The Abbot sees my hesitation. Moves faster than I expected, his hand closing on my wrist with strength that shouldn’t exist in that ageless frame. The knife clatters from my grip as he wrenches me around, pulling me against his chest like a shield.
“Perhaps I was wrong about you, executioner.” His voice has lost its warmth. Gone cold. Hard. “Perhaps you are worth seeding after all. But first—”
The vial rises. Positions itself above my head.
“—you’ll watch what happens when I take something you love.”
I feel the crystal brush my hair. Feel the Abbot’s arm tense to shatter it against my skull.
And then Zrynok moves.
Not staggering. Not struggling. Moving with the lethal precision of a man who has killed for centuries and sees no reason to waste motion. His sword sings through the air—a horizontal slash aimed at the Abbot’s extended arm.
The Abbot jerks backward. The vial flies from his grip.
Time resumes.