Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
ARWEN
The Abbot is dead.
The Garden is destroyed.
And the cult is eating itself alive.
I stand at the window of what used to be the Keeper Captain’s quarters—a room I was never permitted to enter during my years of captivity—and watch the chaos unfold across the monastery grounds.
Smoke rises from the eastern wing where the Garden’s collapse triggered secondary fires.
Keepers rush between buildings, their partially transformed faces twisted with confusion and fear.
The structure that held them, guided them, gave their monstrous existence meaning—it’s crumbling, and they don’t know what to do.
Good.
Zrynok’s hand settles on my shoulder. Warm.
Steadying. The touch is casual now—easy in a way that would have been impossible a week ago.
We’ve crossed enough boundaries that physical contact no longer carries the burden of negotiation.
He touches me because he wants to. I let him because I want him to.
“They’re regrouping near the main gate.” His voice is a low rumble near my ear. “Maybe thirty of them. The ones who fled the Garden when it started collapsing.”
“The fanatics. The ones who can’t accept the Abbot is gone.” I study their movements through the cracked glass. “They’ll try to restore order. Pretend nothing has changed.”
“Can they?”
“Not for long. The Bloom needs cultivation to maintain its potency. Without the Garden, without the Abbot’s techniques, the concentrated spores will lose their power within days.
” I turn to face him, and the movement brings my body close to his.
Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his infected skin.
“But they can still hurt the survivors. Can still kill anyone who tries to escape.”
His jaw tightens. The infection’s map has crept higher since the Garden—a dark lattice under the skin of his neck, slower than before but not stopped, not gone, not going to be gone.
“Then we take them out.” Simple. Direct. The executioner’s solution to every problem. “Before they can organize.”
“We take them out strategically.” I press my palm flat against his chest. Feel his heartbeat—steady despite the chaos outside, despite the infection in his blood. “We use that knowledge to minimize casualties.”
“Theirs or ours?”
“Ours.” My fingers curl against his tunic. “Theirs too, if possible. Not all of them chose this. Some were taken young. Transformed before they understood what they were becoming.”
He studies my face. I can see the conflict in his expression—the executioner’s instinct to eliminate all threats warring with something newer. Something that’s grown between us over the past days.
“You’re asking me to spare people who would kill you without hesitation.”
“I’m asking you to let me decide who deserves killing and who deserves a chance.” I hold his gaze. “You trusted me to guide you through this place. Trust me now.”
His hand comes up. Cups my jaw. The gesture is tender in ways that still surprise me—this massive, scarred, blood-soaked man touching me with reverence usually reserved for precious things.
“I trust you.” The words come out rough. Unpolished. More honest for their lack of ornamentation. “Lead us. I’ll follow.”
The assault begins at midday.
I’ve positioned our forces—if you can call twenty freed initiates and one partially transformed Keeper a force—at three key points around the monastery.
Cael leads the eastern group, his intimate knowledge of Keeper tactics making him invaluable despite his ongoing transformation.
Circe coordinates the southern approach with a handful of initiates who’ve proven capable of following orders without freezing.
She is the first to volunteer for it. When I lay out the plan, she doesn’t wait for an assignment—she looks at the map I’ve drawn from memory and says, simply, “Southern approach. I know the cells on that side. I know which Keepers patrol there.” Then she lifts a short blade from the weapons we’ve gathered and tucks it into her belt without asking permission.
I hadn’t argued. Someone who has survived this place as long as Circe knows how to read a fight before it starts.
The rest stay with me, positioned in the servants’ passages near the main gate.
Zrynok leads no one. He’s a weapon, not a commander. His job is simpler and more brutal: cut through whatever resistance he encounters, draw the Keepers’ attention, create chaos while the rest of us achieve our objectives.
He doesn’t argue with the assignment. Just brushes his lips against my hair before he moves to his position—a gesture that’s becoming habit, a ritual acknowledgment of what exists between us.
He meets my gaze once. Then he’s gone, slipping through the shadows with the silent efficiency of a born killer. I watch him disappear around a corner and force myself to focus on the task at hand.
The Keepers have fortified their position near the main gate. Smart, from a tactical perspective—the gate represents escape for the survivors still trapped in cells, and controlling it gives them leverage. But they’ve made a critical error.
They’re thinking in terms of siege warfare. Holding a position against external assault.
They’ve forgotten that I know every secret passage in this monastery.
“Now.” I give the signal.
Our forces move.