Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
ARWEN
Not all of them fled or fought.
As the sun sets, casting long shadows across the monastery grounds, the last Keepers emerge from hiding.
Three of them—barely transformed, still mostly human, their bark-skin patchy and their flowering growths minimal.
They stumble into the courtyard with hands raised, weapons abandoned, faces wet with tears they probably don’t know they’re shedding.
“Please.” The youngest speaks first. A boy, really—sixteen at most, taken during a “harvesting” raid and transformed before he understood what was happening. “Please, we didn’t—we just want—”
“To live.” I finish for him when the words fail. “To have another chance.”
He nods. Can’t speak. Just nods with desperate hope.
Behind me, I feel Zrynok’s presence. He’s followed me to the courtyard, positioned himself at my back the way he has during every confrontation since the Garden. His hand rests on his sword hilt. Ready. Waiting for my decision.
Part of me wants to tell him to kill them.
Part of me remembers every horror the Keepers inflicted—every initiation, every punishment, every moment of control that stripped away my humanity piece by piece.
These three might not have been the worst offenders.
They might not have touched me personally.
But they were part of the system that did.
Killing them would be justified.
But it wouldn’t be right.
“You can live.” The words come from somewhere I didn’t know existed—a part of me that survived the cult’s conditioning, that still believes in possibilities beyond violence and revenge.
“If you leave now. If you never return to this place. If you spend whatever time the Bloom gives you trying to become something other than what they made you.”
The boy collapses. Sobs into the courtyard stones. The other two stare at me like I’ve offered them something they don’t know how to accept.
“Go.” I gesture toward the main gate. Toward the Thornwood. Toward whatever life waits beyond these walls. “Before I change my mind.”
They run.
Zrynok finds me watching them disappear into the trees.
He doesn’t speak immediately. Just stands beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush, his presence a warmth I’ve come to need more than I want to admit.
“You’re better than this place.” His voice is quiet. Private. Meant only for me. “Better than me. I would have killed them all.”
I turn to look at him. Really look—past the exhaustion, past the infection’s marks pressing toward his jaw, past the blood still drying on his armor.
I see the man beneath the executioner. The one who gave me his jacket when I was cold.
The one who checked on Circe when he could have just left her.
The one who held me in that storage chamber and let me set every pace, every boundary, every moment of our intimacy.
“Would you?” The question holds genuine curiosity. “A week ago, maybe. But now?”
His brow furrows. Considering.
“I don’t know.” The confession comes out rough, uncertain—emotions that don’t come easily to a man who built his identity on efficiency and detachment. “Something has... changed. Since you.”
I reach for his hand. Thread my fingers through his. Heat pulses through me—the Bloom’s influence, yes, but something else too. Something that started before the infection and will outlast it.
“You’re becoming someone new.” I squeeze his fingers. “We both are.”
He pulls me closer. Wraps an arm around my waist, drawing my body against his chest. I feel his heartbeat against my back—steady, strong, carrying the infection he’ll never be free of but refusing to let it define him.
“The monastery still stands.” His breath is warm against my hair. “The survivors are still in their cells. We’re not done yet.”
“I know.” I lean into his embrace. Let myself have this moment of peace before the work continues. “But we will be. Soon.”
The fighting is done.
Behind us, the monastery stretches silent and still. Bodies cool in the Burning Chapel. Blood dries on courtyard stones. The smoke from the Garden’s collapse has faded to wisps, carried away by evening breezes that finally feel clean.
Before us, the eastern wing waits. The Confessional Cells. Dozens of survivors still cowering behind locked doors, too broken to believe that freedom is possible. Too conditioned to open their cells even though no one is stopping them anymore.
They need someone to tell them it’s over. Someone to open the doors. Someone to lead them out of darkness and into whatever waits beyond these walls.
I could leave. Right now. Take Zrynok and walk into the Thornwood, leave this place behind, spend the rest of my life pretending none of it happened.
The thought is seductive. After everything I’ve survived—everything I’ve done—don’t I deserve escape?
But the survivors in those cells deserve escape too. And they can’t achieve it without help.
“The cells.” My voice is quiet but certain. “We open every door. Free everyone who can be freed. And then—”
“Then we take the torch to it.” Zrynok’s arm tightens around me. “Leave nothing standing. Make sure nothing can grow here again.”
I turn in his embrace. Cup his face in my hands. Kiss him—slow, deep, a promise for later when we have time to be something other than fighters in a war that’s finally ending.
“When this is over,” I murmur against his lips, “we’re going to need a new purpose. Something to do with ourselves that isn’t fighting monsters.”
“I’ve been an executioner my whole life.” His hands settle on my hips. Familiar now. Comfortable. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“Then we’ll learn.” I kiss him again. Brief this time. A seal on the promise. “There are still monsters out there. The Abbot’s patrons. The nobles who funded this place. We find them. We end them.”
His lips curve against mine. Almost a smile.
“That sounds like a purpose.”
I take his hand. Turn toward the eastern wing. Toward the people who need us. Toward the work that still remains.
“One thing at a time.” I pull him forward. “First, we empty the cells. Then we take the fire to what’s left. Then we figure out the rest.”
He follows without argument.
And in the distance, the Thornwood waits. Patient. Ancient. Ready to reclaim whatever the fire leaves behind.