He stares at me. The candlelight flickers across his features, highlighting the struggle written there—the wanting warring with refusal, hunger clashing with control.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why help me?” He gestures at himself—at the blood, the tremors, the barely contained violence of his infected state. “I’m dangerous. The Bloom is making me want—” Another bitten-offsentence. Another flexing of his jaw. “You should be running in the opposite direction.”
“Running hasn’t worked out particularly well for me today.” I crouch, putting myself at his eye level, close enough to touch but not touching. “And you’re my ticket to killing the Abbot. Can’t collect on a deal with a dead partner.”
Automatic deflection. Practical reasoning. Something to keep emotions at a safe distance.
He sees through it. I watch the recognition flicker across his face—one liar identifying another’s tells.
“There’s more to it than that.”
“Does there need to be?”
Silence stretches between us. The candle sputters, shadows dancing across the walls. In the corner, Circe’s breathing has evened out—exhaustion claiming her, pulling her down into sleep or unconsciousness.
Zrynok’s hand moves. Slowly, deliberately, giving me time to pull away. His fingers brush my cheek—barely a touch, the lightest possible contact.
“I’m trying.” His voice is rough, raw, the words pulled from somewhere deep. “Trying not to want—” He stops. Swallows. His hand drops away, leaving my skin burning where he touched.
“I know how they work.” I stand. Put distance between us. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I don’t know if it’s fear or something else. “Rest. I’ll check on Circe, then we need to plan.”
He nods once. Brief. An acknowledgment that doesn’t require words.
I turn away. Check on Circe.
SIX
ARWEN
Circe is awake. Watching me approach with wide, frightened eyes that track every movement.
“Hey.” I lower myself to the floor beside her, leaving space, not crowding. “You’re safe. Safer, anyway. The Keepers don’t know about this place.”
She doesn’t respond. Just keeps staring with that hollow expression I recognize too well. Someone who’s been broken and isn’t sure yet if the breaking is permanent.
“You came back.” Her voice is a whisper. Disbelieving. “You escaped. You were free. Why would you?—”
“Because I heard you screaming.” Simple. True. “And because leaving wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough.”
Circe’s gaze flicks to Zrynok’s slumped form across the chamber. “He killed them. The Keepers. Brother Marcus and Brother Silas and—” Her voice breaks. “They were going to hurt me. The Abbot said it was purification, but they were going to hurt me, and he just?—”
“I know.” I reach out, slow enough for her to pull away if she needs to. My hand settles on her arm—light, barely there. “Iknow what they do. What they call it. The pretty words they use to dress up torture.”
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t lean in, either. Just sits with the contact, testing it, deciding if it’s safe.
“The orc.” Her voice drops lower. “Is he... one of them? A new Keeper?”
“No. He’s—” I pause, considering how to explain Zrynok. An executioner. A weapon. A man who kills for a living and doesn’t pretend otherwise. “He’s here to destroy this place. Burn it. Kill the Abbot and everyone who serves him.”
Circe’s expression changes. Not hope—hope is too bright, too fragile for what flickers across her face—but something adjacent. The first faint stirring of belief that maybe, maybe, this nightmare might end.
“Can he? Actually destroy it?”
“He’s started already.” I glance at Zrynok. His eyes are closed again, his breathing harsh but steadier than before. “The chapel is a massacre. Half a dozen Keepers dead. The Abbot knows we’re here and he’s scared.”
