Ahead of me, the gardens wait. And whatever else might be waiting in the spaces between.
SEVEN
ARWEN
The lower gardens smell of death.
Not the sharp copper tang of fresh blood—something older, sweeter. Decay layered under flowers, rot dressed in beauty. The Bloom grows thick here, vines crawling up trellises of ancient stone, petals unfurling in the dim light that filters through windows set high in the walls.
I keep low. Move slow. The spore concentration is manageable at ground level—the particles drift upward, hanging in the air above head height. As long as I don’t stand fully upright, I can function.
The herbs I need grow in the far corner, near the compost heaps where the cult disposes of its failures. Bitter root. Thornleaf. White sage that only flourishes in soil fed by human remains. A combination that slows Bloom progression, gives the body time to fight back.
I learned the recipe by watching. By listening. By playing broken while I memorized everything the Keepers did to maintain their partial transformations.
The garden paths wind between raised beds overflowing with crimson flowers. Some of the blooms are larger than my head, their petals layered in gradients from pale pink to deep arterialred. Beautiful. Horrifying. I force myself not to think about what fertilizes them.
Movement in my peripheral vision. I freeze behind a trellis, pressing myself into shadow, barely breathing.
A Keeper passes. Partially transformed, his skin rough with the texture of bark, Bloom flowers budding from his shoulders. He moves with the careful precision of someone fighting constant urges, every step measured and deliberate.
I know him. Brother Matthias. He was kind to me once, years ago, before his transformation completed. Slipped me extra bread when I was being starved for disobedience. The memory aches—kindness that couldn’t save either of us from what this place demanded.
He passes without noticing me. His enhanced senses should have picked up my presence—the Bloom gives Keepers abilities that border on supernatural—but his attention is fixed elsewhere. Distracted. Worried.
The chapel massacre has them rattled. Good. Rattled enemies make mistakes.
I wait until his footsteps fade, then continue toward my goal. The herb patch is just ahead—I can see the distinctive silver-green of thornleaf catching what little light reaches this corner.
My hands work quickly, gathering what I need. The thornleaf pricks my fingers, drawing tiny beads of blood that the plants seem to drink eagerly. The bitter root comes up with a resistance that feels almost intentional, like the garden itself doesn’t want to surrender its medicine.
The white sage is last. I have to reach past a flowering vine to get to it, and the thorns drag across my forearm, leaving trails of fire. The Bloom’s influence pulses through the wounds immediately—sensation magnified, making my skin feel too tight, too alive.
I grit my teeth. Push through. Bundle the herbs in a cloth I brought for exactly this purpose.
Done. Now get out.
I retrace my path through the garden, moving faster now, the bundle clutched against my chest. The exit is close—a maintenance door that leads to the passages I used to enter. Another minute, maybe two, and I’ll be?—
“Hello, Sister.”
The voice comes from ahead. Blocking my path.
Sister Maret steps out from between the flower beds. Her white robes are pristine, her expression gentle, her hands folded in front of her with the serene composure that made her the most effective torturer the monastery ever produced.
Every muscle in my body locks. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at the woman who broke me and rebuilt me and broke me again, over and over, until I learned to hide the pieces she wanted to destroy.
“You look well.”Maret’s voice is warm, concerned, exactly the tone she used when she was breaking me. “Freedom agrees with you. But you also look tired. Frightened. Surely you’ve had enough of running by now.”
I measure the distance to the door. Ten feet. Maybe twelve. She’s not blocking it directly—there’s space to get past if I’m fast enough.
But Maret has never needed to be fast. Her weapons are words, patience, the ability to make you believe your suffering is love.
“I’ve had enough of a lot of things.” I keep my voice steady. Don’t let her see the fear. “Including you.”
“You don’t mean that.” She steps closer—not threatening, never threatening. Just warm. Inviting. A predator disguised as comfort. “We were friends once. We can be friends again.”
Friends. The word curdles in my memory. We were never friends. We were two broken girls in the same cell, and Maret chose to become the thing that broke her while I chose to endure.
