A reason to keep fighting. A want stronger than surrender.
“Purpose.” The word comes out flat. I won’t explain further. Can’t. Not to this girl, not to anyone.
The craving surges again. Stronger this time, pulling at my thoughts, making my muscles lock with the effort of staying still. The Bloom is patient. It knows I’m weakening. Knows that eventually, the will to resist will crumble and I’ll become what it wants me to be.
No.
I push off from the wall. Start for the passage that leads out of the chamber.
“Where are you going?” Panic edges Circe’s voice.
“Outside. The corridor.” I don’t look back. “You’ll be safer without me in here.”
“But Arwen said to stay?—”
“Arwen isn’t infected.” I stop at the entrance. Force the next words out. “The Bloom is making me want things. Feel things. I don’t trust myself in a closed space with you. So I’m leaving. She’ll find me when she returns.”
I step through before she can respond. Before I can change my mind.
The corridor hits me with concentrated force.
The spore concentration is higher out here—thicker than in the sealed chamber, visible as a faint red haze even in the near-darkness. Every breath drags more of the Bloom into my lungs, and the hunger explodes through my blood with renewed fury.
I slam my fist into the stone wall. Harder this time. Feel the impact shudder through bone, feel skin split and blood well between my knuckles. The pain is a lifeline. Something real to anchor me while the infection tries to drown me.
Again. Another blow. More blood. The hunger doesn’t fade, but it channels into something I can direct. Violence. Destruction. Things I understand.
The tendrils have spread further since the chamber. I can feel it without looking.
This is what the transformation looks like in its early stages. I’ve seen the Keepers—seen what they’ve become. Skin hardened into bark-like armor. Flowers blooming from their flesh. Senses heightened beyond human limits.
Is that my future? Am I going to become another of the Abbot’s creatures, hunting through these halls with nothing left of who I was?
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it clarifies something. I’d rather die than become that. Rather drive my own blade through my chest than let the Bloom turn me into a monster that would hurt?—
Her.
Arwen’s face rises unbidden in my mind. Those assessing eyes, that careful control, the way she holds herself like she’s expecting a blow and refusing to flinch before it lands. She’s been hurt enough. I won’t add to it. Not even if the infection reduces me to nothing but need and hunger.
I’ll kill myself first.
The resolution steadies me. Gives me something solid to grip besides pain and craving. I have a line I won’t cross. A limit I’ll enforce with my own death if necessary.
Time blurs. I lean against the corridor wall, breathing shallow, fighting the infection with every tool I have. Focus on the mission. Focus on the Abbot’s death. Focus on the promise I made to a woman I barely know but can’t stop thinking about.
Then—footsteps. Light, quick, familiar.
Her scent reaches me before I see her. Beneath the monastery’s thick floral air, something warmer. Something uniquely her. Sweat and the sharp green smell of crushed herbs.
Arwen rounds the corner. Alive. Unharmed.
She sees me. Takes in the blood on my knuckles, the sheen of sweat on my skin. Reads everything I don’t want her to see.
“You left the chamber.”
“The girl was afraid of me.” My voice scrapes. “Wasn’t safe. For her.”
She processes this. Nods once. “Come inside.”
