I follow.
NINE
ZRYNOK
Inside, Circe has retreated to the farthest corner. Her eyes go wide when we enter—fear flickering across her face before she recognizes Arwen and some of the tension bleeds from her posture.
“You came back.” The girl’s voice holds wonder. Disbelief.
“I said I would.” Arwen crosses to the shelf and begins sorting the herbs with practiced efficiency. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Scared.” Circe’s gaze flicks to me. “He left. Said I’d be safer without him here.”
“He was right.” Arwen begins crushing herbs, mixing them with water from a canteen. “The infection affects judgment. Makes control harder. He chose to remove himself rather than risk you.” A pause. “That’s not nothing.”
I don’t respond. Don’t know how to respond. Instead, I move to the wall opposite Circe and lower myself to the floor.
“What happened?” I ask finally. “When you went for the herbs.”
Her hands still for a fraction of a second. Resume.
“There was more to my conversation with Maret than I told you last night.” She adds more water to the mixture. “She said the Abbot wants me alive. Wants you converted.”
Converted. The word sits heavy in my gut. I know what that means now. Know what it looks like.
“I won’t let that happen.” The words come out harder than I intend. “I’ll die first.”
Arwen’s hands pause again. This time she looks up. Meets my gaze.
“That’s what she said you’d say. That you’d fight until the end. That you’d rather destroy yourself than become something the Bloom could use.” A ghost of expression crosses her face. “She didn’t think it would matter. Said the infection would take you anyway. That you’d betray me because your body wouldn’t give you any other choice.”
“She’s wrong.”
“Is she?” Not accusation. Genuine question. The kind that deserves a genuine answer.
I hold her gaze. Let her see what’s there—the hunger, yes, the craving that won’t fade, but also the resolution underneath. The line I’ve drawn. The death I’ll choose before crossing it.
“She’s wrong.” I say it again. Mean it.
Her expression flickers. Not trust—she’s too damaged for easy trust—but something adjacent. Recognition. One survivor seeing another.
“The treatment is ready.” She rises. Crosses toward me with the bowl of paste. “Before I begin—” She stops an arm’s length away. “The harder you fight against what you feel, the more power the Bloom has to use against you.”
I hold that. Let it sit.
Choice.
The word unlocks something in my chest. Not a flood—more like a door opening, letting light into a room that’s been sealedfor decades. I’ve spent my life following orders. Killing who I was told to kill. Being what others needed me to be. The craving I’d felt—rare, quickly suppressed—was treated as inconvenience. Distraction from the work. Evidence of weakness that needed to be eliminated.
She’s offering something different. Experience it. Acknowledge it. And then choose.
“And if I can’t?” The question rips out. Raw. Honest. “If the touch makes me?—”
“Then I’ll stop. Back away. Give you space to recover.” Her voice holds no fear. “I’ve dealt with infected men before. You’re not the first to fight this battle. But you might be the first who actually wants to win.”
She pauses. Her gaze on the infection lines visible at my collar. “It won’t disappear entirely. You’ll carry the Bloom in your blood for the rest of your life.”
“Forever.” The word tastes bitter.
