Arwen crouches beside me in the shadows. Her breathing is controlled, her body still, her attention fixed on the barracks’ outer wall. She’s dressed for movement—loose clothing, softboots, the knife I’ve seen her draw a dozen times strapped to her thigh. Not a warrior. But a survivor. And survivors know how to kill when killing is required.
“Cael’s signal.” She points toward the watchtower on the barracks’ eastern corner. A torch flickers three times, then goes dark. “Outer sentries are down. We have maybe ten minutes before the next patrol discovers them.”
Ten minutes to reach the sleeping quarters. To begin the slaughter that will cripple the Abbot’s enforcement arm. To wade through blood until the cult’s power breaks.
The infection thrums in my veins. Hungry. Eager. Ready for what comes next.
“Stay close,” I murmur. “Watch my blind side. If I lose control?—”
“You won’t.”
“If I do.” My attention locks onto hers in the darkness. Those eyes that see too much, that read things in my face I don’t want shown. “Pull me back. However you have to.”
She doesn’t argue. Just nods once—sharp, decisive—and moves toward the drainage grate.
The grate comes loose with minimal noise.
Arwen mapped this route yesterday, tracing paths through the monastery’s infrastructure that most of the faithful don’t know exist. The drainage system predates the cult by centuries—built for a monastery that served different gods, maintained just enough to keep the barracks from flooding during heavy rains.
I fit through the opening with effort. The stone scrapes against my shoulders, too narrow for comfort, forcing me to twist and compress in ways my body doesn’t want to accommodate. The Bloom makes every point of contact register—the cold stone against my skin, the moisture seeping through my clothes, the faint vibration of Arwen’s movements ahead of me.
Sensation. The infection feeds on it. Craves it. Turns every stimulus into fuel for the need that never stops burning.
I breathe through the intensity. Force myself forward.
The drainage channel opens into a maintenance shaft beneath the barracks’ foundation. Arwen waits there, pressed against the wall, listening. Her head tilts—reading sounds I can’t hear, interpreting patterns in the silence.
“Two guards in the entry hall. Four more in the first sleeping chamber.” Her voice is barely audible. “The leadership quarters are in the back. Brother Mallus commands the night shift—he’ll be there.”
“Mallus first?”
“Mallus last. We clear the rank and file, deny them organization, then take the leadership.” She draws her knife. The blade catches what little light exists in the shaft. “Quiet as long as possible. Once the alarm sounds, we have minutes before reinforcements arrive from the main monastery.”
I draw my own blade—not the executioner’s sword, too large for close quarters, but a shorter weapon better suited to silent killing. The grip settles into my palm with familiar comfort. The Bloom responds to the weapon’s presence, anticipation spiking through my blood.
Soon.
TWENTY-THREE
ZRYNOK
The first Keeper dies without knowing we’re there.
He’s sleeping when I reach his bed—a massive figure sprawled across a cot that’s too small for his transformed bulk, his skin bark-textured in the darkness, flowers budding from his shoulders. The Bloom connects us, his infection calling to mine, and for a heartbeat I sense what he senses: peaceful dreams, the comfort of routine, the certainty that his masters protect him from the horrors of an uncaring world.
Then my blade opens his throat.
Blood sprays across the bedding—arterial, urgent, the copper smell filling my nostrils before the body finishes twitching. The Keeper dies with a wet gurgle, eyes never opening, dreams bleeding out into reality.
“Two more in the adjacent chamber,” she whispers. “One is awake. Reading by candlelight.”
“I’ll take the awake one.”
We move through the doorway in tandem—two predators coordinating without words, each trusting the other to handle their target. The reading Keeper looks up as I enter, candlelight catching the confusion in his luminous gaze.
Confusion becomes recognition. Recognition becomes fear.
He opens his mouth to shout warning.
