“Then we finish the six.”
The door swings open.
Brother Mallus waits on the other side—a massive Keeper whose transformation has gone further than most, his body almost entirely covered in hardened skin, crimson flowers blooming from his shoulders and down his arms. He holds a weapon that’s somewhere between a sword and a club, heavy enough to crush bone with a single swing.
His guards fan out behind him. Three on each side. All of them armed, all of them transformed, all of them ready to die defending their commander.
“The executioner.” Mallus’s voice is deep, resonant, distorted by whatever the Bloom has done to his throat. “The Abbot warned us you’d come. Said you’d be more dangerous than you look.”
“He was right.” I step into the room. “Surrender, and I’ll make it quick.”
Mallus laughs. The sound is wrong—too many harmonics, like multiple voices speaking at once. “Surrender to an infected mongrel? I’ve served the Abbot for thirty years. Watched him build this order from nothing. Do you think I’ll let you destroy it?”
“I think you’ll try to stop me.” I raise my blade. “I think you’ll fail.”
He charges.
TWENTY-FIVE
ZRYNOK
The fight with Mallus is different from the others.
He’s stronger than the rank-and-file Keepers. Faster. His transformation has granted him abilities that make him genuinely dangerous rather than merely threatening. His weapon crashes against my blade with force that sends shockwaves up my arms, and his follow-up strikes come faster than I can comfortably deflect.
But the Bloom is burning in my blood. Giving me speed I didn’t have before the infection. Giving me strength that comes from somewhere deeper than muscle and bone. Every blow he lands registers as overwhelming sensation—pain that becomes pleasure that becomes fuel for the need driving me forward.
I take a hit to the shoulder. Feel flesh part, blood flow, the sharp bite of his blade cutting through my leather armor. The Bloom drinks it in. Screams for more. Pushes me to close the distance, to engage him at range where his longer weapon becomes a liability.
My blade finds his side. Opens a gash that would cripple a normal man. He barely flinches.
His weapon crashes into my ribs. Something cracks. I stagger but don’t fall.
We circle each other. Both bleeding. Both hurting. Both too committed to stop.
“You sense it, don’t you?” Mallus’s distorted voice carries satisfaction. “The Bloom in your blood. The craving. The way violence feeds it, makes it stronger, makes you more than you were.”
I don’t answer. Save my breath for fighting.
“The Abbot could make you what I am. Perfect. Complete. Free from the limitations of flesh.” His Bloom-bright gaze fixes on mine. “Surrender, and he’ll give you everything you’ve ever craved.”
“What I crave—” I lunge forward, blade seeking his throat. “—is for every monster in this monastery to die.”
My blade takes him in the neck.
Not deep enough to kill instantly. But deep enough to change the fight’s trajectory. He staggers back, one hand rising to staunch the blood flowing from his wound, his weapon dropping as survival instincts override combat training.
I don’t give him time to recover.
Strike after strike, each one aimed at vulnerable points the transformation can’t protect. His knee. His elbow. The soft tissue beneath his arm. I take him apart with systematic precision, the executioner’s training overriding the Bloom’s demands for excess. Clean kills. Efficient kills. The work of someone who’s been doing this for over two centuries.
Mallus falls.
His guards rush me.
Six becomes five. Five becomes four.
The Bloom sings in my blood as I cut through them—enhanced senses tracking every movement, infection-granted reflexes keeping me ahead of their attacks. These aren’t skilled warriors. They’re enforcers trained to bully prisoners, not to face someone who kills for a living.
