I look up at him. He’s already watching me, reading the same thing I’m reading in the map of his infection.
“You’re suggesting,” he says slowly, “that we have sex to treat my parasitic fungus infection.”
The absurdity of it hits me. Here we are—an escaped cult prisoner and an infected executioner, lying in a storage chamberbeneath a monastery full of enemies, discussing medical treatments after the most intense sex of my life.
I feel my lips curve. Almost a smile.
“I’m suggesting we explore all available treatment options.”
His chest rumbles under me. A sound I’ve never heard from him before—low, rough, genuine.
He’s laughing.
The sound startles me. Delights me. This man who has killed for centuries, who has built walls around himself so thick that even the Bloom couldn’t tear them down immediately, who speaks in short sentences and avoids emotional entanglement—he’s laughing because I made a joke about medicinal sex.
The air between us changes. Not the hunger of moments ago, not the desperate intensity of bodies chasing release. This is quieter. Warmer. A feeling that might grow into more if we live long enough to let it.
“The treatment,” he says when the laughter fades. His voice has lost its rough edges. Sounds almost... peaceful. “Will require repeat application.”
“Obviously. Can’t let the infection progress.”
“Purely medical.”
“Purely strategic.” I press closer. Feel his heartbeat steady under my ear. “Nothing personal at all.”
His arm tightens around me. Just slightly. Just enough to communicate what he can’t say in words—that it’s entirely personal, that nothing has ever been more personal, that I have become the reason he wants to survive a battle he was ready to throw away an hour ago.
I don’t know how long we rest. Time moves strangely in the storage chamber—no windows to track the sun, no sounds from outside to mark the hours. The candles burn lower. His breathing evens out, slowing toward sleep, though I know from experience he never truly rests.
I stay awake. Watch the candlelight play across his face, softening the sharp angles and hard lines that define him. In sleep—or whatever approximation of sleep the Bloom allows—he looks almost vulnerable. The permanent squint relaxes. The tension in his jaw eases. He becomes someone other than the executioner. Someone who might have existed before all that killing carved away everything soft.
The red tendrils still crawl beneath his skin. Slower now, but not stopped. The infection is a timer counting down to transformation, and all the intimacy in the world won’t change the fundamental equation.
We have to destroy the Bloom’s source. Have to burn the Garden and kill the Abbot and end this before the infection claims him completely.
Or I have to be ready for what comes if we fail.
There’s a knock at the door.
Zrynok is awake instantly. His hand closes on a blade I didn’t see him position within reach, his body shifting to put himself between me and the potential threat. The movement is automatic. Protective. The instincts of someone who has spent centuries being the most dangerous thing in any room.
I grab my tunic from where it fell on the floor. Pull it over my head as Zrynok does the same with his discarded clothing, both of us reassembling the armor we’d shed—fabric and leather and the careful distance of people who can’t afford vulnerability in enemy territory.
Another knock. More urgent this time.
“It’s me.” Cael’s voice, rough with the transformation that’s slowly claiming him. “I need to talk to you. Now.”
Zrynok glances at me. Asking permission. Even now, even with danger at the door, he defers to my judgment in matters concerning this place.
I nod.
He opens the door.
Cael stands in the corridor, his partially transformed features splattered with dark residue. Not blood—the Bloom’s essence, I realize, the concentrated substance that feeds the Garden’s growth. He’s been close to the heart of the cult’s power. Close enough to carry evidence on his skin.
His glowing eyes take in our disheveled appearance, the tangled cot, the intimacy still hanging in the air. Recognition flickers across his bark-textured face. Something that might be understanding. Something that might be regret for what he’s about to say.
“The Abbot knows.” The words come out flat. Final. “He knows everything. Sister Maret saw you both.”
