“There.” I point toward a section of wall where the vines grow thickest. “Kitchen entrance. Servants use it for deliveries. The Keepers don’t bother guarding it—the Bloom is deterrent enough for most people.”
The orc studies the approach. I can almost see him working through it—sight lines, patrol routes, the distance from cover to wall.
“The girl. Where would they take her?”
“The Burning Chapel. Public punishments happen there.” My throat tightens around the words. I know that chapel. Know what happens on that altar. “It’s central. Visible from most of the compound. The Abbot likes an audience for his lessons.”
“Can you get us there?”
“I can get us anywhere.” I meet his gaze. Hold it. “That’s what those years bought me. A map of every passage, every blind spot, every crack in their defenses. I didn’t escape because I was lucky. I escaped because I was patient.”
His expression changes. Not surprise—he doesn’t seem like someone who does surprise—but a recalibration. Looking at me differently. Seeing something he hadn’t before.
“Zrynok.”
I blink. “What?”
“My name.” He says it like an afterthought. Like names are things he doesn’t usually bother with. “If we’re doing this, you should know it.”
Zrynok. The name fits him—hard consonants, nothing soft or yielding. A name for someone who cuts things that need cutting and doesn’t apologize for the blood.
“Arwen.” I give him mine in return. Fair exchange.
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—I don’t think he does smiles—but an acknowledgment.
“Arwen.” He tests it, says it once, then nods. “Let’s go save your initiate.”
He moves toward the wall without waiting for acknowledgment. I follow, my heart hammering against my ribs, the Bloom’s whispers screaming in the back of my skull.
But beneath the fear, beneath the wanting, beneath years of conditioning that tells me this is suicide?—
Something else. Something I haven’t felt since before the cult took me.
Hope.
Faint. Fragile. Probably stupid. But there—burning in my chest alongside the fury, feeding it, making it sharper.
The executioner doesn’t look back. Doesn’t check if I’m following.
He knows I am.
The horn soundswhen we’re twenty feet from the wall.
Deep. Resonant. A warning call that echoes through the Thornwood and sends birds screaming from the canopy.
“That horn means they’re mobilizing everyone,” I murmur. “Keepers, initiates, the whole compound.”
Zrynok pauses. Listens. The horn fades, but I can hear what follows—shouts from inside the walls, the clatter of boots on stone, the organized chaos of a hunt beginning.
“Changes the approach.” His hand finds his sword hilt. Grip tightening, relaxing, tightening again. “Can’t slip in quiet now.”
“No. But there’s another way.” I press against the wall, feeling the Bloom-vine thorns dig into my back through what remains of my clothing. “They’ll be focused on the forest. Looking outward. If we’re already inside?—”
“They won’t expect the attack to come from within.”
I nod. My heart pounds. The kitchen entrance is right there—hidden behind a curtain of flowering vines, the stone worn smooth by generations of servants’ feet. I’ve been through it a hundred times. Carried supplies. Cleaned dishes. Played obedient while I memorized every shadow.
Going back in feels like dying. Feels like everything I’ve fought for, wasted.
