“You made nothing.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. Strained through the infection’s demands. “She made herself. Survived despite you. Escaped despite your Bloom. And she’ll kill you despite every horror you created to stop her.”
The Abbot’s attention shifts to me. His smile widens.
“Such devotion. The Bloom has made you quite eloquent in your hunger.” He raises the vial, turning it in his fingers so the concentrated essence catches the light. “Do you know what this is, executioner? The culmination of eighty years of research. A gift designed not for destruction but for transformation.”
“I know what it is. The Crimson Seed.”
“I prefer to think of it as a wedding present.” His gaze moves between Arwen and me, measuring, calculating. “For both of you. An eternity of wanting, forever fulfilled by each other, forever blooming in my Garden.”
The image he’s painting crystallizes in my mind—Arwen and I transformed beyond recognition, trapped in bodies that need each other with intensity that destroys any capacity for independent thought. His most beautiful specimens. His greatest achievement.
I won’t let that happen.
THIRTY-THREE
ARWEN
He’s going to throw it.
I see the tension in his arm, the slight shift of his stance, the way his fingers adjust their grip on the crystal vial. The Abbot has been transparent to me—his tells obvious after years of watching him control others. He’s enjoying this moment. Savoring the fear he can see on our faces.
But he’s also preparing to act.
Zrynok is too far away. Too compromised by the spores. If the Abbot throws the Crimson Seed now, my executioner will take the full force of it. The transformation will be instant, irreversible, complete.
I do the only thing I can think of.
I step between them.
“If you want to seed someone—” The words come from somewhere beyond fear, beyond calculation. From the part of me that discovered tonight that I would rather die than watch him suffer. “—seed me. Leave him out of it.”
Silence.
Zrynok’s voice cuts through it, raw with horror: “Arwen—no?—”
But the Abbot’s expression has changed. Surprise giving way to something that looks almost like delight. His arm lowers slightly. The vial stops moving toward throwing position.
“Volunteering for the transformation?” He takes a step closer. Then another. His robes whisper across the stone floor, silk shadows that seem to move with their own purpose. “My dear child. That’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever offered me.”
Behind me, I hear Zrynok struggling. Trying to reach us. Failing. The infection has him too compromised to move faster than the Abbot.
Which means I’m on my own.
Good.
“I never offered you anything.” I adjust my grip on the knife. Make my body as small a target as possible. “I survived you. That’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” He’s close now. Close enough that the cloying sweetness of the Garden rolls off him like heat from a furnace. “I made you, Arwen. Everything you became in this place — the mind that planned your escape, the instincts that kept you alive. And everything you feel for him.” His smile curves like a blade. “That need is my gift. Something I designed.”
His hand reaches out. Hovers near my face without touching.
“No.”
The word comes from behind me. Zrynok’s voice, stronger than it has any right to be. I turn—can’t help it—and find him standing straighter than he has since we entered the Garden. The tremors are still there. The sweat still beads on his brow. But something has changed in his expression.
Determination has replaced desperation.
“The Bloom didn’t make me want her.” He takes a step forward. Then another. His sword rises, no longer shaking. “I wanted her before I ever entered this place. Before I knew whatthe Bloom could do. Before any of your spores touched my blood.”
