The body falls. I catch it. Lower it silently to the courtyard stones.
“Move.” I gesture to the others. “Stay low. Stay quiet.”
We flow through the courtyard like water through cracks. Three more Keepers fall to our blades before the alarm sounds—not from our assault, but from the eastern wing, where Cael has begun his distraction.
The Keepers near the gate respond predictably. Some rush toward the sound of combat. Others tighten their perimeter, preparing for the siege they expected.
None of them look behind them.
The next hour is chaos.
I coordinate from the shadows—directing our forces through speaking tubes the Keepers don’t know I can access, using signals we established during the planning phase to adjust our approach based on enemy movements. Zrynok carves a bloody path through the eastern wing, drawing more and more Keepers toward his position. Cael’s team exploits the gaps he creates, striking at isolated enemies and retreating before reinforcements can arrive.
It’s not elegant. People die—on both sides. I hear screaming from the direction of the main gate as our southern team engages a Keeper patrol they couldn’t avoid. One of Cael’s initiates falls to a Keeper’s enhanced strength, his body broken before anyone can intervene.
But we’re winning.
The Keepers are designed for control, not warfare. For hunting isolated escapees, not coordinated assault. They can sense fear, track prey through the Thornwood, break spiritsthrough psychological manipulation—but none of those skills matter when the prey has become the predator.
By afternoon, we control the eastern wing. By evening, the main gate falls—not to direct assault but to the Keepers abandoning their position when they realize they’re surrounded. Some flee into the Thornwood. Some barricade themselves in the armory. Some—the fanatics, the true believers—gather in the Burning Chapel for a final stand.
The Chapel.
Where I was first initiated. Where I watched Circe nearly die on the altar. Where the Abbot conducted ceremonies that stripped humanity from willing and unwilling subjects alike.
I should feel something, approaching it now. Fear, maybe. Or rage. Or the sick familiarity of returning to a place where terrible things happened.
Instead, I feel nothing. Just cold purpose and Zrynok’s fingers intertwining with mine as we approach the barricaded doors.
“How many inside?” His voice is rougher than usual. The fighting has driven the infection higher—I can see it past his collar now, dark threads pressing toward his jaw.
“A dozen. Maybe more.” I study the doors—heavy oak, reinforced with iron bands that were designed to keep people in, not out. “They’ve chosen their ground. Sacred space. They think the Bloom will protect them.”
“Will it?”
“No. But they believe it will. And belief makes people dangerous.”
He squeezes my hand. A quick pressure. Then releases me and draws his sword.
“Cael. Tobias. With me.” He gestures to the doors. “The rest of you, watch our backs. If any Keepers try to flank us from outside?—”
“They won’t.” I position myself where I can see both the Chapel doors and the courtyard beyond. “But I’ll handle it if they do.”
He meets my gaze. Something passes between us—acknowledgment, understanding, the silent communication of people who have learned to trust each other in the space of days.
Then he kicks in the Chapel doors.
The smell hits me first.
Incense and blood and the sour-floral rot of cultivation carried on too long—what the Bloom’s presence leaves behind when the Garden that fed it is gone. The Chapel’s stained glass windows cast everything in shades of crimson, and the perpetual torches behind the altar send shadows dancing across walls decorated with preserved bodies—those who achieved “perfect surrender,” now serving as reminders of what the faithful aspired to become.
Twelve Keepers wait inside.
They’ve arranged themselves in the pews, weapons drawn, bark-like skin bristling with thorns and flowering growths. Some of them I recognize—Brother Aldric, who supervised the Initiation Pools. Sister Verity, who selected which initiates had “potential” for transformation.
I focus on the tactical reality instead of the personal history.
“Sister Arwen.” One of the Keepers steps forward. His transformation is more advanced than the others—skin nearly fully converted to bark, flowers blooming from his eye sockets, voice a rasp that sounds nothing like the man he used to be. “You’ve returned to us. The Abbot would be pleased.”
