But Circe is inside. Suffering. Because of me.
“The entrance is here.” I push aside the vines, ignoring the thorns that catch my palms, and reveal the narrow doorway beneath. “Once we’re through, follow my lead. The servants’ passages run through most of the compound—we can get close to the chapel without being seen.”
Zrynok studies the entrance. Studies me. His damaged eye catches light strangely, making it impossible to tell what he’s thinking.
“You’re certain? Once we’re in?—”
“I’ve never been certain of anything.” I hold his gaze. Force myself not to look away. “But I’m not leaving her there. If you won’t come, I’ll go alone.”
Another horn sounds. Closer this time. The hunt parties are forming, ready to sweep the forest.
Zrynok doesn’t argue. Doesn’t waste time with the hundred objections I can see forming behind his eyes.
He just draws his blade and nods.
“Lead the way.”
I slip through the doorway, back into the place that tried to break me, with an executioner at my back and murder in my heart.
The monastery smells the same. Incense and flowers and something sweeter underneath—the Bloom’s spores, saturating the air, coating my lungs with every breath.
For one terrible moment, I’m fifteen again. Dragged through these halls in chains, screaming for my brother, my parents’ blood still drying on my skin.
Then Zrynok’s presence fills the space behind me—solid, certain, radiating threat—and I remember who I am now.
Not a victim. Not anymore.
I came back to watch this place burn.
And nothing—not the Bloom, not the Abbot, not years of conditioning—is going to stop me.
THREE
ZRYNOK
The monastery’s interior presses close. Stone walls slick with moisture, the air thick enough to chew. Flowering vines creep through cracks in the mortar, their crimson petals brushing my arms as I follow the woman—Arwen—through passages too narrow for comfort.
I shouldn’t have learned her name. Names create complications. Make targets into people.
Too late now.
She moves through the darkness with the certainty of long familiarity, her bare feet silent on worn stone. No hesitation at the branching corridors. No pause to orient herself.
I’ve met survivors before. Killed some. Freed others. Never one quite like this.
The spores thicken as we descend. I can taste them now—cloying sweetness coating my tongue, sliding down my throat with every breath. My skin prickles. My armor becomes distracting, leather straps pressing against flesh in ways I shouldn’t notice.
Ignore it.
The passages open into what must have been a servant’s corridor—low ceiling, walls lined with pegs for aprons and tools.Arwen pauses at the junction, her head tilting as she listens to sounds I can’t quite parse. Footsteps somewhere above. Voices raised in urgent command.
“They’re organizing search parties.” Her voice stays low, controlled. “Standard protocol. Half the Keepers will sweep the forest. The other half maintain interior security.”
“The girl?”
“Chapel’s this way.” She gestures toward a narrow staircase spiraling upward. “Two levels. Then a corridor that runs past the kitchens. The chapel is at the compound’s center—we’ll hear the ceremony before we see it.”
She doesn’t wait for acknowledgment. Just moves, trusting me to follow.
