I hear it shatter somewhere in the depths. Hear the hiss of concentrated essence evaporating into air.
“That was supposed to be for you.” Maret’s voice has lost its warmth. Her eyes—still human, never transformed, her faith too pure for the Bloom’s physical gifts—hold something that might be grief. “I was going to give you what the Abbot couldn’t. Transformation so complete that you’d finally understand. Finally be at peace.”
“Peace isn’t surrender.” I keep my blade raised. “I learned that from someone you never bothered to meet.”
“The orc?” Maret laughs. The sound is broken. Wrong. “You think he’s saved you? He’s just another form of captivity, Arwen. You’ve traded one master for another. The only difference is that this one has convinced you the chains are love.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” She moves closer. I let her—not because I trust her, but because the doorway is too narrow for Zrynok to strike without risking me. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. The wayyou flinch when he touches you, then lean in anyway. That’s not freedom. That’s desperation wearing a different mask.”
“You don’t know anything about what I feel.”
“I know everything about what you feel. I felt it too, once. Before I learned to surrender.” Her voice drops. Softens. The tone she used during the worst moments of my conditioning, when she held my hand and promised that the pain would teach me something valuable. “You can still come back, Arwen. Even now. The Abbot is dead, but the Bloom lives. I can help you find the peace you’re looking for.”
I think about all the things I could say. All the arguments I could make. All the ways I could try to reach whatever remains of the girl who was once my friend.
Then I remember Tessa, pregnant and sobbing in the courtyard. Oben, standing at the forest edge, staring at trees he’d given up hope of seeing again. The transformation cases in the basement, mouthing “kill me” through glass windows.
Maret helped create that. All of it. The friend I knew is gone—buried beneath years of willing surrender.
There’s nothing left to save.
“Zrynok.”
He moves past me. But Maret is already moving—already retreating, backing down the narrow staircase with the sure-footed calm of someone who has walked these stairs in the dark for years. The passage is too tight for Zrynok to pursue at speed without risking the same footing. By the time he reaches the turn, there is nothing but her voice drifting up from the darkness below.
“The Bloom is patient, Arwen.” Her voice drifts up from the darkness below, unhurried. “It will wait for you.”
Then silence.
Zrynok returns to the landing. His jaw is tight. “She’s gone. Back into the monastery somewhere.”
“The Chapel.” The certainty settles cold in my chest. “She’ll go to the Chapel. It’s where the faithful make their last stand. She’ll take anyone still loyal and wait for us there.”
FORTY-FIVE
ARWEN
We don’t have time.
The survivors are still trapped. The Chapel is still occupied. Whatever loyalists remain are rallying behind a woman who has nothing left to lose.
“Cael.” I turn toward the stairs. “How many fighters can we muster?”
“Maybe ten. Most of the survivors are too weak or too broken to hold a weapon.”
“Then ten will have to be enough.” I check my blade. The edge is still sharp—the Abbot kept his ritual implements in perfect condition. “Lady Marceline, can you?—”
“I’ll coordinate the non-combatants.” The former ambassador has already begun descending the stairs, moving with purpose that belies her fragile appearance. “Get them ready to move the moment the path is clear. I’ve organized evacuations under worse circumstances.”
She disappears into the smoke-hazed lower levels.
Zrynok appears at my side. His sword is bloodied from the Keepers. Something has closed off in him — the grief of the basement, the anger at Maret’s escape, all of it folded away withthe practiced efficiency of a man who learned long ago how to survive by becoming only the task in front of him.
“The Chapel.” His voice is flat. Professional. “Tell me everything you know about its defenses.”
“Thick walls. Limited entrances. The main doors are reinforced with iron bands. There’s a servants’ entrance at the rear, but it’s narrow—one person at a time.”
