I follow.
The stairs are treacherous—worn smooth by generations of feet, slick with condensation. My bulk barely fits between the walls. Arwen navigates them without slowing, her hand trailing along the stone for balance, every movement economical.
The scratches on her arms catch torchlight as we pass a sconce. Fresh wounds layered over old scars. Some from the forest. Others...
Not my concern. The mission is my concern. Burn the monastery. Kill the leadership. Extract the prisoners if possible, eliminate them if not.
Standard parameters. Nothing personal.
Except the warlord paid triple the standard rate and specified no witnesses. Men who want justice don’t pay for silence. I filed that detail somewhere uncomfortable and kept moving, the way I always do.
Except I’m following a traumatized escapee into the heart of her prison because a seventeen-year-old girl screamed, and something in Arwen’s face when she heard it made my hands want to break things.
Complications.
We emerge into a wider corridor. Torches line the walls at regular intervals, their flames casting dancing shadows across stone floors worn into shallow grooves by centuries of shuffling feet. The ceiling arches overhead, carved with symbols I don’t recognize—prayers, maybe. Or warnings.
The smell intensifies. Incense layered over something sweeter. Something that makes my blood run hot despite the corridor’s chill.
Arwen glances back at me. Once. Her face is pale in the torchlight, shadows pooling beneath eyes that hold too much history.
No. Don’t catalog her features. Don’t notice the way exhaustion sharpens her cheekbones or how her short hair exposes the vulnerable curve of her neck.
“You’re breathing too deep.” Her observation comes without judgment. “The spores affect orcs differently than humans, but the principle’s the same. Shallow breaths. Keep your mind on the job.”
“I know how to control myself.”
“Everyone thinks that. Until they don’t.” She turns back to the corridor ahead. “The Abbot’s been refining the Bloom for eighty years—the monastery for three hundred. He knows exactly how much exposure it takes to break someone.”
Her voice doesn’t waver. Doesn’t betray the personal experience buried in those words. But I hear it anyway—the careful flatness that comes from discussing wounds too deep to let bleed.
I’ve used that voice myself. More times than I can count.
“The chapel.” I redirect focus to the mission. Safer ground. “How many Keepers guard it during ceremonies?”
“Depends on the ceremony. Regular services, maybe four or five. Punishments...” A pause. Her shoulders tightenalmost imperceptibly. “More. The whole congregation attends punishments. Attendance is mandatory.”
“Congregation. How many?”
“Thirty, maybe forty on a normal day. Less now—some will be hunting for me.” Her jaw sets. “The Keepers will be at the front. Armed. The rest are initiates and long-term faithful. Most won’t fight.”
“Most.”
“Some of them believe. Really believe.” Her voice hardens. “They’ll die for the Abbot. They’ll kill for him. Don’t assume the white robes mean helpless.”
Noted. Cultists with conviction are more dangerous than mercenaries with pay. I’ve learned that lesson in blood before.
We reach a junction. Arwen presses herself against the wall, gesturing for silence. I flatten beside her—or try to. My shoulder brushes hers.
She flinches. A full-body jerk, instinctive and immediate, like I’ve touched a fresh burn.
I step back. Give her space. Watch her fight to control her breathing, her hands pressed flat against the stone, her jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping.
“Sorry.” The word comes out rough. I don’t apologize. Ever. But the look on her face?—
“Don’t.” She cuts me off. Her voice steady, controlled, betraying nothing of what I just witnessed. “It’s not—I’m fine. The spores make everything... more. That’s all.”
That’s not all. We both know it. But I let the lie stand because pushing would be crueler than accepting it.
