And now he’s standing beneath them, free, breathing air that doesn’t taste like captivity.
Tessa stops beside me next, her breathing labored, her hand pressed against her belly.
“The child.” She meets my gaze with eyes that hold exhaustion and hope in equal measure. “If it’s a girl, I’m naming her Arwen.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” Her jaw tightens with the same stubborn determination that kept her alive through months of captivity while pregnant. “I want her to have a name that means something. A name that reminds her where she came from, and why she’s free.”
I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to respond to the honor she’s offering—the burden of having someone carry my name through a life I’ll never witness.
“Then I hope she grows up strong.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Strong enough to never need rescuing.”
“I hope she grows up kind.” Tessa’s hand finds mine, squeezes briefly. “Kind enough to rescue others.”
Then she’s moving past me, supported by two other survivors, disappearing into the grassland beyond. I watch her go until the darkness swallows her silhouette.
A child named Arwen. Born free because we burned down a monastery.
The thought settles into my chest and stays there, warm and complicated.
FIFTY-ONE
ARWEN
Marceline is the last to reach me.
She stops at the forest edge, her cultured face illuminated by the distant fire, the documents still clutched to her chest. Five years in the Abbot’s private prison haven’t broken her—if anything, they’ve sharpened her. The frailty in her body is countered by the steel in her eyes.
“The records are complete.” Her voice carries the calm precision of someone who has spent decades in diplomatic circles. “Every name. Every transaction. Every atrocity documented in the Abbot’s hand.”
“Will it be enough? To bring them down?”
“It will be a start.” She looks back at the burning monastery, visible through the trees as a column of flame reaching toward the smoke-stained sky. “The cult didn’t exist in isolation, child. It had patrons. Protectors. People who benefited from its activities and ensured it could operate without interference.”
“We know.”
“Do you know who?” Her gaze returns to mine. Sharp. Assessing. “Do you know how far up the chain of power these documents reach?”
“I have suspicions.”
“Then you understand why destroying the monastery isn’t enough.” She tucks the documents more securely against her chest. “The building is gone. The Abbot is dead. But the system that created them—the network of wealth and influence that allowed them to flourish—remains intact.”
“For now.”
Something that might be approval flickers across her face. “You have plans.”
“I have a partner.” I look back toward the burning forest, searching for movement, for the familiar silhouette I’ve come to need. “And we have work to do.”
“The orc.” Marceline’s voice carries curiosity rather than judgment. “An interesting choice.”
“He’s the best executioner I’ve ever met. And he’s...” I hesitate. Search for words that capture what Zrynok has become to me. “He’s mine.”
“Yours.” The old diplomat studies me with eyes that have read treaties and decoded the hidden meanings in royal proclamations. “Not ‘the mission’s.’ Not ‘the cause’s.’ Yours.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There’s every difference in the world.” She turns toward the open ground, toward the survivors waiting in the darkness beyond. “Guard that, child. Whatever else happens—whatever enemies we make, whatever battles we fight—guard that. It’s rarer than you know.”
