Chapter 5
Symond
The village didn’t look like much from the road.
A handful of low houses crouched against the slope, smoke curling lazily from only a few chimneys despite the cold fall winds. No banners. No patrols. Just a dirt track cutting through trampled grass and a few children paused mid-game to watch The Hive wagons pass.
A tightness pressed in Symond’s chest, but he didn’t know why.
Florence had told them very little on the way there. No speech. No strategy. Only quiet encouragement, offered in pieces over the last few days.
What happened to you wasn’t fair. You were promised safety. You deserve better than silence, she had said, but leaving out the part about what she intended to do with their stories.
The wagons veered off the main road, rolling behind the village’s outer houses rather than into its center.
Florence signaled a halt with a raised hand before they reached the square.
The mercenaries fanned out first, watchful but unthreatening.
The apprentices climbed down one by one, shoulders hunched.
They clustered together without speaking, fingers picking at the frayed edges of their identical brown jackets, the stiff collars of The Institute uniform chafing against necks.
Symond was the last to step down, tugging at slacks that hung loose on his frame.
Florence’s words echoed in his mind: Think of it as a costume.
The uniform’s stiff fabric scraped against Symond’s collarbone, the seams dug into his shoulders, yet his pulse quickened at the thought of removing it.
His fingers trembled slightly when he adjusted the too-large collar, a cold sweat breaking across his forehead whenever the top button came loose.
His body knew something his mind couldn’t quite grasp, like this simple outfit was all that stood between him and some nameless danger.
The air smelled of hearth smoke and damp earth.
His eyes darted from windows to doors to narrow gaps between buildings, cataloging blind spots and exits before he even realized what he was doing.
Why was he doing this? This wasn’t a mission.
He forced his shoulders to relax, only to find himself tensing again when he heard a man shouting across the road.
Florence led them toward a modest wooden house near the edge of the village. It looked no different from the others: low roof, single shuttered window, door already standing open. She stepped aside at the doorway, gesturing them in. “All of you,” she said gently. “It’s all right.”
They filed inside.
Symond ducked his head as he entered. The ceiling hung too close, the walls pressing in from all sides.
Someone had shoved a long table against the wall to clear the center of the room, but it wasn’t enough to make the space feel open.
Benches lined one side, already occupied by about a dozen or so couples.
They turned as the apprentices entered.
Several faces lifted, eyes widening, mouths smiling, as they leaned forward on their benches.
Florence guided the apprentices forward until their backs were to the far wall, facing the parents.
Symond drifted instinctively toward the edge, pressing himself close to the wall.
The parents watched closely now, eyes flicking over the apprentices’ faces.
A few nodded to themselves, reassured by what they saw.
“They look healthy,” one woman said.
Florence inclined her head. “They survived,” she corrected gently.
The smiles faltered.
Of course we survived, he thought, though the words felt like a lie.
“The Empire tells you The Institute is salvation,” Florence said. “That it will take your children from hunger and fear and make something stronger in their place.”
Several parents nodded. A few straightened their backs and lifted their chins, crossing their arms over their chests as they exchanged quick glances with one another.
Florence gestured lightly to the apprentices. “They were saved from poverty,” she continued. “But not from being broken down by design.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
Symond’s stomach twisted.
He stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused.
Florence’s words floated past him while memories surfaced: The Institute bell ringing at dawn, the precise angles of made beds, the cold porridge that never varied in consistency or taste.
The instructors who spoke in measured tones, never raised their voices because they never needed to. Just structure. Not being broken.
That was what he remembered. But maybe Florence was right. The others kept their memories intact.
His were gone.
On purpose.
That didn’t feel like proof of anything good.
Symond saw the difference then, in the way the apprentices held themselves. Backs straight. Hands quiet. Eyes lowered unless addressed. Precise. Practiced. Like something he might have mirrored.
He swallowed, the wall at his back suddenly feeling less solid than it had a moment before.
“You don’t have to believe me,” Florence said calmly. “You don’t even have to believe all of them.”
Her hand lifted slightly, indicating the apprentices at her back.
“But they’re here. Alive. Standing in front of you. If you want to know what The Institute gives in return for obedience, ask them.”
Shoulders tensed beside him, few pairs of eyes darting among themselves, then away again.
Florence noticed. “No one is required to speak,” she said. “You owe no one your story. If you choose to share, it will be because you wish to.”
She paused, letting that sink in.
“And if you don’t—” her gaze flicked briefly across the line of apprentices, not lingering on any one of them, “—that choice will be respected.”
That last sentence—choice will be respected—didn’t land right.
Not because of how she said it.
It just… didn’t belong.
For a moment, no one spoke. The parents leaned forward on their benches. One mother twisted her wedding band in endless circles while a father’s foot tapped a nervous rhythm against the floorboards.
Alfie, pale freckled skin, and arms too thin to be considered well-fed stepped forward. Symond recognized him vaguely. He was an alchemist. He couldn’t remember speaking to him.
The boy cleared his throat once.
“I was told that sticking to the rules would make me tougher,” he said finally. His voice was steady, but his hands weren’t. “That pain meant I was learning.”
A few parents nodded automatically.
“That’s what they tell you,” Alfie continued. “That if it hurts, it’s working.”
Symond frowned.
That sounded right. That was how it worked. You pushed past discomfort. Past weakness. That was—
“But it didn’t stop,” Alfie said quietly. “Not when I worked harder or did as they asked. They would find a reason just for the chance to remind you of your place.”
He hesitated, eyes flicking sideways down the line of apprentices.
Not to Symond.
“Punishment came faster if you were angry,” he said. “If you pushed back. Sometimes it felt like they were waiting for it.”
Chairs creaked as parents shifted their weight. Eyes that had been steady now darted between the apprentices, searching for contradictions.
Symond’s jaw tightened.
Anger had always gotten attention. That was true. He remembered that much. If you reacted, if you showed it bothered you, they noticed. They corrected it.
Alfie swallowed. “Sometimes it wasn’t about what you did. It was about what they needed.”
Symond’s throat tightened, a fist forming beneath his Adam’s apple.
A woman, knuckles white against her skirt, spoke. “Needed for what?”
“An example.”
Another apprentice stepped forward—Lily, her hands clenched in the fabric of her sleeves. She spoke faster.
“They told my parents I would be safe,” she said. “That I would be learning skills. That I would be protected.”
She let out a short, humorless breath. “They didn’t tell them I learned how to stand still for hours. Or how you could be punished for someone else’s mistake”
Symond’s pulse kicked hard.
The words echoed without context, without memory, but they left a hollow ache in Symond’s chest as if a fist had closed around something vital inside him.
“Some of us were…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Useful that way.”
She fell silent, her jaw working slightly as if chewing on words.
Florence didn’t press her. “Thank you, Lily.”
The parents—so quick to nod, to smile, to reassure—grew silent, their faces shuttered. One by one, their postures shifted inward: arms folded, gazes lowered, lips pressed flat.
Symond stared at the floorboards. The cracks between them made patterns he couldn’t look away from.
He tried to remember The Institute the way he thought he knew it—everything in its place, everything following rules that made sense—but each time another apprentice spoke, his memory became less certain.
What they described didn’t match his understanding.
Their words didn’t fit. Their pain didn’t fit.
“They said if someone failed, everyone suffered. That way we would never betray each other. But that’s not how it felt in the moment.”
“Sometimes they didn’t even tell us what we’d done. Just that we’d let them down. Or that we’d disappointed the Empire. I don’t know what I was supposed to learn from that.”
Each story was different.
The shape wasn’t.
Punishment. Sometimes followed by correction. Sometimes not. Fear, without a clear cause. Control, presented as something else. He couldn’t define it, only that it repeated.
Even when they described it, there was a delay before certain words. A pause. A shift. Sentences cut short or redirected before they reached anything specific.
They answered what was asked. Nothing more.
Symond felt a faint prickle at the back of his neck. Not a thought. Just something… misaligned.
Not with them. With him.
His shoulders had already pulled back before he noticed. Spine straightening. Hands stilling against his thighs. He let the tension go a second later. Or tried to. It didn’t fully leave.
He knew his memory was incomplete. That had been the point. Removed what wasn’t useful.