Chapter 25
Elora
Elora didn’t slow until she was out of the mess hall.
The door swung shut behind her with a dull thud, cutting off the noise, the eyes, the weight of everything she hadn’t been ready to face. She drew in a sharp breath and kept moving, boots carrying her down the corridor on instinct alone.
She’d left because she had to.
One more heartbeat in that room—one more glimpse of Symond with his head hung low, radiating that pathetic remorse—and something in her would have snapped. Something irreversible.
The beast stirred beneath her skin, hungry and vicious, tasting weakness. She clenched her jaw until it ached, forcing the fury back down into the hollow of her chest. She wouldn’t unleash it here. She couldn’t afford to lose control like that.
“Elora—wait.”
Rell caught up with her a few strides later. His hand closed gently around her elbow, steadying rather than restraining, slowing her just enough that she stopped without snapping at him.
She yanked her arm free anyway.
“I’m fine,” she said, though the words came out clipped, brittle.
Rell’s mouth twisted. “Look,” he said, attempting a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “For what it’s worth, I doubt Symond will be a problem anymore. Memory loss seems to have taken all the fight out of him. He can barely look anyone in the eye.”
That did it.
“You think I’m afraid?” The question came out low, dangerous. “I’d welcome it if he tried something.”
Rell’s eyes widened.
She took a step closer, voice dropping. “I’d love for him to make that mistake and find out how badly it would end for him.”
Rell’s brows furrowed as he processed her words. “Oh, you want... closure. I could arrange something controlled. A sparring session, perhaps? To help you work through—”
Elora cut him off with a sharp exhale, already turning away.
“What’s the point?” The words fell like a barrier between them. “He doesn’t even remember his crimes. There’s no satisfaction in defeating someone who can’t recognize their own guilt.”
Rell’s mouth opened, then shut. His expression shifted as he searched for better words.
“Listen,” he began, his voice softening into something more genuine—
“Ah. There you are.”
Florence’s voice slipped into the space between them like she’d been waiting just out of sight.
Elora stiffened.
Florence stood a few paces down the corridor, hands folded loosely in front of her, expression open and warm as if she hadn’t just witnessed the aftermath of a near explosion. There was no trace of urgency in her posture, only interest.
“I was hoping to steal you for a bit,” she said, her gaze resting on Elora with unnerving focus. “I thought you might appreciate a proper tour. It can be… disorienting here, at first.”
Elora kept her face unreadable as she met Florence’s gaze.
Disorienting. What a polite way to describe the chaos churning inside her.
“Fine,” she said with a curt nod.
Florence’s lips curved upward as she turned, not bothering to check if Elora followed. She didn’t need to.
Elora fell into step behind her, driven not by trust or comfort, but by the simple truth that learning the secrets buried here would require knowing every corner of this place.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Rell asked it lightly, but he didn’t move away. He stayed where he was, close enough that Elora could feel the question for what it really was.
She turned back to him.
For a flicker of a second, she wanted to say yes.
Florence felt like deep water, and Elora wasn’t sure she trusted herself to wade in alone.
At the same time, she wanted space. Wanted to think without Rell’s concern tugging at her attention, wanted to prove—to herself more than anyone—that she could stand on her own in this place.
She opened her mouth—
“Rell,” Florence said smoothly, not looking at him. “Aylin was asking for you. Something about a shipment that didn’t arrive.”
Rell frowned. “That can wait.”
Florence finally glanced over her shoulder, her expression pleasant but firm. “It really can’t.”
Rell hesitated, eyes flicking back to Elora, clearly waiting for her to decide.
Florence didn’t give her the chance.
Florence’s fingertips brushed the small of Elora’s back, light as a whisper yet unmistakable in their intent. The touch steered her forward with the quiet authority of someone who expected—no, knew—she would be followed.
“We won’t be long,” Florence said. “I promise.”
Rell stayed where he was for another heartbeat, jaw tight, before finally turning away. Relief tangled with something darker as she watched him go, a knot forming where her ribs met that she couldn’t quite name.
Then it was just the two of them.
The woman’s footfalls made no sound as she led them through the manor—left at the painting of mountains, right at the third door with the bronze handle, up a staircase that spiraled clockwise, then counterclockwise at the next landing.
Elora counted doorways, tracked windows, searched for landmarks, but found only identical wooden panels and uniform sconces that cast the same amber glow every fifteen paces.
“I heard you didn’t take the room I had prepared,” Florence said casually.
Elora didn’t miss the test in the words.
“Thank you for it,” she replied evenly. “I just… prefer sleeping with someone else nearby.”
It was vague. Noncommittal. True enough.
Florence hummed. “Understandable.” She tilted her head slightly. “I could arrange something with Violette, if you’d like. She has space.”
“Thank you.”
If Florence put her with Vye, she knew the woman wouldn’t stop her from drifting to Rell’s room anyway. That problem would solve itself.
Florence studied her a moment longer, clearly weighing how much more she could press.
Elora didn’t give her anything.
“So, what’s your plan here, exactly?” Elora asked, unable to maintain the polite charade any longer. It wasn’t the question that had been burning inside her since she’d first seen Florence’s face—a face Tehvan had sworn was dead and buried—but it was a good place to start.
Florence’s steps slowed. For a moment, she seemed to consider deflecting, but instead, she gestured toward a small alcove with a window overlooking the manor grounds. “Would you like to sit?”
“I’d prefer answers,” Elora said, but she followed Florence to the window seat anyway, keeping a careful distance between them as she sat. Florence folded her hands in her lap, the portrait of composure.
“Rell mentioned you’re trying to reform The Institute.” Elora observed Florence’s features The resemblance was there, subtle but unmistakable, the slight curve at the edge of her lips, the way she held herself with quiet certainty. “But reform seems... inadequate, given what The Institute is.”
“You’re right,” Florence said, her voice softening. “Reform isn’t the word. Replacement is more accurate.”
“Replacement?”
“The Institute thrives because it preys on desperation,” Florence explained, her gaze drifting to the window where children played in the courtyard below.
“The Empire deliberately keeps the outer villages dependent, just enough trade to survive, just enough security to fear losing it. When crops fail or illness strikes, families have one resource left to trade: their children.”
Elora’s stomach twisted, remembering the meat vendor in Grayhollow—her father—speaking so casually about selling his own flesh and blood.
“So, you’re building an alternative,” Elora said carefully.
Florence nodded, a quiet intensity radiating from her.
“I’m creating a place where children can receive education without their families forfeiting custody.
” Her eyes met Elora’s, unflinching. “And in exchange, we ensure their villages can survive independently—teaching sustainable farming techniques, arranging medical training, providing them with enchanted materials.”
“Break the dependency,” Elora murmured.
“Precisely. Without fresh recruits, The Institute starves.” Florence’s voice carried absolute conviction. “We’ve already established three outposts in northern villages. I believe you’re familiar with the one in Grayhollow. Parents can discuss with the representatives.”
“And how exactly will you do that without the Empire noticing?” Elora asked, her fingers tapping against the window ledge. “What even is the goal? You starve The Institute, then what?”
Florence’s lips curved into something not quite a smile. “Liberation,” she said with a certainty as if she had already achieved it.
Elora waited for more, but Florence had already moved on to the first part of her question.
“It will take years,” Florence continued. “The apprentices we’ve gathered will teach these children, passing on empire-level knowledge of the alchemical arts. Patience is what will allow us to build right under the Empire’s nose. By the time they realize what’s happening, it will be too late.”
Years.
The word echoed in Elora’s mind. Years. Years. Years.
A hot pressure built behind her eyes, gold bleeding into her vision at the edges. Her fingernails dug half-moons into her palms as her jaw clenched so hard a tooth might crack. The beast, wild and hungry, clawed up her spine, whispering that years meant nothing when blood could be spilled today.
“And Thorn?” The question came out sharper than she intended. “How important is he to this plan of yours?”
Florence cocked her head, observing Elora with those unnervingly familiar blue eyes.
“I want him dead.” Elora didn’t bother softening the words. The raw honesty felt good, cleansing even. “I don’t care who replaces him. I just want him gone. Permanently.”
Florence didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze traveled slowly across Elora’s features, pausing at her eyes where molten gold had consumed the natural blue.
“Having an enemy you know,” Florence finally said, her voice measured, “is easier to manipulate than one you don’t.”