Chapter 32
Elora
Elora’s muscles ached with the memory of fur and claw, the price of a night’s peace paid in transformation.
The mess hall door groaned under her palm as she stepped into the morning’s subdued bustle.
She’d left Rell sleeping, his face untroubled in a way it rarely was awake, the worry lines around his eyes temporarily erased.
He never complained about her need to shift, to curl at the foot of his bed in her beast form where touch couldn’t reach her.
Some nights she resented his patience. Wouldn’t it be easier if he demanded more, gave her reason to flee?
Yet something in her chest tightened at the thought of what could be—simply being herself, skin against skin, wrapped in his warmth.
But then the nightmares would come, as they always did in human form.
Only as the beast could she quiet her mind enough to rest, its primal vigilance standing guard against memories that prowled the darkness.
The safety came with its own cost: the knot of regret that tightened in her stomach each morning.
She sighed, and moved to the serving line, and scooped a simple breakfast onto a tray: a bowl of porridge, a hunk of bread, an apple that looked bruised but edible.
No one glanced her way, or if they did, she didn’t notice, her thoughts too tangled in the what-ifs of the night, of Florence’s blood monitoring, of basically everything.
She chose a table in the corner, away from the clusters of figures huddled over their meals and sank onto the bench.
Only then did she really look around, spoon paused halfway to her mouth.
The hall felt... off. Emptier than usual, the buzz of apprentices chattering and jostling for space replaced by a purposeful quiet.
Fewer young faces, no clusters of wide-eyed trainees.
Instead, the tables were dotted with The Hive’s alchemists and enchanters. Street-trained, she heard them called.
A shadow fell across her tray. Elora looked up to find Florence hovering there, braid coiled tight against her neck, not a single strand out of place.
The corners of her mouth lifted as their eyes met, the kind of smile that crinkled the skin around her eyes and revealed a flash of teeth.
Her gaze swept over Elora’s face with the focused attention of someone who’d been hunting for something specific in a crowded room and had finally found it.
“Elora,” Florence said, her voice carrying that gentle lilt, and she slid onto the bench opposite without waiting for an invitation. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, ignoring the scattered trays nearby.
Elora’s spoon hovered, the bland warmth in her mouth turning sticky.
She swallowed, the prickling in her skin sharpening.
What now? More answers that leave her with even more questions?
She set the spoon down and looked up at Florence, whose presence seemed to bend the space around them like gravity, demanding acknowledgment without saying a word.
“There’s a gathering in Aszona later today.
We’ve held a few like it in the outlying villages already—bringing parents together, showing them what The Institute truly costs.
Letting the stories come out, the real ones, so voices that have been silenced can finally be heard,” Florence said, her words sounding rehearsed.
She knew of the hushed meetings where Florence convinced parents to give up their children to her instead of The Institute, but nothing concrete, nothing that painted a full picture.
“I’ve heard talk of meetings like that,” she said, her voice steady despite the knot tightening in her gut. “But... What exactly are they?
Florence’s smile deepened, patient, as if she’d anticipated the question.
“Parents deserve to know what they’re surrendering their children to—the experiments, the breaking, the way The Institute twists them into tools for the Empire.
Silence has shielded that place for far too long, and families in the villages have had no choice but to hand over their young or watch them die from plague or empty bellies.
These gatherings strip away the lies, let the truth breathe. ”
The explanation landed heavy in Elora’s stomach, stirring memories of her own blurred past—the Snatchers’ rough hands, the cold bargain that had stolen her from her alleged family in Grayhallow.
She could almost taste the bitterness of it, the way desperation twisted choices into chains.
Part of her wanted to lean in, to grasp at this idea of exposure, of voices rising against the silence that had swallowed so much of her life.
But doubt flickered that she couldn’t quite find a reason for.
Florence’s words always sounded so… noble. Too much so.
Florence leaned closer, her eyes intent. “I’d like you to come to this one. Your presence can show them survival is possible.”
Heat rushed to Elora’s face, her heartbeat stuttering against her ribs. Florence’s eyes flickered to the pink spreading across her collarbone before adding, “Your voice isn’t necessary. Your presence alone will speak volumes.”
Being seen was the last thing she wanted, the very thought of it tightening her throat like a noose.
All those eyes on her, picking at the golden gleam in her own, wondering what Thorn had twisted her into or worse, pitying it.
But the pull was there, undeniable, tugging at the edges of her resolve.
Rell had mentioned Florence’s plan for dismantling The Institute, more than once.
This gathering could let her glimpse it unfolding, see if it was more than just words.
And if it was, maybe postponing Thorn’s death—holding off that sweet taste of justice—would make her feel less like an indoor house cat.
Florence’s fingers laced together on the table.
“It’s about values, Elora. Family. Freedom.
The right to raise a child without the Empire’s shadow dictating every breath.
We’ve lost so much to their lies—generations shaped into weapons or discarded like waste.
These gatherings remind people of what they’ve always known in their hearts: that surrender isn’t inevitable. It’s a choice we can refuse, together.”
Values were abstract and slippery, without the hard edges of a real strategy—no mention of timelines, no specifics on how The Hive would back these parents when the Empire came knocking, no details on disrupting the Snatchers’ routes or starving The Institute’s supply lines.
Just ideals, floating like mist over a plan she couldn’t quite grasp.
It left a hollow ache in Elora’s chest, the kind that made her fingers itch to shift, to fly out and hunt something concrete instead.
Elora bit into the apple, the tart juice bursting across her tongue, sharp enough to cut through the blandness still coating her mouth.
It bought her a moment, time to weigh the pull against the knot of reluctance twisting tighter.
If this was part of the dismantling, she needed to see it, to judge for herself if Florence’s vision held weight, or if it was just another cage dressed in prettier words.
“I’ll go,” she said, already half-regretting. “But only if I stay in the background. No speaking, no standing up front like some exhibit, and definitely no pushing me to say how great your plan is or whatever else you’re spinning. I’m not endorsing anything.”
Florence accepted with a nod, her smile unwavering, as if Elora’s conditions were hardly worth noting. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of anything else.” Her shoulders squared beneath her fitted jacket. “We’ll head out at dusk. Meet us in the courtyard.”
As she began to pivot on her heel, Elora’s voice cut through the air, halting her. “Wait. One more thing.” The words rushed out before she could second-guess herself. “I want you to answer my questions about Tehvan afterward.”
Florence paused, her shoulders stiffening slightly. She tilted her head a fraction to the side, lips parting then pressing together as her gaze drifted just past Elora’s left ear to some invisible point on the wall.
“I understand your desire to know more about him,” she said slowly, considering the weight of Elora’s request. “We can discuss him further soon, but you’ll witness his influence at the rally. It may not be the answers you seek right now, but it will be a glimpse into who he was.”
Before Elora could press further, Florence turned and strode away, each footfall precise against the floor, fading into the background chatter.
Elora’s fingers drummed against the table, her jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
She stared at the empty bench across from her, mentally replaying Florence’s words—all promises, no details—while her porridge settled into a gray mass, a skin forming across its surface. She pushed it away.
A few minutes later, the mess hall door swung open with a familiar creak.
Elora didn’t need to look up to know it was Rell—the particular rhythm of his footsteps, the way conversations shifted slightly as he passed.
He snagged an apple from the serving line with a deft twist of his wrist, the fruit spinning once through the air before landing back in his palm.
The bench creaked as he slid in beside her, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers.
His arm settled across her shoulders, and his calloused fingertips found the pulse point at her neck, tracing small circles there.
Goosebumps rose along her arms despite the hall’s stuffy warmth.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he gestured toward the actual sunrays filtering through the high windows.
Then he leaned in a fraction closer. “And good morning, Elora.”