Chapter 38 #2
“Are you alright?” Elora whispered.
Before Rell could answer, Florence returned with five more mercenaries trailing behind her like shadows. Elora recognized Aylin’s sharp features and Mathias’s broad shoulders, the rest she couldn’t remember their names.
“Rell and Violette believe they have located Symond,” Florence said, her words dissolved into the ambient noise of the Red District’s nightlife.
Music and laughter drifted from the main streets, providing a strange counterpoint to the tension in their hidden corner.
“Somewhere inside the communication tower.”
“The tower has four main levels,” Florence explained. “Ground level houses the main entrance, guards, and administrative offices. Second level, more offices and the duty roster. Third level, equipment and maintenance.” Her finger tapped the highest mark. “Fourth level, the signal room.”
The mercenaries huddled together, crimson light from the district’s signs casting their faces in blood-red shadows.
Elora caught the measured inhales and exhales of trained fighters preparing for action, while Rell’s warmth radiated against her shoulder as the group closed ranks around Florence’s whispered plan.
“A frontal approach is suicide,” Florence continued. “The entire ground floor will be too busy, even at this hour—messengers coming and going, night shift taking over.”
Florence’s finger traced an invisible path up the tower’s side. “However, there are service balconies on the west face, accessible from the adjacent building.” She pointed to the shadow of a smaller structure pressing against the tower’s flank. “We can cross the gap to the third floor there.”
Elora studied the distance between buildings. Even in the darkness, her eyes could measure the leap—six feet, maybe seven. Doable, but risky. One misstep would mean a three-story fall onto the cobblestones below.
“This needs to be quick and silent,” Florence continued. “We get in, find Symond, take who’s responsible, and get out. No heroics, no unnecessary engagements.” Her gaze swept over the group, lingering on Elora.
“We’ll need climbing gear, sedative potions, shadowmeld potions and something to counteract whatever they’ve done to him.” Florence straightened. “Everyone back to The Hive to prepare. Should only be a half hour tops before we are ready to ascend.”
Elora glanced back at the tower, her thoughts snagging on The Institute guard they had found. If The Institute was behind this, then perhaps there was also someone she was eager to reunite with.
Rell’s hand brushed the small of her back, the touch featherlight but enough to quiet the chaos in her mind.
“I don’t like this,” she whispered.
“Me neither,” he replied, his voice just as low. “But this isn’t our first rescue mission. We can handle it.”
The Hive’s foyer stood empty when they arrived, the high ceiling and marble floors making their footsteps echo. Florence moved to the center of the room, her commanding presence filling the space as she turned to address the group.
“Two minutes. Gather whatever you need and meet back here. No delays.”
The mercenaries dispersed immediately. Rell hesitated, his eyes meeting Elora’s briefly before Florence’s sharp glance sent him after the others.
Now, it was merely the two of them.
Florence’s rigid commander stance melted away by degrees, shoulders dropping an inch, the hard line of her mouth relaxing without quite forming a smile. Florence closed the distance between them with deliberate footsteps that barely whispered against the marble.
“Elora,” Florence said once the others had moved out of earshot. “I appreciate your initiative tonight,” she said. Elora said nothing. “However,” Florence continued, “I can’t allow you to join the extraction team.”
Elora had expected this, felt it coming from the moment Florence found them at the tower.
“You’re not trained for this kind of operation,” Florence said, her tone softening just enough to suggest concern rather than condescension. “The tower will be heavily guarded. One mistake could cost us Symond’s life, and yours.”
Elora was most suited for this mission but she wasn’t about to prove Florence otherwise. “Of course, I understand.”
Florence smiled at Elora. “Thank you for understanding.”
The mercenaries began returning, their footsteps echoing down the hall.
They were decked out in tactical gear—dark leathers reinforced with metal at vulnerable points, belts equipped with specialized slots where vials of potions glowed with muted light.
Elora recognized the amber glow of healing elixirs, the murky purple of shadowmeld potions, and several others she couldn’t immediately identify.
Elora stepped back, moving toward the grand staircase as the team assembled.
“Let’s move out,” Florence commanded, her voice crisp with authority. “Time is against us.”
The team fell into formation behind her with practiced efficiency, heading toward the main door. No one glanced back at Elora except Rell, who hesitated at the threshold. He broke away from the group, crossing the foyer in quick strides.
“Stay here, please.” His eyes searched her face, concern etching lines around his mouth. “We can handle this.”
He leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to her forehead, the contact brief but warm. Then he was gone, turning away to catch up with the others before she could say a word.
She shook her head and climbed the stairs to the second floor, her footsteps muffled against the worn carpet runner.
The hinges whined as she pushed open the door to Rell’s room.
His blanket hung halfway to the floor on one side of the bed, the pillow still bearing the indent of his head.
Beneath the small writing desk, his spare boots stood at attention, one fallen onto its side.
On the desk, a leather-bound journal lay splayed open, the charcoal lines of an unfinished bird’s wing trailing off the page.
She lowered herself onto the mattress edge, springs sighing beneath her. The window framed the communication tower like a painting, its beacon cutting through the darkness—three seconds bright, two seconds dark—some unknown signal against the ink-black sky.
The memory of Symond’s blood on her fingers lingered, along with the fear-scent embedded in it. Whatever was happening to him in there, it wasn’t gentle. The beast paced at the familiar shape of it—dominance, restraint, helplessness. It didn’t care who was on the table. It recognized the pattern.
Tension wound through her as she abandoned the bed. The beacon pulsed again, pulling her gaze like it was calling to her. She flung the window open, inviting in a shiver-inducing gust of night air.
Her skin crawled at the thought of anyone suffering under Thorn’s control, but something deeper stirred at the possibility that Thorn himself might be waiting in that tower.
The pieces didn’t fit. Symond wasn’t leverage against her the way Tehvan had been.
Yet she found herself leaning toward the window, drawn to the pulsing beacon like a moth to a deadly flame, unable to resist its pull despite knowing better.
The beast within her stirred, muscles coiling with anticipation. Elora shrugged off the empire robe, letting it pool at her feet, leaving only the Al’teran attire.
The change came without hesitation. Bone and muscle reformed in a smooth, practiced surge as wings unfurled and shadow-dark fur swept across her skin.
The windowsill barely offered enough room for her to squeeze through, yet she knew she could make it.
With the communication tower looming ahead, she prepared her wings, feeling the weight of their power.
Gathering her resolve, she launched herself into the night, the cool air rushing past as she soared through the opening.