Chapter 44 #2
Their eyes met for a moment. Symond tensed, shoulders drawing tight beneath his shirt.
Her eyes should have cut him like they always did—sharp with loathing he’d cultivated for years.
He should have felt that answering spark inside himself, that reflexive need to meet her hatred with his own.
But when their gazes locked, he found himself waiting for a blow that never came.
The space between them held something unfamiliar—not peace exactly, but the strange quiet that follows when a long-burning fire finally exhausts itself.
Elora took a deliberate step back, creating space between herself and the children. Her fingers twitched at her sides as if physically restraining herself from shoving them away.
“I heard you can change into a huge monster!” Tanner said, holding his small arms out as wide as he could. “Can you show us?”
The look behind Elora’s eyes shut them up fast. It wasn’t just a look of anger, of fire and rage.
It was cold, focused, a promise that if she showed them what she could do, they would not like the outcome.
Before she could do anything, the door swung open again, this time revealing Tortoise filling the doorframe.
“Florence is holding a meeting in the mess hall before dinner,” he announced, gaze sweeping over the chaotic scene. “Everyone’s expected to attend.”
The children immediately lost interest in Elora, their attention as fickle as sparks from a forge. “About a rally?!” Kaleb shouted, already racing for the door. “Do you think this one will go boom?!”
They pushed past Tortoise without a backward glance, their footsteps thundering down the corridor, voices fading as they ran.
Rowan rose from his seat with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. He gathered a few scattered papers, movements slow, procrastinating.
When he looked up, his face had settled into a mask of resignation that Symond recognized too well—the expression of someone preparing to endure rather than participate.
“I should...” Rowan gestured vaguely toward the door but made no immediate move to leave. His hands clenched in front of him, knuckles whitening with effort as he tried to still their trembling. After a moment, he exhaled sharply and headed for the exit, shoulders hunched.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed in the sudden quiet.
Symond remained where he was, back against the wall, arms crossed. He felt no urge to follow. He was worth more to Florence before. A living reminder of Imperial cruelty. But his testimony was gone along with his tongue. What purpose would he serve now except as a silent exhibit?
Elora remained rooted to the floor. Her hands were still clenched at her sides, her shoulders set.
The quiet between them hummed with everything they couldn’t say.
Elora’s eyes finally met his, and Symond’s chest tightened with a twisting discomfort.
They stood like two people who had read each other’s diaries but never properly met.
“Are you going?” she broke the silence, her voice carefully neutral. She gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the distant sounds of people gathering.
Symond shook his head once, the motion sharp and definitive. He tilted his chin toward her, raising an eyebrow. The question hung unspoken between them: What about you?
Elora released a short breath, almost a laugh but lacking any humor. “No.” Her fingers traced invisible patterns on the desk beside her. “I don’t care for Florence’s... approach.” She didn’t elaborate, but Symond understood.
She moved toward the window, putting distance between them. The afternoon light caught in her hair, turning the dark strands almost bronze.
Elora’s fingers ceased their tapping against the wooden ledge, freezing mid-motion like a music box suddenly wound down.
Her chest expanded slowly, the fabric of her robe tightening across her back as she inhaled through her nose, held it for three heartbeats, then released the air in a silent stream that barely disturbed the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam before her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still facing away from him. “For what Gerard did to you.”
Symond’s body went rigid. The words hit him like a physical blow, unexpected and disorienting. His fingers pressed into his biceps where his arms remained crossed, nails biting through the fabric of his shirt.
“Nobody deserves what he put you through.” Her voice remained level, matter-of-fact. “What Thorn put any of us through.”
Heat crawled up Symond’s neck. The apology felt wrong, backwards—like someone offering sympathy for a wound they hadn’t inflicted.
He uncrossed his arms, hands falling uselessly to his sides.
His throat worked soundlessly, the familiar frustration of trying to speak without the means to do so burning in his chest.
Symond reached for his slate, fingers fumbling with the chalk. Thank you.
He stared at the words, simple and inadequate.
They couldn’t possibly capture what he meant.
Was he thanking her for the sympathy she’d offered?
For saving him from Gerard when she had every reason to let him suffer?
For not destroying him after everything he’d done to her at The Institute?
The chalk trembled between his fingers. He supposed it was all three.
He crossed the room and held the slate out to her, keeping enough distance that she wouldn’t feel cornered. His pulse quickened as she turned from the window.
Elora’s eyes went to the slate, then to his face. Her mouth loosened a little. She gave a single, short nod of acknowledgment, neither accepting nor rejecting his gratitude.
The moment shattered as the door flew open. Tortoise stood in the threshold, chest heaving, sweat beading at his temples as though he’d sprinted the length of the compound.
“Meeting’s mandatory,” he said, voice sharp with urgency. “Florence wants both of you there. Now.”
Symond wiped his slate clean and hooked it back onto his belt. He moved toward the door without protest. He glanced back when he realized Elora wasn’t following.
She remained by the window, her back to them. The sunlight caught in her hair, creating a halo effect that made her seem somehow separate from the urgency filling the room.
Was she lost in some memory? Or was this deliberate defiance? Symond studied the line of her spine, the way her fingers rested against the windowsill—too still, too controlled. This wasn’t a distraction. This was a choice.
Tortoise made an impatient noise in his throat. “I said now.”
Symond’s muscles tensed as he watched Tortoise approach her.
He wanted to signal a warning, to communicate somehow that forcing Elora to do anything would end up badly for him.
But Tortoise moved too quickly, his hand closing around Elora’s upper arm, fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeve as he pulled.
“Let’s go—”
The change happened between one heartbeat and the next.
Claws erupted from Elora’s fingertips in a heartbeat, gleaming sharp as she grabbed Tortoise’s hand and dug deep into his flesh.
Tortoise’s howl shattered the silence—not the startled yelp of someone caught off guard, but the guttural, primal sound of genuine agony.
Blood welled around her claws as she twisted slightly, ensuring he understood exactly what was happening.
Tortoise yanked his hand back, stumbling away from her with wide eyes. “What the hell—” He clutched his wounded hand to his chest, blood seeping between his fingers.
Symond didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t feel the need to intervene. He simply watched Elora, taking in the transformation that had overtaken her features. Her golden eyes had shifted, pupils narrowed to vertical slits that caught the afternoon light like polished metal.
There was no rage in her expression. No heated emotion at all.
Just a cold, steady stare that pinned Tortoise in place more effectively than her claws had.
The claws retracted as smoothly as they had appeared.
Her fingers returned to normal, but now with traces of blood.
Without a word, Elora walked between them toward the door, her steps measured and unhurried.
She didn’t spare either of them a glance as she passed.
No explanation. No apology. No acknowledgment that anything unusual had happened at all.
The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Tortoise cursing under his breath as he examined his wounded hand.
Symond felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest. Not satisfaction, exactly.
Not admiration either, though there was a certain appreciation for her efficiency.
It was recognition—of boundaries enforced, of control maintained, of choice exercised.
All things that had once been denied to both of them.
“Fucking animal,” Tortoise muttered, wrapping a handkerchief around his bleeding palm. He glared at Symond. “You coming or what?”
Tortoise didn’t wait, already moving toward the door with stiff, angry steps. “Should have her locked up,” he grumbled.
They already tried, Symond thought as he followed behind Tortoise.
The mess hall buzzed with tension, voices dropping to whispers as Symond entered. All eyes tracked him—some openly staring, others pretending not to notice while failing spectacularly. The room felt too small suddenly, packed with bodies and the heavy scent of anticipation.
He spotted Elora immediately. She sat in the far corner. Rell lounged beside her, boots propped on the table’s edge, arm draped casually over the back of her chair. The mercenary’s posture radiated protective ease, like a cat sprawled in the sun but ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.