Chapter 44 #3
Something twisted in Symond’s gut. He hadn’t considered how it might look—him and Elora alone in that classroom.
Whether Rell might question it, might wonder what had passed between them.
But Rell’s expression remained neutral, unconcerned.
Of course. Elora had proven just minutes ago that she needed no protection from anyone.
Violette caught his eye from across the room and motioned him over.
He slumped into the chair beside her. The table before him suddenly became fascinating—worn grooves carved by countless meals and meetings, stains from spilled ale and food.
Better to study that than meet anyone’s gaze.
Every direction offered only pitying glances or morbid curiosity.
Florence stood at the front, waiting until the last whispers died. “What happened at the rally was meant to frighten us,” she said calmly. “Not just with violence, but with confusion. With doubt.”
Her gaze moved across the room, landing on each apprentice in turn.
Long enough that it felt meant for them alone.
The crowd listened the way he once had: backs straight, eyes fixed, fear carefully held in check because it was not permitted to surface.
He recognized the posture immediately. It had a shape. It had rules.
“They wanted chaos,” she continued. “They wanted us scattered. Questioning whether this was worth it. Whether you were worth it.”
A pause.
“They failed.”
“The attack told us two things,” Florence said. “First—our message is reaching further than they want it to. And second—they are already moving to bury it.”
A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
“I’ve seen the reports,” she went on. “Messages are already being sent to the villages. Warnings. Lies. They are painting The Hive as dangerous. Lawless. Worse than The Institute itself.”
When Florence named the Empire’s lies, heads nodded. They hadn’t weighed the claim; they wouldn’t even consider it because it fit the pattern they already knew. Threat. Counter-threat. Survival.
“That is how the Empire works. When it cannot deny the truth, it drowns it.”
Florence turned, gesturing toward Symond.
“They do not want people hearing from those who lived it,” she said. “They do not want parents to know what really happens to the children they surrender. What obedience costs. What survival looks like after.”
Her eyes returned to the apprentices.
“That is why your voices matter now.”
She stepped forward.
“We have secured The Hive. The tower has been stripped of any documentation pertaining to The Hive. Our routes have been adjusted. What happened will not happen again. Not here.”
She spoke of reports and messages and villages, and his focus narrowed to the apprentices’ hands. The way some clenched. The way others loosened, relieved to be told what happened next.
“But the villages?” she continued. “They are being flooded with lies as we speak. Fear is being cultivated carefully, the same way it always is.”
She let that sink in before delivering the pivot.
“So, we will go to them.”
The words didn’t hit like a command. They landed like an answer.
“We will not wait for the Empire to define us. We will not allow them to rewrite what you endured.”
Her voice softened, maybe remembering that she wasn’t speaking to rebels or strategists, but traumatized people she could use as her pawns.
“You don’t have to relive everything,” she added. “You don’t owe anyone your pain. But you do know the truth. And sometimes, that alone is enough.”
She spread her hands.
“Teams will be formed,” Florence said. “A few mercenaries for protection. A few of you—together. No one will go alone. You will speak only as much as you choose.”
His stomach tightened.
He felt it in the same place he used to feel the first bell of the night—low, involuntary, undeniable. Planning disguised as protection. Movement framed as a necessity. No space for if, only when.
Her gaze swept the crowd again—steady, encouraging, resolute.
“Assignments will be made tomorrow,” Florence said. “Departures the day after. This is how we protect what we’ve built,” she finished. “This is how we make sure no one else disappears into that place believing it will save them.”
She inclined her head.
“And this,” Florence said quietly, “demonstrates our commitment to ensuring your voices are never taken again.”
Around him, the apprentices weren’t cheering. They weren’t resisting either. They were doing something far more familiar—waiting to be told who they were now.
Florence finished, voice calm, assured.
Symond didn’t look at her.
Florence approached them once the conversations resumed, her presence cutting cleanly through the lingering energy in the room.
“We’ll be sending a team to Grayhollow next. Given your experience there, I want the four of you ready.”
Rell let out a long breath, his shoulders hunching forward like a man who’d just been handed an unwelcome but entirely predictable burden. Florence ignored him.
“It makes sense,” Violette said. “They’ll recognize us. Familiar faces will matter right now.”
Symond made no move to add to the conversation. His eyes drifted to Elora instead.
She hadn’t reacted at all. She sat perfectly still, arms folded loosely in front of her.
Her face blank besides the razor-sharp glare she was giving Florence.
She seemed more predator than girl, tracking her, measuring distance, posture, control.
The way Florence occupied space like it already belonged to her.
Florence waited a beat, as if expecting acknowledgment. When none came, she inclined her head once, already turning away. “We’ll speak again soon.”
Elora’s eyes never left the empty corridor, tracking an absence with the same intensity they’d fixed on the woman herself, her body coiled with an emotion far sharper than fear.
He’d witnessed that exact look at The Institute—that silent, calculating fury she’d direct at Thorn, with Tehvan ready to shield her from whatever punishment her rebellion might earn.
She didn’t need a shield now.