Chapter 45
Elora
Elora strode down the corridor, each step echoing her frustration.
Her pulse drummed a steady rhythm of determination beneath her skin as she followed the sound of Florence’s footsteps ahead.
The woman’s path was predictable—a straight line to her office, where she’d no doubt barricade herself behind stacks of reports and strategic plans.
The discussion about Grayhollow boiled Elora’s blood. Florence’s carefully measured voice explaining the importance of speaking their truth. As if Elora hadn’t noticed the pattern. As if she couldn’t see through the transparent attempt to keep her occupied.
A door latch clicked ahead, the sound sharp in the quiet corridor.
Elora stopped before the oak-paneled door, her reflection distorted in the gleaming brass nameplate.
Her golden eyes stared back at her, hard with resolve.
She’d waited long enough, played along with Florence’s evasions, accepted the half-truths and deflections.
It was time for Florence to speak her truth.
She raised her fist and knocked with decisive force. Without pausing for a response, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Florence sat behind her desk, her head lifting at the intrusion.
For a heartbeat, surprise flickered across her face before she smoothed her expression, reclaiming her practiced composure.
Across the polished surface before her lay an array of documents, with a detailed map of the northern territories secured by crystal paperweights.
“Elora,” she said, her tone neutral. “Your timing is... inconvenient.”
She closed the door behind her. The office felt smaller than she remembered, walls lined with books and scrolls, the air heavy with the scent of ink and parchment. For a moment, it reminded her of safety.
Elora moved closer to the desk, refusing to be relegated to the visitor’s chair, refusing to take the position of supplicant. “I told you I’m done waiting. I want answers.”
Florence began shuffling documents. “We’ve discussed why Thorn can’t be—”
“Not him,” Elora said. “Tehvan.”
The name hung in the air between them. Elora watched Florence’s face carefully, searching for any reaction—a twitch, a tightening around the eyes, anything to confirm what she already suspected. But she remained impassive.
Florence leaned back in her chair, her expression softening into something that looked dangerously close to sympathy. “I understand this is difficult, Elora. Grief manifests in many ways, and—”
“This isn’t about grief,” Elora cut her off, heat rising in her chest. “This is about facts. For a month, you’ve talked about helping villages, about saving children, about building a future. But you’ve avoided every question I’ve asked about Tehvan.”
Florence’s fingers drummed once against the desk before going still. “I’ve been occupied with more pressing matters. The Empire—”
“—is a convenient distraction,” Elora said. Her hands pressed flat against the desk as she leaned forward. “Every time I mention him, you change the subject. Strategy. Rallies. Grayhollow. But never Tehvan.”
Florence met her gaze steadily. “Everything I’m doing now is what Tehvan would have wanted.”
“Is it?” Elora’s voice was quiet, dangerous.
“Breaking the system was his idea originally.” Florence gestured to the maps spread between them.
“He saw the corruption in The Institute long before anyone else did. He recognized what his family had built and wanted to dismantle it.” Her eyes softened.
“I would have thought you, of all people, would connect with these beliefs.”
Elora shook her head. If dismantling The Institute was what Tehvan wanted, then what was her role supposed to be?
Someone to care for that Thorn wouldn’t want to claim and reshape?
He could have given that love to any other student already at The Institute.
But instead he had found her, a near mirror image to his dead daughter. Why?
“Everything that happened to me,” Elora said, her voice dropping lower, “being adopted by Tehvan, learning alchemy, being loved, being tortured—all of it happened because you were supposed to be dead.”
Guilt—or perhaps fear—flashed behind Florence’s eyes, a crack in her perfect composure.
“Did he know?” Elora demanded. “Did Tehvan know you were alive?”
Florence held her gaze for a long moment before her shoulders slumped, the mask of authority and strategy slipping from her face like water. She suddenly looked older, tired in a way Elora had never seen before.
“Yes,” Florence said quietly. “He knew.”
The single word hit Elora, leaving black spots in her vision. She gripped the edge of the desk to steady herself, knuckles whitening.
“He hid me,” Florence continued, her voice softer now, stripped of its usual measured control. “Removed me from Abernathy’s ideology. From becoming like him.”
“Tehvan set the fire himself,” Florence said.
“Our home. He burned it to the ground with everyone thinking I was inside.” Her eyes grew distant, fixed on something Elora couldn’t see.
“Abernathy was devastated, but he never questioned it. Never looked for me. Why would he? The evidence was right there in the ashes.”
Elora pressed her palms harder against the desk, leaning forward. “Was that the last time you saw Tehvan? After the fire?”
Florence’s gaze dropped to her hands, now folded tightly in her lap. She shook her head slowly. “No. He found ways to visit.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “He came whenever he could. Sometimes months would pass, but he always returned. I knew how much he missed me.”
She looked up, meeting Elora’s eyes with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
“Until one day, he stopped coming at all. I wonder now if that’s when he found you. When he... replaced me.”
Replaced. The word lanced through Elora’s mind. She straightened, taking a step back from the desk, suddenly needing distance from Florence, from this revelation that threatened to unmake everything she thought she knew.
Tehvan hadn’t been grieving when he found her. He hadn’t been filling a void left by a dead daughter. He had been seeing Florence all along, keeping her safe, hidden from Thorn’s influence.
And then he had adopted Elora anyway. With full knowledge of what it would mean. With full understanding of the risk.
Her throat tightened, vision blurring at the edges. He had saved Florence from Thorn’s grasp, protected her from becoming a weapon in the Empire’s arsenal. And then he had placed Elora directly in Thorn’s line of fire.
Why? He loved her, she knew that, but originally, when he brought her to The Institute... He should have known dangling a mirror of Thorn’s beloved niece in front of him, unable to sculpt, unable to claim, would put a target on her.
Florence stood, pushing her chair back with a soft scrape. She circled around the desk, closing the distance between them. Goosebumps rose on Elora’s arms. She fought the urge to back away, to maintain the barrier the desk had provided.
“I don’t know exactly why Tehvan brought you into this mess,” Florence said, her voice gentler now, almost intimate. “But I know what he wanted.” She leaned against the edge of the desk, hands folded loosely in front of her. “He wanted his family out of power.”
Elora’s jaw tightened. “So why wait?”
“Charging into The Institute and killing Thorn won’t dismantle anything,” Florence shook her head, disappointment evident in the tightening around her eyes. “It will only make honoring Tehvan’s ideology harder. Riskier. The system will remain intact—just with a different hand at the helm.”
Elora crossed her arms over her chest, a shield against Florence’s logic.
“You and I aren’t so different, Elora,” Florence continued. “We were both saved by the same man. We both carry his teachings, his vision.” She reached out, not quite touching Elora’s arm. “We both have the same duty to honor him.”
Duty. The word tasted bitter on Elora’s tongue. She took a step back, then another, creating distance between herself and Florence. Her mind raced, pieces falling into horrifying place. They weren’t the same—not at all.
What purpose had she served in Tehvan’s grand design?
She’d never been asked if she wanted this role. Never been given a choice in any of it. Tehvan had shaped her life, her future, her very identity, and for what?
“We’re nothing alike,” Elora said, her voice low and steady despite the storm raging inside her. “You were saved. I was sacrificed.”
Florence’s expression flickered with something that might have been guilt. “Tehvan loved you.”
“I don’t doubt that.” And she didn’t. The love had been real—she’d felt it in every lesson, every quiet evening by the fire, every proud smile when she mastered a new technique. “But love doesn’t erase use.”
The office suddenly felt stifling, the walls pressing in. All these weeks of waiting for Florence’s permission, of playing by The Hive’s rules, of swallowing her rage while they strategized about villages and rallies and the greater good.
Elora’s gaze drifted to the window, to the night sky beyond. “I’m leaving,” she said, the words tasting of freedom as they left her lips.
Florence’s expression hardened. “To do what, exactly?”
“What I should have done the moment I left Al’tera.” Elora met her gaze without flinching. “Kill Thorn.”
“Elora—”
“No.” The word cut through the air. “I won’t be part of another Thorn family scheme. I won’t be shaped, positioned, or spent the way I was before.”
Florence moved toward her, hands outstretched in that placating gesture she hadn’t seen from Florence before. “This isn’t about using you. This is about dismantling a system.”
“Your system,” Elora said. “Your plan. Your timeline.” She took another step back, her spine straightening with resolve. “I’m not trying to stop your mission. But I’m done waiting to reclaim my life.”
Florence shook her head, desperation finally cracking through her composure. “You’re throwing away everything Tehvan worked for. Everything he sacrificed.”
“No.” The word landed heavier this time—final. “Like you said, they’ll replace Thorn. You’ll adapt. You’ll still get your future.”
Her voice didn’t waver.
“But this is what I need to survive the present.”
Elora turned toward the door.
“If you walk out,” Florence warned, “I can’t protect you anymore.”
Elora didn’t look back.
She stepped into the corridor and kept walking.