Chapter 50 #2
Symond set down the dagger he’d been examining and pulled out his slate.
He wanted to write something reassuring.
Something that would steady Rowan’s trembling hands.
But what comfort could he possibly offer?
The truth was brutal: The Institute would destroy them all over again, Florence or no Florence.
He settled for: We don’t have to go.
Rowan read the slate and let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t we? Where else would we go?” He gestured vaguely at the frenzied activity around them.
A child darted past them—one of the new ones, recruited from a village rally.
Myles, maybe. Symond couldn’t be sure. The boy’s eyes were wide with excitement rather than fear.
He didn’t understand what awaited them. How could he?
The kids had been fed some crap about a scary place turning nice.
Like it was gonna be some big fun field trip.
The apprentices knew better.
Symond watched as Rian sat down hard in the middle of packing, her face suddenly blank.
No one stopped to help her up. No one asked if she was alright.
They just flowed around her like a river around a stone.
Symond watched her stare at nothing, her hands limp in her lap, and knew exactly what she was seeing—not the frantic preparations, but memories of what they’d all fought so hard to escape.
Rowan picked up another weapon, testing its edge with his thumb. “She probably planned this all along.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What if we’ve never been free?”
Symond wiped his slate clean and wrote again: If Florence isn’t like Thorn as she says, she won’t make us go.
Even as he wrote it he thought of the village rallies, the careful speeches, the way Florence always seemed to know exactly which words would sway the crowd. The way she’d used his pain—all their pain—to build her cause.
Others began joining them to sort through the pile of weapons, each drawn by their conversation.
“And if she does?” Marcus asked, not bothering to look busy.
A shout from across the courtyard drew their attention. Tortoise was gesturing wildly at a group of apprentices struggling with a heavy crate.
“Careful with that!” he bellowed. “That’s alchemical equipment, not your mother’s dishes!”
Symond met Marcus’s eyes then gestured with his chin toward the gate leading into the streets of Aszona.
Marcus, the moron, didn’t understand gestures.
Mumbling something about not seeing the invisible person Symond was obviously pointing to.
Symond frustratingly shook his head and wrote: Then you leave anyway.
Marcus stared at the words for a long moment, his jaw working as if chewing on Symond’s suggestion. “And go where exactly?”
Rowan leaned closer, voice barely audible over the chaos. “We can’t just walk out. The Empire is still looking for us. Florence is the only reason we’ve survived this long.”
Symond’s fingers tightened around the chalk.
He wanted to write that they’d survived despite Florence, not because of her.
That she’d used their pain like currency, spending it wherever it bought her the most influence.
But the words felt too big for the slate.
Instead, he wrote: Better hunted than caged again.
A sharp whistle cut through the courtyard. Tortoise stood at the main entrance, arms crossed over his chest, face set in lines of impatience. “That’s it for tonight. We will continue again bright and early at dawn.”
∞∞∞
The mercenaries’ quarters went silent after midnight. Symond paced his room, the floorboards creaking under his restless steps. No way he was gonna sleep tonight—not with all the shit that went down today still rattling around in his head.
He paused at his window, watching moonlight spill across the courtyard below. The Hive slept uneasily tonight, if it slept at all.
His gaze drifted to the eastern wing where Violette’s quarters were. A light still burned there, a golden square cutting through the darkness. She was awake too.
Symond grabbed his slate and headed into the corridor. The manor felt different at night—more honest somehow, its shadows no longer hidden by daylight and activity.
When he reached Violette’s door, he hesitated. She’d been with Florence longer than most. If there was truth to be found, she would have it.
He knocked twice, the sound sharper than he intended in the quiet hallway.
A muffled thump came from inside, followed by a startled curse. Footsteps approached, quick and light, before the door swung open.
Violette stood in the doorway, one hand still on the latch, the other pressed against her chest. Her white-blonde hair was twisted into a messy bun, loose strands framing her face. She wore a simple silk nightgown, navy blue against her skin.
“Symond?” Her voice came out higher than usual. “Is something wrong?”
He’d never seen her like this before. Violette was always put together, always on it. The shock on her face made his stomach do a weird little flip.
She stepped back, gesturing for him to enter. “Come in.”
Her room was startlingly plain. A narrow bed with military corners. A desk cluttered with maps and documents. A single chair. No decorations hung on the walls, no keepsakes displayed on shelves. It could have belonged to anyone.
Symond sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress barely yielding beneath his weight. His eyes tracked Violette as she returned to her desk, where papers lay scattered across the surface. She kept glancing toward the window, then back to him, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against her thigh.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked, but her attention drifted to the window again.
Symond lifted his slate, chalk scraping against the surface as he wrote: Did you know Florence was a Thorn?
Violette’s eyes lingered on the question. The drumming of her fingers stopped. She drew a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling beneath the thin silk. “Yes,” Violette said. Her eyes met his, unwavering. “I’ve known for years.”
He’d expected denial, excuses, even lies—not this calm admission. He gripped the chalk harder, its edge digging into his fingertips as he wiped the slate clean and wrote again: And you never told us?
“Would it have mattered?” Violette asked, leaning forward in her chair. “I’ve known Florence for many years now, Symond. She isn’t like the Thorn that controlled all your lives. She’s been fighting against him, against what he built.”
Symond’s jaw clenched. Easy for her to say. Easy to make that distinction when she hadn’t lived under Thorn’s shadow, hadn’t felt the weight of his “corrections.” He scrawled across the slate, the chalk breaking in his grip: Have you even met Headmaster Thorn?
“No,” Violette admitted. She ran a hand through her loose hair, dislodging more strands from the messy bun. “I haven’t.”
He almost laughed, but it got stuck somewhere in his throat—just this ugly, choked-off sound that wouldn’t come out right.
Of course she hadn’t. How could she possibly understand what they’d endured?
How could she sit there and tell him Florence was different when she’d never experienced Thorn’s cruelty firsthand?
Then how do you know if Florence is any different? The question took up the entire slate, his writing growing smaller to fit it all.
Violette’s face went soft around the edges, not that sad puppy look he would’ve hated, but something that said maybe she got it.
“I’ve heard enough about your headmaster over the years,” she said quietly.
“Even more since I’ve been listening to all your stories.
The way he broke children apart and rebuilt them into tools.
The way he used fear as a foundation for obedience.
” She shook her head. “Florence isn’t like him, Symond. Not in the ways that matter.”
The ways that matter. Like we’re supposed to just shrug off some stuff. Like being related to a fucking monster is no big deal.
Symond wiped the slate clean again, his movements sharp with frustration. His hand hovered over the surface, chalk trembling slightly. The question brewing in his head felt like a bad idea, like poking a bear or stepping on thin ice.
Do you believe Florence would give us the choice to leave if we didn’t want to participate in her new plan?
He turned the slate toward her, watching her face carefully. This was the heart of it, wasn’t it? Not bloodlines or breeding programs or whatever other secrets Florence had kept. It came down to this: Were they truly free, or had they simply traded one master for another?
“Yes,” Violette said without hesitation. “I’m sure of it.”
Symond studied Violette’s face, searching for any sign of doubt in her steady gaze. Her confidence unsettled him. It seemed too absolute, too unwavering, as if her faith in Florence had never been tested or questioned.
And maybe she was right, or maybe she would find out that she was being played as much as the rest of them.