Chapter 62 #3
Her eyes narrowed, fixing on Elora with cold calculation. “They wouldn’t have accepted you either, if not for the stolen magic flowing through your veins. You’re being na?ve.”
The accusation stung, but Elora held her ground. The wind whipped her hair across her face, and she tucked it behind her ear, buying herself a moment to steady her voice.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe Al’tera would turn them away,” she conceded, meeting Florence’s gaze.
“But that doesn’t mean here is their only option.
They can go wherever they want—Kilfaire, Aszona, the outer territories.
” She edged forward, close enough to see the flecks of ice in Florence’s eyes.
“The point is that it’s their choice. For once in their lives, let them choose. ”
Florence’s hand drifted to the dagger at her hip, her grasp tightening on the hilt. The gesture wasn’t lost on anyone—the dock fell silent, even the children’s chatter dying away as tension thickened the air.
Elora didn’t flinch. Where others might have reached for weapons or hardened their expressions into battle masks, she simply stood with quiet certainty, hands open at her sides.
The air between them crackled with understanding—Florence could force these people to stay only by becoming the very tyrant she had once sworn to overthrow.
The seconds stretched between them, marked only by the gentle lapping of waves against the pier and the distant cry of seabirds. Florence’s fingers tensed around the dagger, knuckles whitening.
Then, like ice cracking under spring’s first warmth, something in her expression shifted.
“Fine,” Florence said, releasing her grip on the weapon. “This group can leave with you. If that’s what they want.”
Elora shook her head. “Not just them. Everyone needs this opportunity. The wards especially.”
Florence’s jaw clenched so tight that Elora could see the muscle jump beneath her skin. For a moment, she looked ready to draw that dagger after all. But then her shoulders dropped a fraction, resignation settling over her features.
Florence ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply.
“I’ll give them the option,” she said, her voice taut with controlled frustration.
“One hour. I’ll return with any... deserters.
” The word dripped with disdain. Her gaze swept over the apprentices still huddled on the boat, then back to Elora.
“Have the vessel ready to sail by then. I don’t have any more time to waste on people who hinder progress. ”
She turned on her heel, gesturing sharply to Violette. “Come. We need to organize this.”
Violette’s eyes flickered briefly to Rell, then to Elora, before she nodded and fell into step beside Florence.
Behind Elora, the apprentices who had remained on the boat broke into cautious smiles. Symond’s shoulders relaxed for the first time since they arrived.
Rowan actually laughed—a short, disbelieving sound that seemed to surprise even him.
“We’re really leaving?” he asked, eyes wide with wonder. “We don’t have to stay?”
Elora nodded, her own smile growing. “You’re free to choose.”
Some of the apprentices exchanged glances, as if testing whether this was some cruel trick, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But as the seconds passed, and no punishment came, their expressions transformed into something Elora had rarely seen on their faces—hope.
“Come on,” Rell said, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get our things.”
When they returned to the dock, their meager luggage in hand, the apprentices had moved to sit on crates and barrels, talking amongst themselves with an animation Elora had never seen in them before.
Rell carried their bags aboard, stowing them beneath a bench before returning to stand beside her on the dock just as Florence and Vye were returning with a small group of wards, Amara among them.
The wards filed past Florence, their eyes downcast out of habit rather than deference. Each step they took toward the gangplank seemed to require tremendous courage, as if crossing an invisible boundary they’d never been permitted to approach.
Amara’s foot touched the deck and something shifted in her face—the careful blankness she’d worn for years giving way to a smile that quivered at the edges.
She looked like a child again. Behind her came the others, each crossing the threshold with expressions caught between terror and wonder, as if they’d been told they could fly but weren’t yet convinced their wings would hold.
On the dock, Florence’s spine might have been carved from the same stone as The Institute walls behind her, her face somehow still composed as she watched her followers choose freedom over her cause. Violette stood at her side; gaze locked on the vessel that promised escape.
Next to Elora, Rell’s shoulders stiffened, every visible muscle hardening with tension. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Violette since her return with Florence, his restless fingers betraying the storm of worry brewing beneath his outward calm.
“Vye?” he called.
Rell’s voice cracked on that single syllable, revealing everything he couldn’t say aloud: Come with us. Don’t stay here. We’re your family.
Florence stepped forward, placing herself between Violette and the boat.
“Violette is my second in command,” she said, her voice rising slightly as her fingers curled into fists at her sides.
“She understands what we’re building here, unlike the rest of you.
She stays with me.” The last word came out too loud, almost desperate, as her eyes darted between Rell and the ship, as if calculating what else she might lose.
Violette glanced from Florence’s tense figure beside her to The Institute’s towering walls where children’s laughter drifted over the salt air. When her gaze finally landed on the ship—on Elora, Symond, and Rell waiting—something in her face changed, a barely perceptible softening around her eyes.
With a deep breath that seemed to steel her entire body, she squared her shoulders and turned to face Florence. The decision had been made. She extended her hand, palm up, in a gesture that needed no explanation.
“I’m sorry, Florence,” Violette said, her voice carrying clearly across the dock. “My family needs me more. I wish you luck with your revolution.”
The hand hung between them, an invitation Florence had never expected to receive.
For a heartbeat, her mask slipped—mouth parting, color draining from her face—before frost crept back into her expression.
She pivoted without acknowledgment, each footfall on the dock a percussion of betrayal as she retreated toward The Institute.
Elora’s heart swelled as Violette stepped onto the ship.
Rell was already moving, closing the distance between them in three long strides.
He enveloped Violette in a fierce hug that lifted her off her feet.
This time, there was no hesitation—Violette’s arms wrapped around him immediately, her face pressed against his shoulder.
When he finally set her down, gentler this time, Elora was surprised to see the mercenary’s eyes glistening with unshed tears. Violette blinked them away quickly, her composure returning as she turned toward Symond.
“Walking away takes more courage than staying sometimes,” she said, keeping a careful distance between them. “You made the harder choice.”
A flicker of raw emotion crossed Symond’s features—gone almost before it appeared—replaced by his familiar scowl. His chalk scratched against slate, and he held it up: Can we go now?