Chapter 11
Symond
Symond paced the length of the training room, his boots scuffing against the worn mats with each step.
His hands flexed at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he muttered under his breath.
The room was spartan, wooden dummies lined the walls, racks of training weapons stood at attention, and the faint smell of sweat clung to the air.
None of it mattered. His thoughts were too loud, his frustration too sharp.
The door creaked open, and Rell sauntered in, his casual confidence practically filling the room. He rolled his shoulders as he shut the door behind him, his sharp gaze landing on Symond.
“You ready, or are you just going to keep pacing like that?”
Symond turned to face the mercenary. “I’m ready,” he snapped, moving to the center of the room.
Rell followed, shrugging off the black leather coat he always wore and tossing it onto a nearby bench. He rolled up his sleeves, his smirk lingering. The man always had a cocky grin that Symond wanted to smack off his face.
“Good. You’ve got a lot of energy to burn off. Let’s see if you can channel it into something useful.”
They squared off, circling each other slowly. Symond’s movements were tense, his fists clenched tightly, while Rell remained loose, his stance fluid.
Symond lunged first, a quick jab toward Rell’s midsection. The mercenary sidestepped with infuriating ease, countering with a sweep of his leg. Symond barely dodged, his irritation mounting.
“Why is she here?” Symond bit out as he threw another strike. “We don’t need her alchemy for tonight’s mission.”
Rell caught his arm mid-swing, twisting it lightly before stepping back. “We’re really doing this?”
“Whatever deal you made with her, she’s not worth it,” Symond pressed, ignoring the sting of his pride. He feinted left, then aimed a kick at Rell’s side, but the man deflected it easily.
“Funny.” The smirk on Rell’s face faded slightly, his eyes narrowing as he dodged another strike. “Because right now, she’s more valuable than you are.”
The words hit him square in the chest. He lunged forward, harder this time, but Rell deflected the strike with practiced ease, his movements calm and controlled.
“There it is,” Rell said, his tone mocking. “That chip on your shoulder. You can’t stand it, can you? That she’s useful. That she’s good at what she does.”
“She’s always been special,” Symond spat. He swung again, harder, but Rell ducked smoothly, stepping out of reach. “More valuable. More protected. Even now, after everything, you’re coddling her while I—”
“While you what?” Rell interrupted, cutting through Symond’s tirade. “While you pout because the world doesn’t revolve around you?”
Symond’s chest heaved, his anger boiling over. “I’m finally free from The Institute,” he hissed, his fists trembling. “Free from The Empire. I’ve built something here. I’ve found people who trust me, who respect me. And now she shows up, and suddenly you’re turning against me.”
Rell paused, stepping back slightly as he regarded Symond with a cool, assessing gaze.
“I’m not turning against you,” he said evenly. “But you’re making it really hard to like you right now.”
Symond glared at him, his rage bubbling just beneath the surface.
Rell shook his head. “You’ve got a lot to work through, Symond,” he said, moving toward the bench to grab a towel. “Maybe you should focus on that instead of her.”
Rell turned and walked out, his boots echoing against the floorboards. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Symond alone with his thoughts.
She always wins, he thought bitterly, the anger burning in his chest like a flame that refused to die. Even now.
Symond strode down the hallway. From the common room, the low murmur of voices drifted toward him.
Rell and Violette, laughing softly about something inconsequential.
The sound grated on his nerves, their easy camaraderie a stark contrast to the restless churn in his chest. He didn’t pause, didn’t care to join them.
His place among them felt more tenuous with every passing moment.
Instead, he kept moving, his feet carrying him to the lab. He pushed the door open without knocking.
The room was warm, the air heavy with the mingling scents of herbs and minerals simmering in precise balance.
The faint hiss of a burner underscored the quiet, a rhythmic counterpoint to the soft rustle of Elora’s movements.
She stood at the workstation, her back to him, her entire focus on the potion she was brewing.
Her hair was frizzy from the heat, stray strands clinging to her damp forehead where sweat glistened faintly. Her hands moved meticulously, stirring, measuring, adding each ingredient with a deftness that spoke of years of learning. She didn’t even glance up as the door swung shut behind him.
Symond lingered near the doorway, his arms crossed. For a moment, he simply watched her. She looked... comfortable. Completely in her element. The sight only stoked his irritation.
“You must feel right at home,” he said finally, his voice cutting through the hiss of the cauldron.
Elora startled, her head snapping up. Her wide blue eyes locked onto his, the flicker of panic in her expression as sharp as the tension in her posture. For a split second, he saw her glance toward the door, weighing whether she should yell for Rell.
Symond almost laughed, a bitter sound curling at the back of his throat. Of course, she’d think about calling for help. She always needed someone to save her. It was pathetic.
“Relax,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender as he took a step further into the room. “I’m just here to chat.”
Elora didn’t respond. She remained rigid, her gaze tracking his every movement. Her fingers gripped the handle of the stirring rod like it might double as a weapon if needed.
Good, he thought bitterly. She shouldn’t trust him.
The air between them was thick, the tension palpable as he closed the distance slightly. Her silence didn’t bother him, if anything, it fed his annoyance, the unspoken challenge hanging heavily in the warm, fragrant room.
“Go on,” he said, his tone almost mocking as he gestured toward her workstation. “Don’t let me stop you. I’m sure whatever you’re making is... important.”
The subtle shift in her shoulders betrayed the calm facade she was trying to maintain. After a moment, she turned back to her workstation, resuming her brewing, but her posture betrayed her tension.
Symond took another step into the room, his gaze flicking over the shelves of ingredients and tools. He ran a finger along the edge of a table, feigning casual interest, though his mind was far from idle.
She added a pinch of powdered root to the cauldron, the mixture bubbling faintly as she stirred. The rhythmic motion should have been soothing, but he didn’t miss how her knuckles whitened against the handle of the stirring rod.
“What do you want, Symond?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral, devoid of emotion.
Symond smirked, leaning against the edge of the table closest to her. “Just curious.” He picked up a completed shard and held it to the light. “What happened at The Institute? How did you escape?”
It didn’t make sense. No one escaped The Institute. He only got away by sheer luck, thanks to the chaos of the pirate raid. But her? Someone must have helped her. Tehvan, no doubt.
He wanted to know. Needed to know. Not just about her escape, but about the month she spent as a ward. He wanted to hear how it felt to be treated like dirt. Like he had been.
Elora didn’t look at him, her focus fixed on the swirling liquid in the cauldron.
“Did Gerard hurt you?” he pressed.
The question stopped her cold.
Her stirring halted, her shoulders locking as though she’d been struck. For the briefest moment, her carefully constructed mask slipped, and Symond saw it, fear and pain flickering in her eyes before she wrenched them away.
The confirmation should have felt satisfying. It almost did. She’d been untouchable for so long, always shielded while he bore the brunt of everything. Finally, she’d suffered. Finally, she’d been dragged down to his level.
But as he watched her, frozen in that moment, something held him back. The satisfaction didn’t come.
Her hand dropped the stirring rod onto the table with a faint clatter, her expression shifting from frozen shock to simmering anger. She turned to face him fully. The fury in her gaze simmered, not in warmth, but in the unforgiving, relentless way frost bites flesh.
“I repaid Gerard,” she said, her voice sharp and biting. “Slashed his face to ribbons. He’s probably disfigured now, if he’s even alive.”
Symond blinked, his smirk faltering as her words hit him. “You... what?”
Elora held his gaze. “I’m not as defenseless as you think, Symond.”
The words struck harder than he wanted to admit. He’d spent so much time resenting her, hating her for the protection she always seemed to have. But now, hearing this... it shifted something deep inside him.
She had hurt Gerard. Gerard.
The man who had tormented him, humiliated him, violated him. The man Symond had dreamed of destroying countless times but never had the chance. She had done it. She had left her mark on the monster who now haunted both their lives.
His resentment quaked, replaced by something foreign. Gratitude. Barely, but still there.
“How?” he asked, stepping closer. “How did you manage that?”
Elora turned back to her potion without a word, her wrist flicking sharply as she stirred the bubbling mixture. Symond lingered, watching her with new eyes. The girl he remembered from the Institute—untouchable, protected, fragile—was different.
Something had changed her.
“So,” Symond said, his voice quieter this time, his sharp edge dulled by something close to genuine curiosity, “what about Thorn? Did you do anything to him?”
Her jaw clenched, like she was holding back words she dared not speak. Her gaze flicking away from him, focusing on some distant point on the wall. “No.” She glanced down at her work. “I couldn’t.”
Symond leaned forward slightly, his interest sharpening. “How did you escape?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I had help,” she admitted finally.
He sat back, his mind working quickly, the pieces of the puzzle sliding into place. Tehvan. Who else would have risked their life for her?
The thought tempered his earlier resentment, replacing it with something darker, more calculating. Elora couldn’t have escaped The Institute on her own. That much was clear. Tehvan must have orchestrated it, slipping her out of Thorn’s grasp.
But that left another question.
“What happened to him?” Symond asked, his tone neutral, though his hazel eyes gleamed with a darker curiosity. “Tehvan. If he helped you, what did Thorn do to him?”
The pause before her response sent Symond’s thoughts spiraling.
Maybe he’s dead. Or maybe Thorn caught him, tortured him.
The image filled Symond’s mind, and he felt a sick sense of justice stirring in his chest. He knew Tehvan had to be involved in the treatment he suffered. Tehvan must have traded Symond’s safety for Elora’s. He hoped the professor was suffering in a dark damp dungeon. It would be poetic.
But Elora’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Tehvan’s fine,” she said finally.
Symond’s gaze sharpened, his interest deepening. He leaned forward, catching the faintest flicker of doubt in her expression.
“Fine?” he echoed. “You sure about that?”
Elora’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned back to her potion. “Yes.”
Symond was about to push further when the door to the lab creaked open.
Rell stepped in, his gaze immediately landing on him. His eyes narrowed, his body language radiating annoyance. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
Symond gestured lazily toward Elora, leaning back against the table. “Just talking.” He glanced at her and added with a faint smirk, “She’s fine. Aren’t you, Elora?”
Rell’s gaze flicked to her, his irritation softening slightly as he took in her seemingly calm demeanor. Elora wasn’t visibly upset—her movements remained precise, controlled—but the stiffness in her posture and the tension in her jaw likely hadn’t escaped his notice.
“Come on, Rook,” Rell said, jerking his head toward the door. “We need to go over the plan for tonight.”
Symond gave Elora one last look before following, something catching his attention.
It was her eyes.
For the first time in years, he really looked at her, and the difference stopped him cold.
Her pupils were rimmed with a faint ring of gold, glinting in the warm light of the lab.
That had never been there before. He was sure of it.
At The Institute, he’d avoided her gaze as much as possible, but now he felt certain, this was new.
Another thing about her that had changed.
Who even is she now?
The thought lingered as he turned and followed Rell out of the room, the question echoing in his mind.