Chapter 34
Symond
The forge was hotter than usual, the air thick with smoke and sharp metallic tangs.
Symond stood hunched over a crucible, waiting for the metal to cool just enough to add the fire potion.
He couldn’t think of the technical name of them, even after years of study.
The one that looked like a living flame trapped in a glass bottle, suffocating, nipping at the cork for release.
That one. He always thought it was odd to add living fire to molten metal that was basically already on fire.
How did the metal know it was being combined with something different and it wasn’t just in the furnace again?
Whatever. It was for the scholars to figure out.
He just mixed the components at the right times and sharpened and honed the finished product. Easy. Mindless.
He poured the enchantment infused metal into the mold but his hands trembled slightly ruining his precision.
It wasn’t the weight or the heat.
It was the laughter.
Other Hive recruits worked nearby, barely paying attention to their own gear while swapping stories that grated on his nerves. Three of them. Laughing like idiots. Acting like they were the best of friends when he knew they'd turn their knives on each other for the right price.
“…and she had the nerve to call me selfish after—”
“‘cause you are.”
“Please. She came back the next night, didn’t she?”
Laughter echoed off the stone.
They were talking about women. About sex. Casual. Loud. Like it was something they deserved, something they understood.
He didn’t.
And he hated it. Hated them.
He really hated how much it bothered him, how the sting felt more like a dagger twisting the longer it went on. He heard them brag about the possibilities, the conquests, the way they had anything and everything they wanted.
He wanted to be able to laugh like that.
Joke like that. Let his guard down, just once.
He wanted to make it not matter, the years of experiments, conditioning, the never-ending paranoia.
He wanted to forget how every mention of touch scraped at old wounds.
How it always came back to the Institute.
To the betrayals there. How he never knew a hand that didn’t end up hurting him.
He worked the forge like a machine. But he felt like it was working him, each swing of the mallet conditioning him, reforging him into the product of what they made. He tried not to care. But the laughter kept burning hotter.
Midday break. He'd fix this. Prove to himself that before was just a fluke. He wasn't broken.
He chose someone different this time.
Nothing like Elora. This one was softer—brown eyes, olive skin. She didn't smile too much, didn't flirt, didn't seem to care who he was. That was the point.
This will work, he told himself as he followed her. Last time was just because of the resemblance. This time will be different. This time will prove I'm normal.
Elora had reminded him of the Institute. He had let his mind wander back to the gates of hell. Let himself believe that the demons would be on his side. Of course they weren't. They never were.
He wouldn't let them latch on this time.
As the girl led him into the room, started undressing with slow, practiced fingers, Symond stayed too still. Too quiet. He answered her soft questions with single words, watched her every move not out of lust, but out of calculation.
Just focus. Stay present. Normal men can do this. It's simple. Basic.
When she leaned in to kiss his neck, he flinched—not visibly, but enough to make her pause.
"I can stop," she offered gently.
He shook his head. "No. It's fine."
It has to be fine. It will be fine.
He kept saying that, both aloud and in his head.
It's fine. This is working. Just stay here. Don't think about anything else.
Even when she touched him, even when she kneeled at his feet, even when he closed his eyes and tried to focus on the warmth of her mouth, the gentle strokes of her tongue. It was fine. It had to be.
Come on, he urged his unresponsive body. Just react normally. This is what you're supposed to want.
He just had to stay there. Stay present. Don't drift. Don't remember. Don't think about the cold stone of the Institute floor, or the rasp of Gerard's voice, or the way hands didn't have to be rough to hurt.
He clung to every sensation, cataloging them like evidence: the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her hands, the gentle pressure. But none of them sank in. They hit the wall he'd built in his mind and scattered like rain on stone.
Why isn't this working?
His body didn't respond. His skin couldn't feel any of it, not really. He was watching it happen to someone else.
She noticed, of course. Tried to shift the rhythm, tried to meet his eyes, but he wouldn't look at her. Looking would break his concentration, and then the memories might slip in.
Normal men don't have to try this hard, the thought crept in unbidden. Normal men just... respond.
Eventually, she pulled back, breath shallow.
"It's okay," she said. "Sometimes—"
"It's not me," he muttered, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Just tired."
But it was him. And he knew it.
Fuck. The word echoed in his mind as the reality settled over him. He was trapped. If he let himself feel, the trauma came flooding back. If he didn't let himself feel, nothing worked at all.
He dressed in silence. Left without speaking. He didn't even feel shame this time.
Just the cold confirmation of what he already suspected.
He was broken in more ways than he'd thought. And all the willpower in the world couldn't fix him.
Symond stumbled out of the brothel with the same empty feeling as before, drifted through the streets, past the vendors hawking the same useless trinkets and watered-down tonics.
The gamblers cursing their luck sounded like a broken record, the same old tune of loss and misery.
Even the tavern on the corner throbbed with more laughter, more noise, more life than he could stand.
Every sound chipped away at him, echoing hollow and raw, as if the world lived just to mock him.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and kept his head down, determined not to let the voices get under his skin.
Things would be fine. He kept saying that, repeating it like a damned mantra as he pushed forward into the more rundown part of the city.
He found himself at Brewski’s Bar, the dingy taproom where Hive members sometimes lingered if they needed a stiff drink or a place to punch things out.
It was exactly as uninviting as he remembered, smelling like old ale and broken dreams. The floor was sticky, the walls stained with years of neglect, and the tables had seen better days—decades ago.
But that was just fine by him. He liked it well enough.
The place was empty at this time of day, leaving him alone with the sound of tinkling glasses. The one-eyed man behind the bar worked without looking up, a permanent scowl etched under his wild gray eyebrows. He was a solid wall of meat and bad attitude, and Symond respected that.
“What’ll it be?” the old man barked, not bothering to glance up from his tankards.
“Something strong.”
“Everything here is.”
Symond slapped a few coins down and took the first bottle he saw: dark, unlabeled, promising oblivion. He drank like he worked—relentless, punishing—letting each swallow sear its way down until the warmth settled into a dull ache, then faded into numbness and then into the Institute grounds.
Symond hunched his shoulders against the afternoon heat, clutching his latest failure of an enchantment: a dagger with a warped blade and no bite.
It was the same as its maker. He could hear Thorn's voice, quiet and cutting, telling him that, no matter how far he ran, he couldn't run from what was inside him.
He tried to shut it out by forcing the dagger through the air again and again, each thrust driving him deeper into exhaustion.
“Pathetic,” came a voice from behind him.
Symond spun around. Gerard towered over him, arms crossed, mouth twisted in amusement.
“Still playing with toys?”
Symond tightened his grip on the dagger. “It’s not—”
“Go ahead,” Gerard interrupted, smooth and taunting. “Show me your best.”
Symond lunged, the motion reckless. Gerard sidestepped easily, grabbing Symond by the wrist and twisting until the dagger clattered to the ground. Symond bit back a cry as pain shot through his arm.
“I thought you liked it rough,” Gerard whispered into his ear.
Symond twisted against him, but it was like fighting iron. “You think you’re—”
Gerard shoved him to his knees, hand pressing down on Symond’s neck with casual cruelty. “I know what I am,” he said. “Think you do too.”
Symond’s vision blurred as he struggled to breathe. “Go to hell.” He forced the words from his lungs.
Gerard chuckled and released him. Symond’s breath caught. He tried to speak, but his mouth filled with warm water. He choked. Coughed. Nothing came out.
Thorn stood beside him now, towering over him. Both of them cast shadows that moved independently from their bodies.
“You’ve always been such a disappointment,” Thorn said flatly.
Gerard knelt down in front of him. “Not to me.” He brushed hair from his face like a lover. “It’s great to have you back.”
Symond screamed—
He woke gasping, hands scrabbling against rough stone, the scream still lodged somewhere between his throat and the alley air.
Where the hell am I?
He rose from the ground, careful to not fall into the puddle of probably piss next to him.
Not his own, he hoped. The alcohol carved its way through Symond.
Each step on Azsona's cracked cobblestones sent shockwaves through his skull that fractured the dream he just had and replaced it with the failure before it.
I did everything right. I was gentle. I was careful. I stayed present. So, why couldn’t I fucking feel anything?