Chapter 34 #2
The booze burned in his chest, a familiar ache that did nothing to quiet the restless anger always churning beneath his skin.
Why can’t I do anything right? Why am I so fucking—
Footsteps came like thunder in his alcohol-muddled ears—sharp, urgent, getting closer.
Symond's hand instinctively moved toward the knife at his belt, muscles tensing despite the liquor's weight.
Around here, people only ran toward you when they wanted something from you, and it was rarely something you wanted to give.
A blur of movement crashed into his vision, fingers wrapping around his wrist with surprising strength.
Symond's knife was halfway out of its sheath before his eyes registered the size of the hand gripping him—tiny child-like.
He froze, then slowly slid it back as he was dragged forward across the uneven stones.
What kind of swindle is this? “Hey, kid. Where are… are we… going,” The words stumbled out of his mouth, each one threatening to bring the booze back up with it.
Symond stumbled, boots catching, and looked down at the kid hauling him along like salvation depended on it. Blond hair caught the lamplight—wild and untamed curls. His pale complexion matched Symond’s, besides the scars that marred his body.
The kid looked like him.
Not the broken, scarred wreck standing here reeking of cheap alcohol and self-loathing.
But maybe like his younger self might have looked if he'd ever wanted what was being offered.
If he'd been eager instead of terrified, hopeful instead of betrayed.
This kid had the same wild blond hair, the same hazel eyes, but they blazed with want where Symond's had only ever held fear and fury.
"There!" The kid pointed toward uniformed men near a recruitment table. Institute colors. Black and gold tailored suits like these men worshiped The Thorns and wanted to embody their benevolent dictator. Those fucking colors made Symond's insides twist like they were being wrung out.
Am I being turned in by some kid, right now? Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck. Symond tried to plant his feet down, but only succeeded in stumbling over a jagged corner of cobblestone.
"They said I need parent permission but—"
The terror that gripped him a moment ago faded by the tiniest amount. The kid had already been talking to them. Had already tried to sign his life away and been turned down for a technicality. He wasn’t turning him in.
"Sir! Sir!" The kid called out, dragging Symond closer to the recruiters. "I found him! This is my brother—he can give permission now!"
Brother? Do I have a brother? Wait, no. The kid was just calling him that, weaving some desperate lie to get around their parent permission rule.
The recruiters were already turning back, their predatory eyes lighting up.
They recognized the kid from his earlier attempt, and now here was his supposed guardian, ready to sign him over.
"Please," the kid whispered, tugging at Symond's sleeve with trembling fingers. "Just say yes. Just tell them it's true."
Symond stared down at this boy who was everything he'd never been—eager, desperate to escape whatever mundane hell had birthed him, ready to trade his freedom for the promise of power and purpose.
Here was someone willingly walking toward the flames that had consumed Symond against his will, someone choosing what had been forced on him through lies and betrayal.
The irony was so sharp it could draw blood. The boy who had no fucking idea what he was asking for.
"No," Symond said with more conviction than his tipsy mind should have allowed.
The kid's face crumpled. "What? But you have to—"
"I said, no!" Symond's voice cut through the air, sharp enough to make the recruiters pause. "He's not going."
The kid tried to steer him back, to play the confused drunk brother card, but Symond was sobering fast. Crystal clear, actually. Clear enough to see exactly what this moment was: history trying to repeat itself, another lamb walking willingly to slaughter.
He scowled at the recruiters—those fucking vultures in their pristine uniforms—and grabbed the kid's arm, dragging him away from their reaching claws.
They walked in tense silence until the recruiters were just shadows behind them. Only then did Symond release his hold, turning to face this boy who wanted everything Symond had been forced to endure.
"You don't want to go there," he said. "Trust me.
The Institute isn't some land of opportunity like they tell you.
It's a playhouse for demons that chew up children and spit out broken things.
It takes everything you are and twists it into something you'll spend the rest of your miserable life trying to forget. "
The words hung between them like a confession. Like an admission of everything the Institute had stolen from him, everything it had made him become.
The kid's jaw set with familiar stubborn defiance. "I don't care. I'm not going back home. My parents want me to make shoes for the rest of my life. Shoes! I want to learn magic, alchemy, enchanting. Real power, not hammering leather all day."
Symond almost laughed at the bitter irony.
Here he was, trying to save someone from something the kid actually wanted, while Symond had been dragged kicking and screaming to the same fate.
The kid was fighting him with the same determination Symond had once used to fight his own parents—except their positions were completely reversed.
"I don't give a shit why you want to join," Symond said flatly. "I won't lie for you."
The kid's eyes flashed. "Fine. I'll find someone else then. Either way, I'm not going back home."
He started to walk away, shoulders set with determination. Symond watched him go and felt something crack inside his chest. Some wall he'd built to keep the memories at bay, to keep the self-loathing from drowning him completely.
He could let the kid walk away. Could go back to the Hive, back to his enchanting and his alcohol-induced numbness and his desperate attempts to convince himself he was okay. Normal.
But the image burned behind his eyes: himself at that age, dragged away from everything he'd known while his parents watched with relieved smiles, believing they were giving him opportunity instead of damning him to this pathetic existence.
Thorn's cruel hands, Gerard's violations, the slow systematic destruction of everything he'd once been.
And this kid would walk right into the same trap.
"Fuck." The word escaped like a surrender.
His feet were moving before his brain caught up, closing the distance between them in quick strides. "Hey. Kid."
The boy turned, hope and wariness warring in his hazel eyes.
"If you don't want to go home," Symond said, already imagining what Violette will say, "come to the Hive with me. You can learn magic there. And more. Real magic, not their poisoned version of it."
The kid's eyes lit up like stars. "Really? You mean it?"
Symond nodded, something loosening in his chest for the first time in years. He could save someone from suffering the same fate he did. He had to at least try.