Chapter 35
Violette
Violette was reviewing supply manifests in the boss’s office when the familiar creak of the Hive's front door echoed up through the polished halls.
Footsteps on the stairs. Two sets, one heavy and uneven, the other light and quick.
She frowned, setting down her papers. Symond's boots she recognized, but the second pair. ..
The door swung open without a knock—typical Symond—and she looked up to see him swaying slightly in the doorway.
Behind him, barely reaching his elbow, stood a boy who looked like someone had shrunk Symond down and cleaned him up.
Same wild blond hair, same hazel eyes, but where Symond carried himself like a beaten dog ready to bite, this kid practically vibrated with excited energy.
"Where the hell did you get a child?" Violette asked. "And why do you smell like you bathed in a brewery and pissed yourself?"
A flush creeped up his neck. "I didn't piss myself."
"The alcohol part?"
"Um alcohol… duh." He stepped fully into the room, the kid trailing behind him like a shadow. "Doesn’t matter. This is about the Institute recruiters. They were trying to—"
"Recruiters? Did they recognize—" Violette's attention sharpened.
“No.” Symond rolling his eyes. "Kid tried to sign himself up. They turned him away for parent permission, so he grabbed me off the street, told them I was his brother. Wanted me to lie for him, to help him throw his life away to those fucking parasites."
"And you stopped him."
"Of course I stopped him." Symond's voice cracked slightly. "You think I'd let some kid walk into that nightmare willingly? Bad enough when they drag you there kicking and screaming."
The boy shifted behind Symond, and Violette caught him craning his neck to peer around the office, eyes wide with curiosity.
Whatever Symond had promised him about the Hive had clearly captured his imagination.
She could practically see him cataloging every detail, wondering what kind of magic he might learn here.
"The Hive isn't meant for children, Symond." She kept her voice level.
"Where else is he supposed to go?" Symond stepped forward, and for the first time, Violette heard something other than bitter sarcasm in his voice.
"He runs away again, finds another recruiter, and he's gone.
At least here he can learn what he wants without them breaking him first." He glanced at the wide-eyed boy.
"You're always taking in strays anyway," he added, a desperate edge creeping into his tone.
Violette's eyebrows rose. "I take in people with potential who aren't going to be massive liabilities. Not children."
But even as she said it, she could see how this had gotten under Symond's skin. He was practically vibrating with protective fury. She’d never seen him so sure of something.
At least something not brimming with hostile energy.
Whatever had happened tonight had cracked something open in him, something that had been sealed shut for a very long time.
So, how could she tell him that the boy couldn't stay?
There was no argument for it. A child in the Hive would be a target, a weakness their enemies could exploit.
The Empire had laws about harboring minors, and the last thing they needed was that kind of attention.
Not to mention the simple logistics. They weren't equipped to care for a kid, to keep him safe, to explain why they had him.
But Symond was watching her with an intensity that made her chest tighten. He needed this, somehow. Needed to believe he could save someone, that not every bright-eyed kid had to end up broken like him.
Violette sighed, her mind already working through the problem. "Fine. I'll have Elise show him around, see if there's any use for him."
Relief flooded Symond's face so completely it was almost painful to watch. "Thank you. I know he's young, but—"
"We'll see," Violette cut him off gently. "Get some sleep. I’ll send for Elise to come get him."
After they left, Violette sat back in her chair and stared at the closed door.
She'd seen Nyla earlier, working 0late in the alchemy lab.
A simple memory draught would erase the last few hours from the boy's mind—the recruiters, the Institute, even meeting Symond.
He'd wake up confused but unharmed near the markets, with no memory of how he'd gotten there. Eventually, he'd find his way home.
It was kinder than letting him chase his Institute dreams. And it was safer than keeping him here.
∞∞∞
Violette was halfway through her morning tea when Symond burst into the dining hall.
His hair stuck up at odd angles, his clothes were wrinkled—the same ones from last night, she realized—and there was a wild look in his eyes that made several of the other Hive members glance up nervously before finding urgent business elsewhere.
"Where is he?" Symond's voice cut through the quiet morning conversations. "Where's the kid?"
Violette set down her cup with deliberate care, buying herself a moment. "He left."
"Left?" Symond stepped closer to her table, his hands clenched into fists. "What do you mean, left? When? Why?"
"Early this morning." The lie came easily, practiced. "Elise showed him around, explained what life here would be like. The boy decided it wasn't for him after all."
Symond stared at her, and she could see him trying to process the information, trying to make it make sense. "That's bullshit. He wanted to learn magic. He was excited about staying here."
"Children change their minds, Symond." Violette took a sip of tea, calming the lies from sputtering out. "Maybe he got homesick. Maybe he realized running away wasn't the adventure he thought it would be."
Symond shook his head, too quick, too agitated. He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a blue liquid. He uncorked it and drained it in one swift motion, his throat working as he swallowed.
Violette's blood went cold. She recognized that particular shade of blue, the way it caught the light. Liquid calm—a potent numbing agent used to create enchanted bandages for field use. When had Symond started stealing from the alchemy stores?
"Symond—"
"Don't." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, already looking steadier as the draught took effect.
Exhaustion was carved into every line of his face.
The dark circles under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands before the numbing agent kicked in.
She'd heard him some nights—muffled cries echoing through the Hive's halls, the kind that came from nightmares that blurred with memories. But this was worse than she'd realized.
When had he started falling apart this badly? When had she stopped paying attention?
"Your shift at the forge should be starting soon," she said quietly. "You should get cleaned up."
“Fuck that.” He sat down across her, his leg bouncing causing her tea to slosh around in her cup. “I’m sick of the forge. I want to actually do something. Something with purpose.”
Violette sat back, her tea growing cold in front of her. Instead of having a child to focus his protective instincts on—something that might have given him purpose—he was spiraling deeper into whatever hell was eating him alive. What purpose could she give him that wouldn’t drive him further away?
He needed help. Real help, not the kind that came in blue vials, alcohol, or woman at the brothel. But every time she'd tried to offer it, he'd brushed her off with that maddening insistence that he was fine, that he had everything under control.
Clearly, he didn't.
“I’ll try to find an assignment for you, but right now I need to meet Auren in the basement.”
“The basement? For what?”
"An interrogation," she said, hating the way his eyes went wide as she said it. She already knew where this was going.
“I’m coming with.”
Violette paused, studying his face. "That's not necessary, Symond."
"No." His jaw set with familiar stubbornness. "I’m not going back to the forge so let me help be a worthy member of the Hive."
Every instinct screamed at her to refuse. He was barely holding himself together, pumped full of numbing agents, running on spite and chemical calm. The last thing their prisoner needed was Symond's particular brand of barely controlled volatility in the interrogation room.
But she could see the desperate need in his eyes, the way he was clinging to this like a lifeline. Purpose. He needed something to focus on before he decided there was nothing left for him in this world.
"Fine," she said finally. "But you’re just watching. Not participating."
"Okay, okay. I'll be fine," he said, and they both knew it was a lie.
Violette hated the basement.
Not because it was dark or cold or filled with the ghosts of bad decisions—though it was all three—but because it was quiet. Not the surface quiet of padded footsteps and hushed conversations, but the kind that pressed against your skin, like a held breath waiting to break.
The air was dense with moisture and the stink of metal and mildew. Moss crept along the cracks in the stone walls. The torches lining the corridor sputtered low and uneven, casting flickering light across a floor that had seen far too much blood scrubbed into it.
Two guards stood watch. Both straightened at the sight of her, one nodding with recognition. She returned it with a curt gesture. No words. Just protocol.
“Is he ready?” she asked quietly.
The older of the two guards—Crislan, maybe, she never remembered his name—opened the viewing slot in the door. “They’ve started. Few minutes ago.”
She glanced through.
Inside, the room was a study in calculated cruelty. Windowless, claustrophobic, lined with racks of instruments ranging from delicate to brutal.