Chapter 49
Violette
The familiar stone corridors of The Hive felt different somehow as they made their way back through them.
Perhaps it was the weight of what they'd just done—killing Rylok, leaving his son with the old woman who'd looked at them like they were the monsters.
Because they were. Maybe it was the hollow way Symond's footsteps echoed beside her, too light, too easy.
Violette glanced at him as they walked. He looked.
.. peaceful. That should have been a relief.
For nearly two months, she'd watched him carry his trauma like a second skin, bristling and bitter, lashing out at anyone who got too close.
The nightmares that had him pacing the halls at all hours.
The way his hands would shake when he thought no one was looking.
Now his shoulders were relaxed, his stride confident. He even hummed under his breath. When was the last time she'd heard him make any sound that wasn't sharp with pain or anger?
It was wrong. All of it.
"You're staring," he said without looking at her, and there was something almost playful in his voice.
"Just thinking." Violette kept her tone neutral, professional.
But her mind was racing, cataloging all the ways this felt off.
The way he'd held himself during their debrief with the other Hive members—too casual, too open.
The way he'd laughed at Darnel’s jokes. Actually laughed, not that bitter bark she was used to.
They reached the common area, and she watched him settle into one of the worn leather chairs by a window. He looked like he belonged there, like he'd always been at ease in his own skin. It should have been a good thing.
"Violette. You've been watching me like I'm about to snap since we got back. What's wrong?"
What's wrong? Everything. But how could she explain that to someone who'd deliberately severed himself from the very experiences that would help him understand?
Violette took the chair across from him, choosing her words carefully. "I'm concerned about what you've done to yourself."
His brow furrowed, genuine confusion in his eyes. "What I've done? I feel better than I have in years. Isn't that what matters?"
"No," she said, sharper than she intended. "It's not."
The confusion deepened. "I don't understand. You've seen how I was before—angry, lashing out, barely sleeping. Now I feel... calm. Centered. Why would that worry you?"
Violette leaned forward, studying his face. There it was still a flicker of something beneath the surface. His body shifted almost imperceptibly away from her, a defensive response he wasn't even aware of making.
"Because healing and forgetting aren't the same thing," she said quietly.
He opened his mouth to argue, but she held up a hand. "Let me ask you something. Do you remember why you joined The Hive?"
"Of course I do. I needed a place to belong, a purpose. Somewhere I could learn to defend myself—" He stopped abruptly, his face going blank for a moment. His eyes unfocused, like he was trying to grasp something that kept slipping away.
"Defend yourself from what?" she pressed gently.
The blankness lasted longer this time. When awareness returned to his eyes, there was a flicker of frustration there. "I... it doesn't matter. The point is, I'm here now, and I'm fine."
From across the room, someone laughed, one of the younger members telling a story to his companions. Symond's entire body went rigid, his shoulders snapping up toward his ears. He recovered quickly, smoothing his expression, but Violette had seen it.
"Just startled me," he said with a forced smile. "Wasn't expecting it."
But she'd seen that flinch before, back when his memories were intact.
She'd seen him react that way to unexpected sounds, to certain tones of voice, to being touched without warning.
His conscious mind might not remember why those things triggered him, but his body did.
His deeper mind, the part that couldn't be so easily edited, remembered everything.
"Symond," she said carefully, "forgetting your trauma doesn't make it go away. It just makes it harder to recognize when it's affecting you."
He shook his head, that easy smile never wavering. "But I don't feel affected. I feel... nothing. Isn't that better than feeling too much?"
The question almost brought a tear to her eye.
This was what she'd been afraid of—not just that he'd locked away his pain, but that he'd locked away everything else with it.
The parts of himself that had been forged in that pain, yes, but also the parts that had grown despite it.
His fierce protectiveness, his determination, his ability to spot weakness in others because he'd lived with his own.
"No," she said firmly. "It's not better. Those feelings, even the painful ones—they're part of you. They've shaped who you are, taught you things you need to know."
"Like what?" There was a slight edge creeping into his voice now, the first crack in his serene facade.
"Like how to recognize when someone else is hurting. Like understanding what it means to survive something terrible and come out the other side." She paused, watching his face. "You’ve protected people, you’ve fought to make yourself something beyond what The Institute tried to make you. Don’t throw all that away. "
“Do I? Protect people? I really didn’t care about any of those mercenaries we just lost.”
“You used to. You saved me in the sewers. You saved Elora—who you hate but risked your life for anyway because you knew deep down that she was a victim just like you. I didn’t tell you to save her in the barn, that was all you.
” Violette paused, studying his face for any sign of recognition. “You do remember her, right?”
Symond looked vacant for a moment, his eyes fluttering, as if trying to piece together the fragmented memories he still had.
“Elora… the alchemist from Ravenpoint. Of course I remember her. It’s only been, what? A week or two since we split from her and Rell?”
“You grew up with her at The Institute,” Violette reminded him. How much of his dark past was connected to her that he nearly erased her entirely from his mind?
Symond looked puzzled, but his face settled as he began to put the pieces together. “Right. I hardly remember her from then. I remember feeling hatred towards her, but I don’t know why anymore.”
He was quiet for a long moment, and she could see something working behind his eyes—confusion, maybe even the beginning of doubt.
"I can learn those things again, protect people, learn to care, adapt…" he said finally, but there was less certainty in his voice now.
"Can you?" Violette leaned back in her chair. "Without the context of why they matter? Without understanding what you're protecting others from?"
She could see she was getting through to him, just a little. His fingers drummed against the arm of his chair—a nervous habit she remembered from before, though he probably didn't realize he was doing it.
"The memories aren't gone, Symond," she continued. "You've just locked them away where you can't consciously access them. But they're still there, still influencing you in ways you can't recognize or control. That's not healing. That's just hiding."
"But I feel fine," he repeated, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself now.
"Do you?" she asked. "Or do you feel nothing at all?"
The question hung in the air between them. Violette watched as he considered it, really considered it, and for the first time since he'd done this to himself, she saw a glimpse of the person he'd been before. The one who questioned everything, who didn't take easy answers at face value.
"I..." He started to speak, then stopped. His hand went to his temple, rubbing absently. "I don't know how to answer that."
"That's the problem," she said gently. "What you've done... it's taken away your choice. Your trauma is still controlling you—you just can't see how."
He was quiet for a long time, staring out the window at the bustling city beyond. She could see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to work through something he couldn't quite grasp.
"Let me help you," she said finally.
He looked up at her, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of the vulnerability he'd hidden so well before. "Help me with what? I don't even know what I need help with anymore."
"We need to undo what you did to yourself first—"
“No.” The word flew out of his mouth before she could even finish.
“Symond—”
His lip quivered slightly. “Vye, there are fifty empty vials on my bookshelf. Fifty memories I decided were worth forgetting. I must have thought this was the best thing to do for a reason. I… I’m scared to know what memories were contained in those vials,” he said quietly, and the simple honesty of it broke something open in her chest.
"I know," she said. "But this isn't the way. This is just... postponing it. And when it finally catches up with you—and it will—you won't have any of the tools you spent so long building to deal with it."
He nodded slowly, and she could see the weight of understanding settling on his shoulders. The artificial lightness was fading, replaced by something heavier but more real.
"So, what do I do?" he asked.
Violette reached across the space between them, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he needed to. When he didn't, she placed her hand over his. "You let me help you find your way back to yourself. Your real self. All of it—the pain and the strength, the scars and the healing."
For a moment, she thought he might refuse. His whole body tensed, and she could see the fear flickering in his eyes.
Then, slowly, he turned his hand palm-up beneath hers.
He nodded, and though she saw the uncertainty in his eyes, there was something else there too: hope. Not the false hope of someone who thought they'd found an easy solution, but the harder, more honest hope of someone ready to do the work.
The heavy doors to the common room swung open with a resounding creak that made both of them look up.
A tall woman strode through, her dark brown hair pulled back in a severe braid that did nothing to soften the harsh lines of her scarred face.
Rough leathers, worn from years of use, creaked with each step as she moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to command.
Behind her followed a group of people probably around Symond’s age, their faces pale and drawn with exhaustion and fear. They moved like frightened animals, staying close together, eyes darting around the room as if expecting another threat to emerge.
The missing apprentices. Finally.
Violette felt relief wash through her as she took in the sight of them—alive, relatively unharmed, and free. The boss had done it. She'd brought them home.
Her eyes flicked to Symond, watching for his reaction.
These were the people he'd grown up with at the Institute, the ones who'd shared his experiences under Thorn's cruel tutelage. Though she had a sense they didn’t face nearly the same amount of brutality Symond had.
Would he even remember them without access to those locked-away memories?
His face was a study in confusion. Recognition flickered in his eyes—some part of him clearly knew these faces—but he looked lost, unable to settle on the appropriate emotion.
He started to smile, then stopped, his expression shifting toward concern before falling back into bewilderment.
Like he should be happy but couldn't figure out why happiness felt wrong.
Several of the apprentices spotted him and broke away from the group, rushing over with cries of relief and recollection. They reached for him, embracing him, speaking rapidly in voices thick with emotion. Symond returned their embraces mechanically, his responses stilted and uncertain.
Violette stepped back, giving them space. Whatever reunion this was, it wasn't her place to intrude. Instead, she made her way across the room to where the boss stood, watching the scene with those sharp, calculating eyes.
"You did it," Violette said, unable to keep the warmth from her voice. "You brought them back. They're safe now."
The boss didn't return her smile. If anything, her expression grew more severe. "They need to be settled quickly," she said, her voice carrying that familiar edge of authority. "I don't want to wait long before The Hive starts conditioning them into what they should be."
Violette frowned. "Conditioning? They're alchemists and enchanters. What else would they be?"
The boss turned to look at her then, and something cold flickered in her blue eyes. "They're Thornforged," she said quietly. "But they will become a symbol for change."
"What does that mean?" Violette asked, confusion creeping into her voice. The way the boss said it—like it was something significant, something planned—made unease settle in her stomach.
The boss didn't answer. Instead, she turned away, her boots clicking against the stone floor as she began to walk toward the exit.
"What does that mean?" Violette called after her, louder this time.
Still no response. The boss continued walking, her shoulders rigid with purpose.
"Florence?" Violette's voice cracked slightly on the name, desperation bleeding through her usual composure.
She didn’t stop, leaving Violette standing alone with questions burning in her throat and a growing sense that something fundamental had shifted in The Hive with the return of their leader.