Chapter 11 #3
Florence’s eyes lowered. Her fingers rested lightly against the parchment. She examined it slowly—line by line, detail by detail. Her face hardened further, which Rell didn’t think possible.
“This is her?”
Rell nodded.
“You escorted her to Kilfaire,” Florence said. “Why?”
“That was the deal.”
“Why Kilfaire?”
Rell crossed his arms, leaning back. “Didn’t ask too many details.”
Florence’s eyes flicked up, pinning him.
Lie.
“Rell.” Her voice softened. “You can tell me voluntarily… or I can have The Hive alchemist give you something that will make it very easy to talk.”
He swore under his breath. Florence wasn’t bluffing.
He’d watched interrogation before, the kind that involved knives enchanted with slow acting poisons, and potions capable of making a person experience their biggest fears right in front of them.
Last time, the poor bastard had apparently thought he was being eaten alive by rabid squirrels.
Rell had laughed then. Didn’t seem so funny now.
Fucking damn it. Rell ran a hand over his face. “Fine. Just… remember she’s out of the Empire now. Long gone.”
Florence waited.
“She was going to Kilfaire to meet her father,” Rell said. “They planned to run. Get out of the Empire.”
Florence didn’t blink.
“But he was… publicly executed.” The words felt heavy. “She still ran. Slipped onto a boat. Headed north. Al’tera, probably. She’s gone.”
Florence’s eyes narrowed. “What was his name?”
Rell swallowed. “Didn’t realize you followed the executions, least of all in Kilfaire.”
“There is a lot you don’t realize.” She leaned forward in her chair, bringing her tone down to a dangerous whisper. “Name.”
Rell conceded, and reached into his coat again, pulling out the execution flyer. He placed it beside Elora’s wanted poster.
“Tehvan Thorn,” he said quietly.
Silence carved itself into the room.
Florence stared at the two posters—one after the other, back and forth—as if they were pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit. It was subtle, the way her eyes widened, losing the steel bite she had only a moment ago, but Rell noticed.
Her lips parted.
“That’s impossible,” she whispered.
She didn’t sound like Florence. She sounded… shaken. Her eyes remained fixed on Elora’s wanted poster—no, stuck to it—her face gone pale as ash. Rell had seen her furious. He’d seen her livid. He’d seen her exhausted, battered, blood-spattered from hours of sparring.
But he had never seen Florence look like this.
Soft. Unsteady. Haunted.
It sent a ripple of unease down his spine.
“Uh… Florence?” Rell said carefully. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
At the sound of his voice, color flushed violently back into her cheeks. Not anger-red—embarrassment-red. Like being caught vulnerable was a sin she’d committed against herself.
Her jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”
Rell didn’t believe that. But he also wasn’t suicidal enough to push.
So instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out the alchemy notes Elora had given him.
“Okay…then maybe you can tell me about this.”
He set the folded notes on her desk.
Her fingers moved toward the parchment slowly, as if drawn by memory. She brushed the corner of the page—the way someone might touch something fragile or familiar. Her eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the perfect handwriting.
Recognition. An echo. A why does this look familiar lurking beneath her composure.
“You know what it is?” Rell asked.
Florence didn’t react. Didn’t answer. Instead, she folded the notes neatly and slipped them into a drawer of her desk.
“I’ll have our alchemist go over it later,” she said, shutting the drawer with finality. “Now we’re done.”
Rell didn’t move.
Florence lifted a brow. “You’re dismissed.”
He stayed seated.
“It’s my turn to ask questions.”
She sighed. “Rell—”
“No,” he said flatly. “What’s with the kids running around like the place turned into an orphanage? I nearly tripped over a miniature Symond.”
Something flickered in her eyes—annoyance, yes, but also… oh. Right. That was new.
“The children,” Florence said slowly, organizing her thoughts. “Yes. That’s… part of what I needed to discuss.”
“Discuss?” Rell repeated. “Florence, The Hive doesn’t take kids. We don’t train kids. They’re liabilities. They’re loud. They cry. They eat. They—”
“We will be training them,” she interrupted calmly.
Rell stared. “To do what? Pickpocket merchants? Spy on nobles? Because unless you’re planning to weaponize tantrums—”
Florence smiled.
And not her usual razor-sharp, predatory smirk.
An all-knowing smile.
A you know nothing and I know everything smile.
Despite not wanting to be dragged into whatever this was, keeping him in the dark was really starting to piss him off.
“Florence,” he said slowly, “what aren’t you telling me?”
Instead of answering, she gathered the wanted poster and the execution flyer. Rell stiffened, resisting the sudden impulse to snatch Elora’s poster back from her. It was all he had left.
She folded both posters with meticulous precision and slid them into the same desk drawer as the alchemy notes.
Rell’s hand twitched.
Florence steepled her fingers, eyes fixed firmly on him.
“I have a mission for you, Rell.”
Her voice lost all softness, all vulnerability, all trace of the woman he’d glimpsed a moment earlier.
It was pure commander now.
Cold.
Precise.
Calculated.
“A very important mission,” she said. “One with purpose. One I believe you are uniquely qualified for.”