Chapter 18
Elora
Elora sat in a deep, cushioned armchair, her mind adrift in a haze of thoughts.
The soft click of a door latch pulled her back to reality, and she blinked rapidly, shaking off the lingering fog.
The room was shrouded in a dim light, late evening rays filtering through the curtains in soft, muted streaks.
She felt a heaviness in her eyelids, as if they were trying to surrender to sleep, but she fought against it, unwilling to succumb just yet.
Another soft creak. The door eased open.
“Elora?” Rowan’s voice, gentle as ever. “Can I come in?”
Her heart jerked. She sat up quickly, instinctively pulling her cloak tight around herself when she felt the cool air on her exposed legs.
“Come in,” she said quickly, adjusting the cloak so that she was fully cocooned in it. “Sorry, this is probably your room, isn’t it?”
He stepped inside and shook his head before closing the door behind him. “It’s not. Don’t worry.”
Rowan settled on the end of the bed, elbows on his knees, looking like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. He kept glancing at her, then at the floor, then back at her again. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“Elora… I was wondering… If you knew what would happen to you if you tried to save Arria… would you still have tried?”
Her throat closed.
Once—before everything—she would have answered without hesitation. Arria had been her friend. Her family. The Institute had taught them to not care, not feel, but Tehvan taught her the opposite and Arria had been impossible not to love.
But now?
Now she wasn’t sure.
And that uncertainty made her feel sick. Selfish. A betrayal of the girl she had been and the friend she’d lost.
She didn’t answer.
“What are you all doing up here? Rell mentioned talking to locals?” she said, changing the subject.
Rowan let the previous question fall away, as if he’d expected she wouldn’t answer it.
“We’re telling them what the Empire really does to the children they send south. What The Institute turns them into.”
Elora’s stomach twisted.
He continued, “We explain the punishments, the potions, the trials—everything. Flo calls us the Thornforged.”
Elora’s face went cold. “Thornforged,” she repeated, the word sour on her tongue. “That’s insulting.”
Rowan blinked. “Oh?”
“It makes us sound like we’re nothing but his creations,” she snapped. “Like our pain is something we’re meant to carry like a badge. Like our trauma is a title we should be proud of.”
Rowan opened his mouth to respond, sympathy written all over his face—
But the door opened again, this time not with a cautious knock but the careless swing of someone who didn’t expect company.
It was Rell, of course. Rell, with a towel hitched carelessly around his hips and another bunched in one hand, his hair streaming rivulets of water down his neck and over the ridges of his shoulders.
He froze mid-step.
Rowan’s shoulders stiffened. A flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks until the freckles there nearly disappeared beneath the crimson tide.
Elora’s half-formed response to “Thornforged” died on her tongue.
“Well,” Rell said at last, breaking the silence with a lopsided grin. “Didn’t realize my room was hosting a secret rendezvous.” The words landed with a clatter, but he seemed to savor the awkwardness.
Neither she nor Rowan said a word.
Elora’s heart thundered against her ribs. Her gaze darted between them, catching on details she couldn’t unsee.
Rowan’s wrists peeked from his sleeves, delicate as a bird’s. His shoulders curved inward slightly, the way they always had when he was nervous. She’d had a crush on him once, long ago, back when she believed crushes were innocent things one could indulge in.
But beside Rell… she caught sight of the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders—and she jerked her eyes away.
She hated that she was thinking any of this. Hated the way her pulse reacted. Hated the way her eyes dragged down his torso before she jerked them away.
If he noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it.
“I should… uh… probably put clothes on,” Rell said. “Since apparently this is a meeting space now.”
Still no one spoke.
“Right. Out,” he muttered, motioning vaguely for Rowan.
Rowan got up quickly—practically sprang to his feet—and slipped past Rell with cheeks so red they might’ve been painted. “I’ll, um… talk to you later, Elora,” he said, while stumbling over his own feet in his escape.
Elora rose at the same moment, wrapping her cloak around herself like a shield, desperate for fresh air—
—but Rell reached out and closed it behind Rowan before she could escape, leaving the two of them alone in the room.
She turned toward him, pulse fluttering like a trapped animal. Rell stood there, still damp, still half-dressed, not moving fast enough to cover himself.
His presence filled the room in a way that made the air feel too warm, too close. She loosened her grip on the cloak without realizing it, letting the fabric fall softer around her shoulders.
He tried very hard not to look at the leaves covering only a portion of her body. She could tell. His eyes stayed fixed on her face, rigidly disciplined… until they flicked downward for the briefest second, betraying him. He swallowed, jaw tightening, and spun on his heel toward the wardrobe.
“I, uh… should probably get dressed,” he muttered, voice rougher than before. He pulled the wardrobe open with a little more force than necessary. “What did Rowan want?”
“Nothing important,” Elora blurted.
She didn’t want to talk about Arria. Or The Institute. Or the guilt that still felt like it was carved into her bones.
She moved to the window instead; it was wide enough for her nightglider form to fit through.
The memories Rowan brought up. The name, Thornforged.
The half-naked distraction that made her cheeks flush.
She needed to keep going. She could nap once she got a bit further, but Thorn could not be allowed another sunrise.
She pushed the window open.
The night air sliced into the room, carrying the scent of pine and possibility. Purpose waited just beyond the sill.
She positioned her hands on the frame, feeling the first tingling rush of transformation beneath her skin—
Then the window was slammed shut.
“Elora?” Her name hung between them, his voice more bewildered than angry. “It’s fucking cold out. What are you doing?”
She remained rooted in place. So did he.
The heat radiating from his bare chest seeped through her cloak, warming the space between them. She knew she should back away from him.
“I can’t stay,” she managed, the words scraping past her lips.
“What happened to resting?”
Night was her shield, the only time she could move unseen. “I’ll find somewhere to rest at dawn.”
Rell remained where he stood, his shadow stretching between them. “One night,” he said, the words coming out rough-edged. His teeth caught his bottom lip briefly before he added, “We should talk about… about what happened.”
What happened? Which part? How she almost died from a tree? How she’s coping with Tehvan’s death? Why she’s going after Thorn?
Her mouth opened. Closed. Part of her longed to tell him everything, to let the weight of it all pour out until she was empty and clean. But the rest of her recoiled at the thought. Talking meant trusting. Trusting meant breaking.
She wavered in place, torn between bolting for the window and surrendering to the gravity of his concern. Her fingers flexed, nails lengthening slightly before she forced them back to human form.
“I can’t,” she whispered, even as something inside her screamed that she could, that maybe she should.
She swallowed once, hard, and forced herself to look away from the questions in his eyes. “I need to deal with Thorn.”
She backed away.
“Elora—”
He took a step closer.
“Why?” he said, voice low.
She kept her chin lifted. “Because.”
“That’s not an answer,” Another step.
“I don’t need to give you an answer.”
“Elora—”
The beast inside her stirred at how close he was, how trapped the space suddenly felt. She forced her shoulders back, cloak slipping slightly, the vines underneath warming with heat that wasn’t entirely hers.
“I don’t get it.” His voice remained quiet, yet beneath it ran something raw and jagged, like a wound still bleeding under bandages. “Why do you have to?” he demanded. “You can fly, you can go anywhere, so why are you running headfirst back to the man who destroyed your life?”
Elora’s breath shuddered, cold sweat beading at the nape of her neck.
She took a step back.
Then another, heel catching on the baseboard.
“I have to—” The explanation dissolved on her tongue, fragmented and lost.
She turned toward the door. Escape was all that mattered: from this suffocating room, from his questions, from truths she wasn’t ready to voice.
Rell’s fingers circled her wrist, stopping her with gentle firmness.
Something primal awakened inside her. With a feral hiss and claws extended, she whirled and struck—
Only to find her second wrist captured in mid-air.
Rell stood immovable before her. His eyes met hers without a flicker of fear or even the slightest hint of shock.
A tremor ran through her claws, hovering just above where his pulse visibly thrummed.
Something fractured inside her, sending violent tremors cascading through her limbs—fury and sorrow and bone-deep weariness all battling for dominance.
“Elora, please,” he murmured, “Why—”
She snapped.
“BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT I CHOOSE!”
The declaration tore from her throat, wild and unrestrained.
Rell didn’t flinch.
Her vision swam, hot tears spilling over, trailing down her face in shameful rivulets.
“It’s what I need. I can’t—” her voice cracked, claws twitching, fangs bared. Her voice dropped to a trembling whisper, but the venom in it didn’t dim.
“Everyone takes. Everyone decides. Everyone but me.”
She inhaled, the sound ragged and broken.