Chapter 25 #3
Florence walked a little closer to her. “You were sold to the Snatchers, weren’t you?”
Elora went still.
“There’s no other explanation,” Florence continued gently. “For how Tehvan found you. For why he intervened.”
She didn’t wait for confirmation.
“He saved you,” Florence said. “And what we’re building here—this will do more than dismantle The Institute. It will erase the Snatchers entirely. Remove their market. Their purpose.”
Her eyes met Elora’s, sharp and knowing.
“The Snatchers disgust you to your core,” Florence said, as if she already knew everything about her. “As they should. Their business flourishes in the shadow of Imperial indifference. Destroy one and watch the other wither.”
Something shifted beneath Elora’s skin, the creature inside her recognizing truth when it heard it.
The plan’s elegance tugged at her—its clean lines of cause and effect, its promise of justice rather than mere endurance. A world remade instead of simply survived.
She didn’t respond right away.
Because somewhere beneath the admiration, beneath the agreement, something else coiled quietly in her chest.
A familiar unease.
Florence led her past another branching corridor.
“There’s one more space you should see.”
They passed an open doorway, and Elora caught a glimpse inside without slowing.
Rows of bunks.
Too many of them.
The room was clean, recently scrubbed, blankets neatly folded at the foot of each bed. Personal items were sparse: small bundles tucked beneath pillows, a carved trinket here, a thread bracelet there. It wasn’t The Institute’s ward quarters. Not exactly.
But it was close enough that her stomach tightened.
Temporary, she told herself. They’re younger. It’s different.
She didn’t stop. Didn’t ask questions. Let the unease settle somewhere she could deal with later.
Instead, she focused on the sound of laughter drifting in from outside as Florence pushed open a set of doors at the end of the hall.
Goosebumps prickled up her arms as the courtyard air kissed her face, carrying the sharp scent of autumn and herb cuttings.
The courtyard gave way to glass structures that fractured sunlight into prisms across the stone path. Elora’s steps faltered.
Through the transparent walls, she glimpsed a girl with dark braids crushing seeds with a mortar, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
No one stood behind her with a switch. No one counted her movements.
A boy no older than twelve carefully measured liquid from a beaker, his sleeve pushed past his elbow, fingertips stained indigo.
When he spilled a drop, he didn’t flinch or look over his shoulder—just dabbed it with a cloth and continued.
The silence struck her most—no bells piercing the air, no shouted commands, just the soft clink of glass against glass.
Florence didn’t say anything.
She didn’t need to.
Elora felt it immediately—the unspoken invitation.
You could belong here.
“You can ask whatever you want,” Florence said at last, her voice easy. “I won’t pretend we have everything figured out.”
Elora glanced at the greenhouses again, then back to Florence. She chose her words carefully.
“How do you protect this?” she asked. “Long-term.”
Florence smiled. “Quietly. Slowly.”
“And when the Empire notices children stop arriving?” Elora continued. “When villages stop cooperating?”
Florence didn’t hesitate. “They already are.”
Elora glanced at her. “Out of hope? Or fear?”
Florence considered that for half a breath. “Hope,” she said. “But hope only survives if it’s protected. Fear works because people believe there’s no alternative. Once that illusion breaks, control becomes… expensive.”
Elora nodded once, filing it away. “And retaliation?”
Florence’s eyes narrowed slightly, her chin lifting a fraction higher. “The Institute won’t know where to strike at first. And by the time they do, it won’t matter.”
“Because?” Elora prompted.
Florence’s smile was calm. Assured. “Because by then, the children will already belong somewhere else. They won’t choose The Institute anymore.”
She said it like a kindness.
Florence gestured toward the nearest greenhouse. “I’ve heard you were gifted,” she said. “Alchemy came easily to you. The apprentices spoke highly of your work.”
Something flickered behind Elora’s carefully neutral expression.
Florence mistook it for modesty. “You could continue it here,” she added. “Freely. No quotas. No punishments for curiosity.”
Elora moved toward the greenhouse, watching her reflection merge with the verdant life behind the glass. Her gold eyes gave nothing away, her face a practiced mask.
Let Florence believe she was offering salvation.
Let her think this glimpse of peaceful work—of creation instead of destruction—might be enough to sway her.
The vision tempted her: fingers smudged with pigment rather than scarlet; the scent of herbs instead of iron.
But Thorn’s shadow stretched longer than Florence knew.
“You’ve built something remarkable,” Elora said, turning back with perfect composure, the words honest even as they concealed everything that mattered.