Chapter 31
Symond
Symond stared at the crack in the stone wall, tracing its jagged path until it blurred into nothing, while the memories looped through his head like a punishment he couldn’t escape.
A week had dragged by since he’d swallowed that draught—seven days of unraveling in the dim confines of his room. At first, he hadn’t moved from the floor, body locked rigid while his mind replayed every fractured scene.
Sleep? Impossible. He’d lain there, eyes burning dry, not even reaching for the flask he kept hidden under the bed.
No numbness this time. Just the endless churn of it all, while his thoughts spiraled through what he’d done, what he experienced, the lines blurring until guilt choked everything else.
Violette wasn’t thrilled he’d ignored her warnings to wait, to take it slow—her voice carried that edge when she said it, but no anger followed.
Just quiet persistence. She’d slip in with trays of food, simple stuff like bread and stew that smelled warm and inviting, even if his stomach twisted at the thought.
“Eat some-thing,” she’d say, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He had no appetite, the flavors turning to ash on his tongue, but she’d nudge until he managed to take a bite or two.
And when meetings rolled around, she’d cover for him, her excuses filtering back through the walls in muffled voices.
He’s under the weather, or handling something personal.
She never pushed him to talk, just sat there sometimes, her presence a steady anchor in the storm raging inside him.
After days of patience, she coaxed him out.
“You don’t have to say a word to anyone,” she promised, her eyes steady on his.
“Simply breathe the air.” He followed her into the corridors, legs shaky like they belonged to someone else.
He kept his mouth shut, dodging conversations with mercenaries who nodded at him or apprentices who glanced away too quickly.
Instead, he drifted toward the children, drawn by some pull he couldn’t name, a fierce need burning low in his gut to watch over them.
He lingered in the training rooms or the mess hall edges, eyes sharp for any sign of favoritism—making sure no kid got extra portions or skipped chores while others scrubbed floors.
He caught the flinches, too, those tiny recoils when a voice rose or a hand moved too fast after a mistake, and it twisted something deep inside him, anger flaring hot toward the world that bred that fear, exhaustion dragging it back down.
He wouldn’t let it happen here. Not like it had to him.
He’d seen Elora a few times, glimpses that hit like cold wa-ter.
Once in the mess hall, her dark hair catching the lantern light as she bent over a table, scribbling notes with that focused intensity he remembered all too well.
Their eyes met, her glance sharp with bitterness, and his throat tightened as if the words he should have said long ago were choking him. He couldn’t ap-proach her yet.
Another time in the corridor, her cloak brushing past as she walked with purpose, the faint scent of herbs clinging to her like a reminder of what he’d shattered. He froze, words dying before they formed, the weight of her resentment and his own shame pinning him back, keeping the distance wide.
He lingered outside the training yard that afternoon, arms crossed tight against his chest, eyes fixed on the kids darting across the packed dirt.
Rell stood in the center of the yard, feet planted wide.
“Pivot from the heel, not the toe,” he called, demonstrating the move with his own body.
The children mirrored him in uneven rows, some graceful, others awkward.
Rhylee lost his balance mid-turn. Symond’s muscles tensed, his fingers digging into his forearms. The boy scrambled back to position, face flushed.
Rell simply nodded and continued, never breaking rhythm.
Symond’s breath released slowly as he un-clenched his jaw, the phantom sting of a switch across his own calves fading back into memory.
Gravel shifted behind him, each step a measured crunch that wasn’t trying to hide its approach. He didn’t turn, but the scent of chamomile wafted close, and he knew it was Florence before she spoke. Word must’ve spread by now. Violette couldn’t cover forever, and The Hive had ears everywhere.
“Here,” she said, stepping up beside him, holding out a steaming mug. “Thought you might need this.”
He accepted the mug, their fingers grazing momentarily as the heat radiated through the clay into his palms. Something in his chest tightened at the gesture—kindness always made him brace for the inevitable price tag—but he inclined his head in thanks before raising the drink to his mouth.
Bitter herbs undercut the sweetness, steadying him a fraction even as suspicion coiled tighter.
She didn’t dive in, just stood there watching the yard with him, her gaze lingering on the kids the way his did—on the small one laughing after a solid block, on Rell’s even corrections.
“I’ve got another rally lined up,” she said after a beat, voice casual.
“In Aszona’s proper this time. City crowd, not villagers. ”
He grunted, eyes still on the training, waiting for the hook. She wasn’t mentioning the memories, not outright, but he could feel the weight of it hanging there, unspoken.
“You’re good with them,” she added, nodding toward the yard. “Watchful. Like you won’t let anything slip past.”
His neck flushed warm, caught between unexpected pride and something that cut deeper, like an old wound reopened. He lifted the mug again, breathing in the rising steam until it sof-tened the edges of what he saw.
“You survived hell,” she went on, her tone even, no pity in it. “Most wouldn’t have come out the other side. And these ones here—they won’t face that. Not while we’re around.”
His jaw clenched until his molars ached.
He swallowed hard against the sudden taste of copper in his mouth, the phantom sensation of rough granite against his fingertips.
For a heartbeat, the yard before him flickered, torchlight replacing sunlight, children’s laughter drowned by echoing footsteps approaching down a midnight corridor.
Then reality snapped back. The children pivoted in unison, faces flushed but unafraid, no flinching when Rell raised his hand to demonstrate.
“But in the city,” she said, “the Empire sells The Institute as a golden ticket. Survival for the villages, sure, but greatness for them—power, status, a step up. They don’t see the cracks. Harder to make them believe when it’s wrapped in promise.”
He shifted his weight, the tea suddenly became too hot in his grip. She was circling it now, close enough to feel the pull.
“They need someone who’s been through it,” she continued, still watching the yard. “Someone people would recognize as real. Someone they’d believe.”
Something hot and bitter coiled beneath his ribs, while weariness pulled at him like bricks tied to his limbs.
Part of him resented her for digging at wounds barely scabbed over; the rest hated how his own muteness had become another kind of prison.
His gaze fixed on the children, their movements still awk-ward but unafraid, and he couldn’t help seeing countless others—nameless faces being herded toward the same darkness he’d barely escaped.
“When you’re ready,” she said softly, “they’ll listen. They are safe here, but there are so many more heading down that path. Hearing it from someone real might make them hesitate.”
The words hung there, heavy as the mug in his hand. He didn’t respond right away, just let the steam rise between them, his mind churning.
Ready? Hell, he wasn’t sure what that even meant anymore, not with the memories clawing fresh every night. But the kids’ laughter broke through the drills, pulling at that protective fire, making him wonder what silence actually protected, and who it served.
He set the mug down on the bench, the warmth lingering on his palms. “Maybe,” he muttered, the word tasting like grit. Not a yes, but not the no he’d spat out before. Florence nodded once, like she’d expected as much, and turned back toward the manor without pressing further.
The training wrapped up soon after, Rell dismissing the kids with claps on shoulders and easy praise.
Symond stayed put, watching them scatter, his thoughts tangling around her words.
Truth as a weapon—it sounded dangerous, heavy, the kind of thing you didn’t swing without knowing who it would cut.
As dusk settled into the corridors, he finally retreated indoors, but Florence’s suggestion had burrowed under his skin, persistent as a splinter too deep to dig out.
Later that night, he found himself in the forge, the heat from the anvil chasing out the chill.
Metal bent under his hammer, each strike channeling the mess inside—guilt over Elora, rage at Thorn and Gerard, that fierce need to shield the kids from it all.
Sparks flew, and for a moment, the rhythm drowned out every-thing else, but Florence’s voice echoed back in the quiet pauses.
Speaking out. Preventing it. He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, the half-formed blade cooling on the bench.
What if he did? What if telling it changed something he couldn’t take back?
The question lodged in his mind like a burr, refusing to be dislodged. He brought the hammer down with renewed force, metal ringing against metal, hoping each impact might silence the persistent voice in his head.