Chapter 40 #2
The first fingers of daylight were stretching across The Hive when they arrived, painting long shadows between the cobblestones.
Most shopkeepers hadn’t yet rolled up their shutters, though here and there, a shopkeeper swept or a vendor arranged wares with sleep-heavy movements.
Between them, Rell and Vye supported Symond’s limp form—just another fool who couldn’t hold his liquor, as far as any early witnesses were concerned.
Elora kept pace alongside, Rell’s leather coat enveloping her blood-spattered form.
Back at the tower, Florence and the others remained behind to handle the aftermath: sedating guards, removing evidence of The Hive’s existence, and examining communication logs.
Rell shouldered through the doorway into the foyer.
A young woman with sleep-creased cheeks stumbled under the weight of rolled bandages piled to her chin.
In the corner, another with a fresh bandage across his arm leaned in close to three others, his whisper cut short as the door hinges creaked.
Footsteps faltered mid-stride. A glass vial shattered.
Heads turned in unison, mouths falling open as Symond’s head lolled against Rell’s shoulder.
Beside them, Elora’s golden eyes stared forward from a face masked in dried crimson, flakes of Gerard’s blood catching the morning light.
Questions erupted immediately.
“What happened—” “Is that Symond? Gods, is he—” “Who did this to—”
Vye’s hand sliced through the air, palm flat, fingers rigid.
The crowd flinched backward as one body, their questions dying mid-syllable as her steel-gray eyes swept across their faces, daring anyone to speak again.
“Enough. Get the alchemist. Now.” Her voice cut through the commotion, and the crowd scattered.
Rell kept his hand at Elora’s lower back, a gentle pressure guiding her through the chaos. She moved like someone sleepwalking, her gaze fixed on a point beyond the physical world. The blood on her face had dried to a dark crust, flaking around her mouth and chin.
Vye appeared at his side, her expression unreadable. “Take her to your quarters,” she said quietly. “I’ll handle Symond and the questions.”
Rell nodded, grateful for the reprieve, however temporary. “Come on,” he murmured to Elora, steering her toward the eastern corridor, away from the prying eyes and whispers that wanted to follow them.
He unlocked his door with clumsy fingers, pushing it open to reveal the familiar space—sheets twisted from yesterday morning, daggers gleaming in the half-light where he’d abandoned them on the table, amber whiskey catching the morning sun through glass, and his journal splayed open to reveal charcoal lines that had once seemed important. Home, such as it was.
Elora drifted across the threshold like a ghost. She stood in the center of the room, her gaze locked on the rumpled bed, and her shoulders instantly drooped—the first crack in her armor since the tower.
The way she stared at those tangled sheets betrayed everything she didn’t say: a bone-deep yearning to collapse and lose herself in a simple catnap.
“Do you want to take a bath?”
Elora’s eyes met his, vacant at first, then slowly focusing as his question registered.
Her attention drifted to her hands, where Gerard’s blood had dried into dark crescents beneath her nails.
The gold ring—Tehvan’s ring—caught the light as her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly, a ripple of vulnerability he noticed only because he couldn’t look away from her.
She nodded once.
In the adjoining washroom, Rell knelt beside the copper tub and tested the water against his wrist as it flowed from the taps. Not too hot. Just warm enough to wash away the night’s horrors without scalding her raw.
Steam rose in lazy curls as the tub filled. He added a splash of pine oil—nothing fancy, just something to cut through the metallic smell of blood. The familiar scent filled the small space, reminding him of forests and open skies.
She stood in the doorway, watching the water rise with an unsettling stillness. Her gaze drifted from the tub to her bloodied garments, then to her stained hands, as if truly seeing them for the first time. The Al’teran leaves clung to her like mud, dark with dried blood that flaked when she moved.
“I’ll be right outside,” Rell said, standing slowly. “Take your time.”
He moved to step past her, but her fingers closed around his forearm. The dried blood on her knuckles cracked with the movement. Her touch left five distinct points of heat on his skin.
Her throat worked silently for a moment, the words caught somewhere between fear and vulnerability. “I can’t...” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Can you help me?”
Rell’s mouth went dry. The room narrowed to just her face, those golden eyes reflecting the lamplight. He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to find his voice. “Of course.”
She never reached for the ties of the garment.
Just lowered herself into the tub as she was.
The blood-soaked Al’teran fabric adhered to her skin like a second layer.
Crimson bloomed around her—delicate, almost beautiful spirals unfurling through the clear water.
Rell sat on a wooden stool beside the copper basin, watching her shoulders curve inward, her golden eyes fixed on nothing as the evidence of violence dispersed around her.
His lungs seized mid-breath, and for a moment, he forgot to exhale. She was so powerful, capable of such violence, yet sitting there with an emptiness that made his heart ache.
He dipped a cloth into the water and took her right hand in his. The cloth traced circles over her knuckles, pink water dripping between their fingers.
With each stroke across her palm, the gold band slid a quarter-inch down her finger, threatening to slip into the murky bathwater.
Her thumb darted to catch it, pushing it back up to the base of her finger.
Three times the ring slipped; three times she caught it, her movements growing more urgent each time.
The cloth turned rust-colored as he worked.
First the dried flakes dissolved, then the deeper stains in the creases of her skin surrendered.
He moved behind her, to her shoulder blades, working in slow circles.
Beneath his fingertips, her muscles suddenly tensed like bowstrings.
Her breath, which had been coming in even measures, caught and held.
Her eyes fixed on the water, but he knew she wasn’t seeing it anymore.
The cloth stilled in his hand, dripping bathwater while he waited for her to come back to him.
He didn’t ask what visions held her captive.
Didn’t push for details about what had happened in that tower.
The questions burned in his throat, but he swallowed them down.
When she was ready to talk, she would. Until then, his job was simple: be here, be steady.