Chapter 43
Elora
Rumors were weapons in their own way.
Elora felt them slice through the air as she pushed open the mess hall door. Morning conversation died like a snuffed candle, leaving only her footsteps to fill the sudden silence. Heads turned, a ripple effect spreading through the crowded tables until every pair of eyes seemed fixed on her.
Elora refused to hunch or lower her eyes, wearing her dignity like armor. The weight of their stares pressed against her skin like a physical thing, but she’d weathered worse.
Three days had passed since she’d returned to The Hive with Symond’s blood caked under her fingernails and Gerard’s blood smeared across her face. In those seventy-two hours, staring, whispering, and flinching had become her new normal.
Elora navigated toward the serving line, the crowd parting before her like she carried some contagious disease. A Hive member—Martina, she thought, though names still blurred together—shrank back as she approached, eyes darting to Elora’s hands as if expecting to see them still stained crimson.
“Just porridge today,” the server mumbled, ladling a generous portion into her bowl without meeting her eyes.
“Thank you.”
The words seemed to startle the woman, who finally looked up. Her eyes widened slightly, searching Elora’s face for... what? The beast? The killer? Instead, she found only a tired young woman who said please and thank you, as she always had. She was the same woman they’d welcomed into The Hive.
Now they were measuring her for what she could do to them.
Elora took her tray and turned to face the sea of tables. Urgent whispers fractured the silence, hushed voices that weren’t nearly quiet enough for people who didn’t want to be heard.
“—tore his face clean off.”
“—before anyone else even reached the tower.”
“—some kind of animal, Lissa said the blood was everywhere.”
“—Symond wouldn’t be alive if she hadn’t—”
The words skated over her now, unable to find purchase where they once would have carved deep grooves.
Instead, she felt oddly detached, as if watching the scene from somewhere just above her own body. Their fear was a fact, nothing more. Not her burden to carry.
She chose an empty table in the far corner. The porridge steamed, thin wisps curling into the air, but she had little appetite for it. What she wanted was space, air that wasn’t thick with speculation and half-truths.
She stood, leaving her barely touched breakfast behind. The whispers trailed in her wake as she walked toward the back door that led to the gardens.
A broad figure stepped into her path just before she reached the door. Elora recognized the mercenary—Mathias, one of Florence’s more trusted lieutenants. His face remained carefully neutral, but his stance was unmistakable: a barrier.
“Sorry,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Florence wants everyone to stay inside for now.” His eyes darted toward the windows, then back to her. “Someone could be watching the grounds.”
Elora’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. No point. Mathias wasn’t the decision-maker, and fighting him would only feed the rumors spreading through the hall behind her.
“Fine,” she said, turning away from the door and the promise of fresh air beyond it.
She headed for the main staircase instead, her stride quickening. The upper levels have balconies—smaller, more sheltered spaces overlooking the interior courtyard rather than the exposed gardens. Not ideal, but better than remaining in this suffocating hall.
By the third floor, the sounds from below had faded to a distant murmur, replaced by the gentle creaking of the old manor’s timber frame. She found what she was looking for at the end of one corridor.
The balcony was spacious with a wrought-iron railing that had once been ornate before rust claimed it.
Below, the courtyard lay in shadow, the morning sun not yet high enough to reach its cobblestones.
A few people crossed the open space—apprentices hurrying to lessons, mercenaries checking the perimeter—but none looked up to notice her.
Everyone, huh?
The shadow cast over the balcony felt like an invitation. Something primal stirred beneath Elora’s skin—a familiar prickling sensation that started at her spine and radiated outward. The beast waited, patient yet eager, offering escape from the whispers and stares.
So easy. So close. Just a thought away.
Elora closed her eyes, feeling the almost-pleasant burn beneath her skin. The shift would be a comfort now, a simple, immediate relief. She could take to the skies, leave the suffocating walls of The Hive behind, if only for an hour. No one would follow. No one would dare.
But she stopped herself.
Elora wrapped her hands around the iron railing instead, rust flaking beneath her palms. She leaned forward, letting the autumn wind wash over her face. The cool air soothed the heat that had begun filling her body.
Movement in the courtyard below caught her attention.
A lone figure stood motionless in the courtyard shadows, legs planted like tree roots.
While the other lookouts moved in practiced patterns around the yard, his gaze was fixed upward—directly at her.
He didn’t pretend to be checking the perimeter or examining the stonework.
He simply watched, unmoving, unblinking.
Elora stared back, refusing to be the first to look away. The distance between them was too great to make out his features clearly, but something about his stillness made her skin crawl. A guard assigned to monitor her specifically?
“Enjoying the view?”
The voice sliced through Elora’s thoughts, sending her spinning toward the doorway.
Florence occupied the threshold, a knife-edge silhouette against the corridor’s muted light.
Her customary tight braid coiled at the nape of her neck, every strand disciplined into submission despite dawn having barely broken.
“I needed air,” Elora said, turning back to the railing. The mercenary was gone. “Your lieutenant said the gardens were off-limits.”
Florence stepped onto the balcony. “A necessary precaution, given recent events.” She joined Elora at the railing. “How are you feeling?”
“I can handle myself,” Elora replied, keeping her voice even. Florence didn’t deserve access to those parts of her.
Florence nodded once. “I see that now. You should have mentioned you’re a shifter.
” The words sat between them, impossible to ignore, as Florence’s mouth tightened at the corners, her eyebrows lifting a fraction—not enough to suggest surprise, just enough to make Elora feel like a child who had failed to complete the simplest of tasks.
Florence’s hands rested lightly on the railing, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the rusted metal.
“If I recall, the Nyx-korran are the only thrask capable of flight.”
“A nightglider, yes.” She paused, watching Florence’s face for any reaction. “Did Tehvan teach you about them?”
Florence’s gaze dissected her, calculating, before she spoke. “The decision you made affects us all. Not just yourself.”
Typical, Elora thought, forcing herself to maintain eye contact with Florence even as the muscles around her eyes tightened with the effort not to look skyward in exasperation.
“I did what I had to.”
Florence sighed, the sound barely audible.
“Gerard could have been a strong asset to us, Elora. We could have extracted insider information about Thorn, about The Institute—intelligence we desperately need.” She turned slightly, her blue eyes searching Elora’s face.
“You chose personal closure over leverage.”
Elora’s molars ground together at the suggestion. Gerard, alive under this roof? Breathing the same air as his victims? Even if in a cell slowly dying, any sort of mercy could not be justified.
She met Florence’s gaze. Her pupil contracted to a vertical slit, the amber ring around it brightening like molten metal catching light. “Gerard was a threat,” she said, each word final. “I ended it.” She didn’t blink, didn’t look away. “Leaving him alive wasn’t an option.”
Florence’s expression remained unchanged, except for a subtle tightening around her shoulders.
“As it isn’t for Thorn either,” Elora continued, the name like acid on her tongue. “I won’t wait forever.”
“Abernathy’s downfall requires precision. You will be briefed when it’s time.” Florence stepped back from the railing, wearing a soft smile that tried to appear warm. “For the time being you will have an escort with you. Thorn will send more men to retrieve you, we mustn’t let that happen.”
Elora couldn’t contain her disdain any longer, her eyes rolling skyward despite herself. She knew when protection was a softer word for a cage. She didn’t need some random mercenary following her around. “Rell—”
“Rell has other assignments.” Florence turned to leave before adding, “We’ll talk again soon.”
Elora didn’t watch her leave. She turned back to the gardens below, the same stranger from earlier staring up at her again, waiting for her to act. If this was Florence’s cage, then Elora would decide when to rattle it.