Chapter 47 #2
A sound drifted from behind the door—a soft, muffled whimper.
Elora’s ears twitched. She should continue on. Thorn was her target. Whatever was happening in that room would end when he died.
The whimper came again, followed by a choked sob.
Empathy pierced through her rage like a blade, the forgotten sensation almost painful in its intensity. How many times had she made that same sound, alone and hurting with no one to hear?
Before she could reconsider, she moved toward the door.
The light seeping beneath it was too bright—she couldn’t enter as she was.
The beast was made for shadows, not the harsh illumination of Thorn’s workspaces.
But she couldn’t approach as fully human either.
She took a deep breath, shifting just enough to appear human while keeping her claws and fangs, and entered.
The bright light assaulted her eyes. She squinted against the sudden glare, her pupils constricting painfully.
The gurney stood unused against the far wall, its metal frame gleaming under the harsh lights.
This wasn’t the laboratory she remembered—this space resembled the infirmary upstairs, with neatly organized shelves of supplies and equipment lining the walls.
Glass vials of amber and blue liquids caught the light, their contents shimmering with alchemical potency.
A startled gasp broke the silence. Elora’s head snapped toward the sound, every muscle tensing for an attack.
In the far corner, a bed—not the cold metal examination table she’d expected—held a figure.
Blonde hair spilled across the pillow, familiar turquoise eyes wide with fear.
Each limb was secured to the bedframe with leather restraints, tight enough to leave red marks on pale skin.
A thin blanket had been carelessly thrown over her body, barely preserving her dignity.
The name escaped Elora’s lips as a strangled whisper, her throat constricting around each syllable. “A-Amara?”
The blonde ward—her friend, the only one who’d shown her kindness during those first terrifying weeks as Thorn’s ward—stared back at her with a mixture of disbelief and terror.
“It’s me,” Elora whispered, moving closer to the bed. “It’s Elora.”
Amara’s eyes widened, her pupils dilating as they darted from Elora’s face to her hands.
She flinched when Elora moved closer, her gaze locked on the curved talons where fingernails should be.
Her lips parted, trembled, then pressed together as she stared into Elora’s irises, now ringed with gold that caught the harsh laboratory light and reflected it back like a predator’s in darkness.
“Elora?” Amara’s voice was hoarse, barely audible. “How... what happened to you?”
What was Amara doing here? She was supposed to be in the kitchens. That was her job. Chopping vegetables and stirring massive cauldrons in the sweltering heat below the dining hall. There was no reason for her to be in Thorn’s private laboratories, strapped down like an experimental subject.
Amara’s eyes darted toward the door. “You shouldn’t be here—”
The words had barely left Amara’s mouth when Elora heard footsteps approaching from the corridor, accompanied by muffled voices. One of them sent ice crawling down her spine, that measured cadence she’d heard in her nightmares for months.
The room was too bright, offering nowhere to hide in her nightglider form. Panic surged through her as the footsteps grew louder. She scanned the space desperately, gaze landing on the narrow gap beneath Amara’s bed.
She flattened herself against the floor and slithered beneath the metal frame, her spine scraping the underside of the bed as she wedged herself into the shadows.
The icy floor leached warmth from her body while she compressed herself into the narrow space, back pressed to the wall, each heartbeat a violent tremor through her entire being.
The door swung open.
Elora held her breath, watching as a pair of heavy soldier boots stepped into the room, stopping near the middle of the floor.
Another pair of shoes entered—expensive black leather, buffed to a mirror shine that caught the clinical light.
They moved with the measured precision of someone who owned every inch of ground beneath them, stopping at the exact spot where Amara lay helpless.
“Do you think the implantation will hold this time, sir?” The soldier’s voice was gruff, uncomfortable.
“It should.” Thorn’s clinical tone made Elora’s skin crawl. “I tested her thoroughly. She should be ovulating.”
Metal clinked against metal as he began unbuckling the straps from Amara’s limbs.
“If not,” Thorn continued, “I must assume the fault lies with your equipment.”
The guard laughed awkwardly. “I certainly hope that’s not the case, sir.”
Elora pressed her hand over her mouth, bile rising in her throat. She couldn’t possibly be hearing what she thought she was hearing. Not even Thorn would—
A pair of pale feet appeared before her, wobbling slightly as they hit the floor. She seemed barely able to stand, but Thorn must be keeping her upright.
“Take her back to the maternity ward,” he instructed. “She’s the last subject of the day.”