Chapter 50
Symond
A breeding program. Thorn’s niece. Return to The Institute.
Each bombshell hit Symond like a gut-punch, leaving him dizzy as his brain tried to make sense of the crazy shit he was hearing.
The mess hall had gone so quiet Symond could hear everyone’s’ slightest movements.
Apprentices sat frozen, faces drained of color, some with half-eaten meals forgotten before them.
He looked around at their faces—jaws hanging open, eyes bugging out, some looking like they might puke—and his gut clenched up tight.
Breeding program. The words bounced around his skull like a bad song, and all he could see were kids growing up like animals in a pen, stuck there from birth, never knowing a damn thing outside The Institute’s freezing walls and the even more frigid crap they called “education.” What kind of person would create such a thing?
But he knew the answer. Thorn would. Of course he would.
The man who’d delegated Symond’s punishments to Gerard wouldn’t hesitate to breed children for obedience.
And Florence—calm, controlled Florence—was Thorn’s blood.
His gaze slid to her where she stood near the entrance, spine straight, hands folded at her waist, utterly composed as if she hadn’t just shattered everyone’s sense of safety.
Now that he knew, he could see the resemblance.
From her rigid posture to her precise movements and commanding presence, Florence was undeniably Thorn’s blood.
She claimed it was only that which tied them together.
But looking around the hall, the apprentices only heard the name, Florence Thorn.
Nobody heard a damn word after that. Too busy seeing Thorn’s face, feeling phantom bruises bloom across their skin, remembering the sound of that door locking behind them.
Symond’s throat worked uselessly, the urge to speak rising and falling with nowhere to go. His hand moved instinctively to the slate at his belt, but what could he possibly write? What question would even matter now?
Across the room, Rowan’s hands trembled so badly he knocked over his cup, water pooling across the table. No one moved to help him clean it up. Another apprentice—a girl whose name Symond couldn’t remember—pressed her fist against her mouth, eyes wide and glassy.
Back to The Institute.
How many nights had he woken in a cold sweat, convinced he was back there? How many times had his body remembered what his mind had tried to forget—the endless corridors, the locked doors, the knowledge that no help would come?
And now Florence wanted them to go back willingly. To infiltrate from within. To trust her to protect them when she’d been lying from the start.
And the real kicker? Elora was willing to be handed over as a sacrifice.
She didn’t look scared, or she hid it well. The calm in her eyes, the steady set of her shoulders as Florence continued speaking—it made no sense. How could anyone willingly walk back into that hell?
Yet here she was, nodding along as Florence outlined the plan, as if offering herself up as a sacrifice was the most natural thing in the world.
Did that make him a coward? Or her an idiot?
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she might not survive it. Symond’s hand moved to the slate at his belt. He needed to write to her before she left.
“The village runs will have to wait,” Florence announced, her voice cutting through the tense silence. “The Hive needs to be ready to move as soon as I give the word. We’ll need to load the boats, pack supplies—only essentials.”
Apprentices exchanged uneasy glances. Months of building something that felt like safety, like home—all of it to be abandoned on Florence’s command.
If she thought they’d just march back into that hellhole because she said so and once upon a time saved them from pirates—well, she wasn’t half as smart as she thought she was.
“We catch a ship at dusk,” Florence said, already moving toward the door. “The rest of you, prepare as instructed.”
The three of them began walking out of the hall, Florence in the lead with Elora and Rell trailing behind.
The room maintained its silence even after the meeting was over. No one wanted to be the first to say how utterly insane this all was. Symond would have shouted it if he could, would have demanded answers, explanations, reassurances that weren’t just more manipulation.
Whatever was happening—whatever madness Florence had planned—he couldn’t let Elora walk into that nightmare without speaking to her first. Not after everything.
Violette stood at the same moment as him, their eyes meeting with quiet understanding. They moved together through the stunned silence of the mess hall, pushing past apprentices still frozen in their seats.
By the time they reached the corridor, Florence was already deep in conversation with Rell, their heads bent close together as they discussed details Symond couldn’t hear. Elora stood slightly apart from them, her face unreadable in the flickering lamplight.
Violette approached the group while Symond hung back, his fingers tracing the edge of his slate.
The words had been building inside him for days, tangled and insufficient, but time had run out.
He’d wasted too many nights flat on his back, eyes glued to the ceiling, trying to get the words right in his head only to chicken out when the sun came up.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The chalk felt small between his fingers, a poor substitute for the voice he’d lost. But it was all he had.
When he looked up again, Elora was watching him.
For a split second, her mask slipped—not showing anger or anything like that—but a flash of something that looked like she was scared shitless.
Not of him—Gods no, those days were done—but of whatever nightmare waited back at The Institute.
Then it was gone, her face closing off like a slammed door.
Symond motioned towards the grand stairwell, to the shadowed space beneath its sweeping arc. Not hidden, but away from Florence’s calculating gaze and Rell’s watchful eyes. Somewhere they could “speak” without an audience.
He expected hesitation, refusal even. Why should she grant him a moment of her time when she was preparing to sacrifice herself? But Elora nodded, a single sharp movement.
The space beneath the stairwell felt close, the air heavy with dust and shadow. Elora stood with her back straight, hands clasped in front of her, waiting. She didn’t speak, didn’t prompt him, just watched with those unnerving golden eyes.
Symond’s hands gripped the chalk more firmly. The first words came easier than he expected, flowing onto the slate: I chose to hurt you.
It was easy writing the words. Harder to turn the slate toward her, to let her see the truth he’d finally acknowledged.
His mind had been twisted at The Institute, pain and rage finding an easy target in her.
But the choice had still been his. Thorn had directed his anger, but Symond had chosen whether to act on it.
Elora stared at the slate, her face unnervingly still. Then her gaze lifted to meet his, saying nothing.
He wiped the slate clean with his sleeve. This time writing: I was wrong, you didn’t deserve it.
The words looked small on the slate, inadequate against the weight of what he’d done. He turned it toward her, holding it steady despite the trembling in his hands.
Elora’s eyes narrowed slightly. “No, I didn’t. If you’re expecting me to just forgive—”
Symond shook his head sharply, cutting her off. He pulled the slate back and wiped it clean again, chalk audibly grating on the surface during his writing.
I don’t. You never have to.
He hesitated, then added below it: I just want you to know that I’m sorry.
I’m sorry felt so flat on the slate. Two small words that couldn’t possibly contain the crushing weight in his chest, the nights he’d lain awake remembering her fear, her pain, knowing he had been the cause. The words seemed to mock him with their inadequacy.
Elora stared at the slate for what felt like an eternity. The shadows beneath the stairwell deepened around them, the distant sounds of The Hive fading into background noise. When she finally looked up, her expression hadn’t softened, but something had shifted in her eyes.
She saw him. Not the mute, broken thing. Not the cruel boy from The Institute. Not even the man trying desperately to atone. She saw all of it, the whole tangled mess that made him who he was.
“Thank you.” That’s all she said, but to him it wasn’t needed. Her knowing was all that mattered.
∞∞∞
Hours later, the manor had transformed. The relative peace of The Hive—if it could ever have been called peace—had shattered the moment Florence, Elora and Rell departed at dawn.
Tortoise and the other mercenaries descended like a storm, barking orders, assigning tasks, herding apprentices through corridors with the efficient ruthlessness of people who’d evacuated strongholds before.
“Move those crates to the west entrance,” Tortoise shouted, his voice carrying across the courtyard where Symond stood sorting through a pile of weapons. “No, not there—are you blind? West!”
Symond’s hands moved mechanically, testing the balance of each blade before setting it aside. Useful. Not useful. Too damaged to bother. His mind drifted elsewhere—to stone walls he’d sworn never to see again, to the cold certainty of what awaited anyone who returned there.
A shoulder bumped against his, hard enough to knock him off balance. Rowan stood beside him, face pale, eyes red-rimmed. He’d been crying. He didn’t bother to hide it.
“Sorry,” Rowan mumbled, reaching for a sword. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped it. “I can’t believe we’re going back there.” His voice cracked.