Chapter 52
Elora
Daylight blinded her as she emerged onto the deck, the setting sun painting the sky in violent reds and oranges. Elora squinted, eyes adjusting after hours in the dim hold.
The sea air hit her lungs, sharp and briny. She breathed deeply, savoring what might be her last taste of freedom for a long while.
The sound of Thorn’s voice sliced through the sea air, freezing her where she stood.
“Age? Physical condition? Any signs of illness?” The same crisp, clinical tone. Thorn. Cataloging his new acquisitions like livestock.
Elora couldn’t see him yet. Stacks of crates blocked her view of the dock where the children had been led. She tugged against Rell’s hold, pulling them both behind a tower of wooden boxes, needing to see without being seen.
“Stay back,” Rell whispered. “Florence will signal when it’s time.”
But Elora needed to prepare herself, needed to see her tormentor before he saw her. She peered around the edge of the crates just as Florence descended the ship, her body gliding forward with noble poise even as the gangplank swayed beneath her.
“Uncle.” That one word sliced through the salt air, silencing the dock—the sailors’ chatter died, the gulls’ cries caught mid-screech, even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Thorn turned slowly, his attention diverted from the children.
Even from this distance, Elora could see the moment of recognition cross his features, the slight widening of his eyes, the stiffening of his spine.
His silver hair gleamed in the dying light, longer than she remembered, pulled back in a severe queue at the nape of his neck.
The same impeccable robes, the same rigid posture, the same calculating eyes.
The air vanished from Elora’s chest, replaced by a crushing weight. Her hands constricted beneath the cold metal, crescents of pain forming where nails met flesh. Inside her, her feral being thrashed against its cage, thirsting for his blood.
Rell’s hand found hers, a brief squeeze of reassurance. She forced herself to breathe again, to focus. This wasn’t about revenge. Not yet.
Thorn’s arm rose in a sharp gesture. “Seize her.”
Two guards moved forward, grasping Florence by the arms. She didn’t struggle, didn’t make a sound as they held her firmly between them. Her expression remained calm, almost serene in the face of this hostile reception.
“I know it’s hard to believe that I’m here,” Florence remarked, her voice resonating clearly over the dock. “I’ve wanted to return since Tehvan dragged me away all those years ago. With his death, I finally could.”
“This could be a glamour,” Thorn said, reaching out as if to touch Florence’s face but stopping just short. “A very convincing one.”
Florence shook her head. “No glamour, Uncle. It’s me. Your Flora.”
Thorn stepped back, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. The guards still held Florence’s arms, but she showed no sign of distress.
“If what you say is true,” Thorn said, his voice colder than the sea wind, “why did it take you months to return to me after Tehvan’s death?”
A stone dropped into Elora’s gut. Where were the tears, the embrace, the reconciliation she imagined in her mind?
Florence tilted her head. “Did you know I was alive?”
Thorn nodded once, a sharp, controlled movement. “Not for very long. But yes, I discovered Tehvan had faked your death.” His eyes hardened. “Answer my question.”
Florence’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though her chin remained high. “I didn’t want to return to you empty-handed.” A smile curved her lips, confident despite her vulnerable position. “Rell,” she called out, her voice ringing across the dock. “Bring the beast out.”
Rell’s hand tightened on Elora’s arm, his touch gentle despite the show they needed to put on. “Ready?”
Elora nodded, unable to trust her voice. The moment had arrived. She had to face Thorn again, had to look into those cold eyes and pretend to be defeated, captured, brought to heel.
Rell’s grip tightened as he positioned himself behind her, one hand firmly around her bound wrists, the other settling against the back of her neck. His fingers pressed just hard enough to make a show of control without causing pain.
“Move,” he growled, the command loud enough to carry along the pier.
Elora let him guide her forward, each step bringing her closer to the nightmare she’d fled. He pushed her toward the gangplank, his hand at her neck forcing her head down in a posture of submission. The wood creaked beneath their feet as they descended.
The setting sun cast long shadows across the dock, stretching Thorn’s silhouette into something monstrous and distorted. Elora’s pulse thundered in her ears as Rell pushed her into view, his fingers tightening in warning. Remember the plan. Remember why we’re here.
Thorn’s gaze locked with hers instantly. The recognition in his eyes sent ice through her veins–that same calculating stare that had assessed her worth, her usefulness, her pain tolerance. His attention flickered between her and Florence, lingering on the familiar features they shared.
His eyes narrowed, the calculation behind them settling like sediment into clear water.
“Release her,” he ordered the guards holding Florence.
They stepped away, leaving Florence standing tall and elegant, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Bring her to me,” Thorn said to his guards, gesturing toward Elora with one slender hand.
Rell hesitated, his fingers flexing against her neck. “She’s dangerous,” he called out, voice rough with feigned caution. “Killed three of Flora’s men when I tried to hand her over.”
“I’m well aware of what she’s capable of,” Thorn replied, impatience edging his tone.
“I don’t doubt you, Sir,” Rell said. “But she’s not the same as when she left. Has that young feral magic of Al’tera in her. Savages they are, especially the newly transformed.”
“So why is she not attacking you?” Thorn’s foot began to tap on the wooden planks.
Rell cleared his throat, his posture shifting subtly as he slipped deeper into his fabricated role.
“I was a beast handler for the traveling circus for several years,” he said, his voice taking on a new confidence.
“The Lost Kingdoms’ Menagerie. We specialized in rare creatures from the northern territories. ”
“I’ve worked with several nightgliders, granted none that were also human, but the conditioning techniques work the same.
” Rell’s hand moved to her shoulder. “If you know where to apply pressure—and how much—you can influence the beast’s reactions.
” His fingers found a spot just below her collarbone, pressing with practiced precision.
“This one, for instance, triggers a calming response.”
She didn’t react. It was only a signal when she was shifted.
“Breath work is equally important,” Rell explained. The way he spoke, clinical and detached, was nothing like the Rell she knew. Even when he had explained the different daggers he carried, he did so with such enthusiasm.
“The shift is triggered by panic, by fear. If you control their breathing, you control the transformation.”
Thorn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you’ve managed to implement these techniques successfully with her?”
“Yes, though it wasn’t easy.” Rell’s hand moved to her lower back, another demonstration point. “The creature inside her recognizes me now. Once a beast decides you’re safe, it stops wasting energy fighting you.”
She tracked the subtle shifts in his posture—the way he leaned forward just a fraction and the slight tilt of his head.
He didn’t know anything about the Lost Kingdoms’ Menagerie.
She was certain of that. Thorn’s world existed within stone walls and laboratory chambers, within the rigid hierarchy of The Institute and the measured precision of his research.
Traveling circuses belonged to the world outside—to common people, to dust roads and temporary encampments, to a freedom he would never deign to understand.
Neither did Rell, if she was being honest. But the man had spent years spinning lies for a living.
He knew how to build a story from nothing, how to layer details with just enough texture to feel real.
The clinical detachment in his voice, the specific pressure points, the way he spoke about her as both creature and captive—it all landed with the weight of experience, even if every word was invented.
“Fascinating,” Thorn said, as if replying to a child describing the make-believe world he had conjured. “I have plenty of methods already to keep her submissive, ones that have been tested and proven to be efficient.” Before Rell could respond Thorn gestured for a guard to take her.
The guard approached with the casual confidence of someone who’d never faced Elora’s other form. Rell’s grip on her neck tightened, a silent warning. The plan required this—Thorn needed to see her resistance, to believe in the illusion of her captivity.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya’,” Rell said to the guard.
The guard’s hand closed around her upper arm, fingers digging into muscle with bruising force.
He yanked her from Rell’s grasp, and she was almost tempted to just submit, to let the guard drag her forward, because perhaps if Thorn believed Rell useless, he’d be dismissed, sent away from The Institute, kept safe.
But she knew Rell wouldn’t actually leave. He’d storm the building to get her out.
She sighed, and let the partial shift come forward. The taste of iron flooded her mouth as her canines lengthened, sharp points cutting into her lower lip. She couldn’t shift completely—the manacles prevented full transformation—but the partial change came with a violence that surprised even her.
She played her part, thrashing in the guard’s grip, her body twisting with inhuman strength. Her shoulder dislocated with a sickening pop, but the pain barely registered through the red haze of fury. The guard swore, tightening his hold.
His forearm passed too closely to her face as he struggled to contain her. The scent of sweat and leather filled her nostrils. Her jaws snapped shut, teeth sinking deep into exposed flesh where his sleeve had ridden up.
The guard’s scream split the evening air. Blood flooded her mouth—hot, metallic, alive. For one blinding moment, she wanted to tear, to rip, to consume. She wrestled internally for control, finding the beast harder to suppress when chained and knowing it was being handed over to Thorn.
The guard shoved her away with brutal force. She hit the dock hard, the impact driving air from her lungs. Wood splintered beneath her, pain exploding through her shoulder where it had connected first. Her vision swam, darkness creeping at the edges.
Thorn didn’t move. He simply watched, head tilted slightly, taking in every detail of her transformation with clinical interest. His expression betrayed neither surprise nor anger—only the cool assessment of a scientist observing an experiment.
She spat red onto the planks between them.
Rell moved toward her, his footsteps heavy on the dock. She let the shift retreat as she scrambled backward. The human side of her wasn’t supposed to want Rell close, but her attempt to flee got caught on the security she felt with him.
His hand closed around her biceps, yanking her up. He adjusted his grip, so both hands rested against where her neck met her shoulders, applying pressure but not hurting her.
“My apologies,” Rell said to Thorn. “As I said, she’s unpredictable with anyone but me.”
Thorn nodded. Rell pushed her forward. With each step, the distance between her and her former tormentor shrank.
Her muscles coiled tight as Thorn loomed closer.
The dock suddenly felt too small. The manacles, too tight.
The beast prowled under her skin, sensing the threat.
Its demand to come forth, more insistent than ever before.
This isn’t like before.
Choice. This is my choice.
We’re here to end him.
Patience.
In an instant Thorn’s hand shot out, grabbing Elora’s chin with cold fingers. He tilted her face upward, forcing her to meet his gaze. The sudden contact sent a shock of revulsion through her body. Her hair fell away, no longer a shield between them.
Her eyes narrowed involuntarily, lip curling into a snarl she couldn’t suppress.
Thorn studied her, his thumb pressing painfully against her jaw as he examined her golden eyes. His own gaze was clinical, detached—like she was a specimen under glass rather than a person. Under his examination, her skin remembered old violations.
“I see you finished my experiment,” he said, voice soft with fascination. “We’ll see what repercussions that will warrant later.”
He released her with a dismissive flick of his wrist, pushing her backward. She stumbled, colliding with Rell’s solid chest.
Thorn pivoted toward Florence, the hard edges of his face arranging themselves into what a stranger might mistake for tenderness—a mask Elora had seen slip too many times to believe. Florence stepped forward, eyes glistening with carefully manufactured tears.
He placed a hand on Florence’s shoulder, the gesture almost tender. “My Flora,” he said. “You have exceeded my expectations, as you always did.”
His words wore fondness like an ill-fitting glove, the fingers too long, the palm too tight—a subtle wrongness that scraped against Elora’s ears.
Almost mocking. Elora caught it immediately, her senses heightened by fear and adrenaline.
But Florence showed no reaction, maintaining her facade of grateful relief.
Thorn’s hand dropped from Florence’s shoulder as his gaze slid back to Elora. “Come,” he said, gesturing to Rell. “I want to assess the experiment’s condition in my laboratory.”
Elora’s heart lurched. The laboratory. Where he’d cut into her skin, where he’d tested her pain thresholds, where he’d broken her down piece by piece. Her palms grew slick with sweat beneath the manacles.
Florence’s hand shot out, resting on Thorn’s arm with gentle restraint. “Uncle, please—can that wait?” Her voice carried a delicate tremor. “I’ve missed you so terribly. I want to see everything you’ve accomplished in my absence. All the progress you’ve made.”
The ice in Thorn’s gaze thawed—not into warmth, but into something less brittle—as Florence’s fingers pressed against his sleeve. He laid his palm over her knuckles, a spider claiming its territory.
“Exactly,” he said, thin lips curving into what might have been a smile on anyone else’s face. “So let me show you.” He turned toward The Institute’s looming silhouette against the darkening sky. “Come. All of you.”
Florence stepped into place beside him, her back straightening as they began to walk.
“Move,” Rell growled, loud enough for Thorn to hear. Rell’s fingers pressed against her spine, the pressure insistent but not painful. A reminder. I’m here. You’re not alone this time.