Chapter 59
Rell
It was the first time he’d seen her in a week, and he couldn’t so much as ask if she was alright. Rell’s hands itched to just break the damn manacles as he walked Elora toward the grand hall. The metal bit cold against his fingers.
She insisted he leave her alone, so he did.
He spent the week drawing. Mostly animals as a beast handler might, but anything to keep him busy and not worrying about Elora.
He tried joining in on some of the guards’ card games but quickly became overwhelmed with the intense need to knock their teeth out.
But finally, Elora was with him, seemingly unharmed, and their plan could begin moving again. He just tried not to think about what Thorn had planned for her once the show was over.
The ceremony hall stretched before them like the inside of some monstrous cathedral dedicated to human cruelty.
Massive stained-glass windows lined one wall, their colored panels depicting the Empire’s “achievements” through the centuries—alchemists wielding power over cowering villagers, soldiers marching through burning towns, and most grotesque of all, Thrasks in chains, their forms crumpled and broken.
The sunlight streamed through the glass, casting sickening rainbows across the marble floor.
Rell wanted to smash every last one of those windows.
The crowd’s murmurs died as they entered, hundreds of eyes turning to stare at Elora.
The silence felt heavier than any sound could be.
These people knew her once. But not anymore.
Not this golden-eyed woman wearing nothing but a covering of living leaves that shifted and rustled with each step she took.
To him, she looked ethereal, like the world tree was given flesh. But the whispers starting up around the edges of the crowd told him they saw something else entirely. Something to mock, to fear, to study.
“Look at her eyes,” someone whispered. “Disgusting,” muttered another. “What happened to her?”
Rell squeezed Elora’s arm tighter, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his face blank.
Every damn cell in his body screamed at him to knock these assholes flat and make them bow to her.
Let her go full beast mode, roar till their ears bleed, watch them piss themselves in terror. But he didn’t. He just kept walking.
To his surprise, Elora didn’t shrink beneath their scrutiny. If anything, she stood taller, her chin lifting as she stared right back at those who had once dismissed her.
But his fingers caught the truth—that little tremor running through her arms. That shake nobody else would notice. Without even thinking about it, he rubbed his thumbs against her skin just above those cold metal cuffs. Not much, but it was all he could risk right now.
The platform next to the center of the hall loomed before them. A metal collar waited there, connected to a chain that ran to a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. Thorn’s trophy on display. He was quickly learning that the old bastard had a flair for the dramatic.
Rell led her to the platform, his throat tight. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. But they had a plan. A few more days. That’s all they needed.
A guard stepped up to click the collar around Elora’s neck.
Rell worked the manacles off her wrists and had to look away for a second when he saw the skin underneath.
He tucked the cuffs into his belt and rested his hands on her shoulders—a stupid bit of theater for Thorn’s benefit, like he was working some pressure technique to keep her docile for him.
Their eyes met for the briefest moment. But neither of them spoke.
He forced himself to break the gaze before anyone noticed. His boots felt leaden as he retreated to join the other guards lining the back wall. They stood at attention, expressions blank beneath their helmets.
From his position, Rell had a clear view of the entire hall.
The masters had settled into their seats, all decked out in robes that probably cost more than he’d made in his entire life.
These assholes were the ones who let Thorn get away with his sick games, slapping nice-sounding labels on straight-up torture.
His attention snapped back to Elora. She’d sunk to the ground, one arm wrapped protectively around her middle.
Her shoulders curved inward, her breathing shallow and labored.
The performance was flawless—she appeared exactly as Florence had instructed: weakened, subdued, still recovering from the “procedure” Thorn believed she’d undergone.
But his gut twisted at the sight. Even knowing it was an act, seeing her hunched over in apparent pain made his fingers twitch toward the weapons at his belt.
The daggers weighed down his thigh, whispering the same damn idea over and over: six steps to that bastard, couple seconds to pull steel, one good slash and it’s done. Problem fucking solved.
Thorn slithered over to Elora, leaning down to speak to her. The words didn’t carry to where Rell stood, but he watched the old man’s thin lips move, watched Elora’s shoulders bunch up like she’d been jabbed with a hot poker. Whatever garbage he’d spewed, it hit its mark.
Then Thorn straightened, adjusting his immaculate robes before stepping to the podium that dominated the center of the stage. Florence glided to his side, her posture perfect, features composed into practiced nobility. The crowd hushed immediately.
Thorn’s voice boomed across the hall. “We gather not merely to reclaim stolen property, but to ensure our Institute’s traditions endure.”
Rell’s molars ground together as the old man’s eyes raked across his audience, like he was counting every pair of eyes on him, desperate to make sure no one was looking away.
“Strength. Innovation. Dominion. These pillars have always supported our Empire,” Thorn continued, “and I stand ready to fortify them further.”
Florence stepped forward, her chin lifted high, her eyes sweeping over the crowd with cool assessment. She looked every inch the heir apparent in her pristine black robes with gold trim—the mirror of Thorn’s own.
Thorn continued. “My brother, Tehvan, couldn’t bear that Flora’s talents would serve The Institute rather than his own ambitions.” Thorn’s voice hardened. “He spread lies of her death while hiding her away, attempting to twist her mind against our purpose.”
Florence dipped her chin, eyes downcast in a perfect portrait of mourning. The woman knew how to sell it. Had Rell not been in on the scheme from the beginning, he might have handed her a handkerchief himself.
“Today,” Thorn announced, “we not only celebrate Flora’s return, but her rightful place as the future headmaster of The Institute.”
Scattered claps echoed through the hall, uncertain until the masters stood from their ornate chairs, triggering a wave of enthusiastic approval.
Rell kept his hands at his sides while everyone else applauded.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from Elora on that platform, her body folded small, breathing in those deliberate, shallow gasps.
You just have to appear docile, not in pain… Are you in pain?
He shifted from one foot to the next, unable to keep still. Scenarios ran through his mind in quick succession, possible reasons growing more ridiculous with each thought. She’s just acting. She could have a stomachache. Or maybe a guard or Thorn had done something—
“But before we proceed with the formal investiture,” Thorn said, the applause dying down at his raised hand, “I wish to demonstrate why The Institute remains vital to the Empire’s future, beyond carving loyal subjects.”
Thorn abandoned the podium and stalked toward Elora like a wolf who’d caught the scent of blood. Every hair on Rell’s neck stood on end as his muscles tightened against the certainty of what would follow.
“This ward,” Thorn gestured toward Elora, “once attempted to escape our guidance. She believed herself beyond our reach.” His voice hardened. “Let her serve as a warning to those who might consider disobedience.”
Rell’s hand drifted toward his dagger, then stopped. She’s fine. She said she can handle this.
“But make no mistake,” Thorn continued, stalking a slow circle around her hunched form, “this creature kneeling before you is far more valuable than mere discipline.” He swept his gaze across the audience, savoring their attention.
" She represents a solution to the Empire’s most pressing challenge—the war against Al’tera. "
The hall went dead silent.
“The Empire’s own shifter.”
Thorn twisted the ring on his finger. Elora’s spine bent backward like a drawn bow as blue current snaked through the collar. The scream that escaped her lips shattered the hall’s silence, scraping against Rell’s eardrums.
Rell’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint, every muscle in his body locking to prevent him from rushing forward.
The transformation happened in a violent blur. Where Elora had knelt, a nightglider now stood, its thunderous roar vibrating the very air in Rell’s lungs.
The beast’s muscles coiled with a full-body tremor that rippled through midnight fur as those massive claws gouged the stone floor. Then, with a sound like a growl swallowed whole, she lowered herself down, flanks heaving.
She’s playing along. Good girl.
“Do you see? All that power, and yet—” he wiggled his ringed finger “—complete control.”
Fucking sadist. Rell’s knuckles whitened around his weapon.
Thorn, however, craved more spectacle. Another twist of his ring sent a weaker current crackling through the collar. Elora convulsed, fangs bared as a serpentine hiss escaped her throat.
That sound flayed Rell from the inside out.
With a flourish, Thorn raised his ringed hand toward the vaulted ceiling. The instruction couldn’t be clearer.