Chapter 61
Florence
A system so used to control forgets how to handle chaos.
Glass rained down from above. The students ran for the doors, screams still echoing down the corridors. Guards filed out of the hall, no order, no structure, desperate to bring Elora back. The Masters, revered for their craft and knowledge, were as useless as informants with nothing to sell.
Only Thorn remained frozen.
Florence approached him, slowly, letting those watching see the hesitation of shock in her stride.
But, her mind was calculating how to not let this completely derail her plans.
The moment Florence reached Thorn’s body, she saw his mangled hand—barely attached, hanging by threads of tissue and sinew.
Yet strangely, there was almost no blood pooling beneath it.
A powerful preservation charm, perhaps? Then Thorn wheezed, a wet, rattling sound that confirmed what she already suspected: he was still alive.
In an instant, Florence transformed. The calculating strategist vanished, replaced by a woman consumed with desperate concern.
Her face softened, eyes widening with manufactured horror.
She sank to the ground next to him, hands fluttering over his body as if assessing his condition.
In reality, she was searching for what had sustained him.
“Uncle!” she gasped, her voice trembling with perfect, practiced emotion.
His remaining hand reached for hers, fingers trembling as they found her wrist. His lips moved, trying to form words that were too quiet for her to hear.
“Sadia!” Florence shouted, her voice carrying across the now-quiet hall. “Fetch the healers! Now! Abernathy’s still alive!”
Her gaze traveled to his neck where a shimmering gold pendant lay against his throat. The unmistakable golden sheen of enchantment shifting on its surface.
“This charm,” she whispered to Thorn, her voice so quiet that he alone could hear, “it should keep you alive until the healers arrive.”
His eyes locked with hers. Something flickered in them—recognition? Fear?
She yanked the pendant from his neck.
The effect was immediate and devastating.
Blood gushed from his mangled hand, pooling rapidly on the marble floor.
His eyes widened in shock and betrayal as he finally understood.
His mouth opened, perhaps to call for help or curse her name, but only blood poured out, staining his perfect academic robes.
Florence glanced around the hall. Empty. Everyone had fled or gone in pursuit of Elora. Perfect.
She leaned close to Thorn’s ear, ensuring he could hear her clearly despite his fading consciousness.
“Your legacy dies with you,” she whispered. “I’ll take everything you built and burn it to the ground. Just as Tehvan intended.”
Florence stayed there, watching in silence as Abernathy Thorn finally lost control.