Chapter 62
Elora
Through the window, Elora watched two Empire vessels approaching The Institute, white sails crisp against the dull pewter sky.
They sliced the rough water with mechanical efficiency—everything the Empire touched had that same merciless exactitude.
After four endless days of waiting, their chance at freedom now rode toward them on the rising and falling of the tide.
Rell’s arm settled across her shoulders, his warmth radiating through her thin shirt. She breathed in deeply, catching the notes of sandalwood oil he used on his blade and the leather of his favorite dark coat.
“The others are almost here,” he murmured, the words catching in his throat like they’d been trapped there all night.
With a sigh, Elora retreated from the window, feeling the threadbare carpet yield beneath her bare feet.
Sadia’s bedroom surrounded her—bunches of dried herbs dangled from the ceiling, while the shelves held an army of glass bottles whose contents caught the dawn’s glow.
Behind her, the bed’s thick comforter remained twisted and bunched where she and Rell had spent the night.
The room felt different now. Last time, these same four walls had offered only the briefest escape from Gerard and Thorn’s cruelty, a hollow reminder of the life she might have lived if fate had been kinder.
Now this room had become a sanctuary, a pocket of warmth and possibility tucked within The Institute’s cold, unyielding fortress.
Sadia had found them on the beach, Rell’s condition stabilizing, Elora fatigued but refusing to let herself drift in case his condition suddenly changed. She helped them through the secret tunnel back into The Institute, hid them in her quarters, and got to work properly healing both of them.
Elora’s hand drifted to her neck, where the skin was still tender from the electric collar. Sadia’s salves had eased the worst of the burn marks, but the memory of that voltage coursing through her body remained, a phantom pain that woke her gasping in the night.
Rell eased himself down on the bed, wincing slightly, one hand pressing against his rib.
Elora frowned. “Is it still bad?”
“Just a bit uncomfortable.” He held his arm out to her, wanting her to fill the spot next to him. She did. Sinking into the mattress, they laid back, his arm wrapped around her back, holding her close against his side.
The world had shifted while they’d been hidden away in this room. Sadia filled them in on what was going on as best she could. Thorn succumbed to his injuries, somehow dying despite the protection and healing enchantments he wore.
Florence was now Headmaster of The Institute.
Despite Thorn never signing the official documents, the masters had chosen to honor his verbal declaration.
They’d held a service for him, the entire Institute in attendance as his body was ceremonially burned and the ashes stored in the House of Hope.
Florence had secretly burned Tehvan’s brain and placed the ashes in his formal resting spot in the mausoleum.
The now Headmaster had slipped into Sadia’s room two days ago. Elora had felt Rell stiffen beside her, his hand reaching for the dagger he kept beneath his pillow.
“Put the dagger away. If I wanted you dead, I would have aimed for your heart,” Florence had said.
Elora’s own muscles had coiled tightly, the nightglider stirring beneath her skin, ready to emerge at the first sign of threat. The memory of Rell’s blood pooling beneath him on the floor was still too fresh, too raw.
“You nearly killed him,” Elora said, holding the beast close within her, preparing to strike. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t tear your throat out right now.”
Florence hadn’t flinched. “Because I didn’t have a choice.” She’d moved closer, her eyes fixed on Rell’s bandaged torso. “I aimed where I knew you could save him, if treated in time.”
“You gambled with his life,” Elora had spat.
“I gambled with all our lives,” Florence had corrected. “Thorn was watching too closely. If I’d hesitated, if I’d shown any sign of betrayal...” She’d trailed off, her meaning clear. “I anticipated you would break free to save him. It was our only chance.”
The memory faded as Elora felt Rell’s fingers tracing circles on her side. These quiet moments of tenderness had become precious over the past few days. He’d been so gentle with her, so attentive— as if trying to make up for every harsh word and pain he’d caused her while playing his role.
Each morning, he’d wake before her and brew tea from Sadia’s stores, adding honey just the way she liked it.
In the evenings, he’d wash her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp until she nearly purred with contentment.
When nightmares jolted her awake, his arms would be there, rescuing her from the brink of terror before she fully sunk into it.
But Elora hadn’t let the care flow only one way.
She knew what these past weeks had cost him—the strain of pretending to be someone he wasn’t, the horror of hurting her, however necessary it had been for their survival.
Between changing his bandages and applying Sadia’s healing salves, Elora had also discovered, to his endless amusement, just how many cat-like instincts came with her nightglider form.
He’d taken to placing empty glass vials at the edge of the bedside table, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he waited for her to wake and inevitably bat them to the floor with a quick, unconscious swipe of her paw.
She’d also taught him about the alchemy ingredients scattered throughout Sadia’s quarters, picking up vials and explaining their properties with growing enthusiasm.
Elora found herself slipping into the rhythms of her old apprenticeship.
Rell had watched her with fascination, a smile curving his lips with every exuberant explanation.
“What about this one?” Rell had asked, pointing to a dark vial nestled behind several others.
Elora had smiled, reaching for it carefully.
“Liquid starlight. It’s used in navigation potions, but...
” She’d lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“If you mix it with moon water and coconut butter and apply it to the skin, it will highlight every blemish and freckle, creating constellations across the body.”
They’d started making a list, scribbled on parchment scraps, of potions they wanted to try together once they were free of this place. It had become more than just a catalog of potions—it was a promise of a shared future, of days spent together without fear hanging over their heads.
Now, Rell’s breath stirred her hair as he mumbled into it, “We need to get up. Get ready.” Reluctance evident in every syllable.
“I know,” she agreed, but neither of them moved.
∞∞∞
Elora and Rell stood on the dock, separated from the crew, waiting to help the arrivals disembark.
They didn’t wear any sort of disguise; Florence assured them that the wards and students were prepped on the changes and on who were actually friends and who were foes.
They still chose to keep their distance though.
The first boat bumped against The Institute’s stone pier; ropes were thrown and secured.
The gangplank came down with a hollow thud, and the mercenaries descended.
Elora nearly choked on a laugh. Despite their Empire uniforms—all polished buttons and crisp lines—these people moved nothing like soldiers.
Their shoulders rolled with an easy swagger, hands never far from concealed weapons, eyes constantly scanning.
No military-issue fabric could mask the predatory grace of people who’d learned to fight for survival rather than duty.
Most striking were the women, who moved with confident strides despite swimming in uniforms designed for men. The Empire never allowed women in combat roles, yet here they were, weapons barely concealed beneath ill-fitting jackets, eyes sharp as they scanned The Institute’s towers.
Despite their awkward appearance, not a single mercenary hesitated. They moved with purpose, taking up positions around the dock and along the path leading to the main building. The choreography was flawless—a testament to Florence’s planning.
The second boat docked, and Elora’s heart quickened as she recognized the small figures being helped onto the gangplank.
The children, each small hand clasping another.
Violette led them, walking with the same confidence as the mercenaries, but her movements were gentler as she guided the children onto solid ground.
A group of wards waited to receive them.
They wore new clothes, simple but clean tunics and pants rather than the gray shapeless dresses that had marked them as property.
Their faces looked different too—shoulders straighter, chins higher, eyes brighter with something Elora hadn’t seen in them before: purpose.
These were the same people who had moved through The Institute like ghosts, eyes downcast, shoulders hunched against the next inevitable blow.
Now, they had been given new roles as caretakers for the children, their knowledge of The Institute making them perfect guides for the little ones, teaching them domestic duties, compassion, and consent.
The wards gathered the children into a loose formation, each taking responsibility for three or four little ones.
One boy tugged at a ward’s sleeve, pointing at a seabird wheeling overhead.
The ward paused, crouching beside him to watch the bird’s flight, her face soft with patience.
No rushing, no harsh commands, just the simple gift of time and attention.