Chapter 64 #4
His heart sank. Of course they’d reject him. He wasn’t like the others—not like Rowan with his gentle heart or Violette with her fierce loyalty. He was broken. Damaged. A weapon forged in cruelty and wielded by men who’d stripped away his voice and his humanity.
Then it came, so faint at first he thought he imagined it. A single pure note that hung in the air like crystal. Another joined it, then another, building into the same melody the truthkeepers had sung for the others. Relief flooded through him, so intense his eyes stung with unexpected tears.
A voice whispered directly into his mind, bypassing his ears entirely. It wasn’t anyone he recognized—it was ancient and new all at once, like an echo from the future rather than the past.
Will you hold what is true, even when others would twist it?
Will you refuse the lie, even when it is easier to accept it?
This wasn’t what Florence wanted. She’d wanted a revolution, information weaponized against her enemies. She’d wanted him to be her mouthpiece, spreading whatever “truth” served her purpose. But this... this was different. This was sacred.
He knew now what it meant to live inside a distortion. The truth saved him, and he would never let himself be shaped by a lie again.
Yes, he answered silently, certainty settling in his chest. I will.
The world slowed around him. The vines seemed to move through honey, their undulations graceful and unhurried. A strange sensation spread from his toes upward, warmth traveling through his legs, his torso, his neck. His back felt as though it were splitting open, yet he felt no pain.
His bones contracted, shrinking and hollowing. His skin rippled and twisted, transforming into something new. Darkness enveloped him completely, and for a terrifying moment, he wondered if he’d died. Was this death? This weightless, formless void?
A pinprick of light appeared above him. He moved toward it instinctively, drawn by its warmth.
As he approached, the darkness fell away, and he realized he was inside his own clothing.
He burst through the fabric, suddenly aloft on wings he didn’t know how to use.
The world tilted and spun as he fluttered awkwardly.
Everything looked... wrong. Colors exploded around him with impossible vibrancy—the moss beneath him glowed like emerald fire, the wooden platform pulsed with veins of copper light. His field of vision stretched wider than seemed possible, wrapping around him in a disorienting panorama.
Symond beat his wings frantically, trying to stabilize himself.
The air felt different against his new form—substantial, almost solid, like he could push against it rather than fall through it.
Each feather sensed minute changes in pressure, adjusting automatically in ways his conscious mind couldn’t yet comprehend.
The others watched him with varying expressions. But that wasn’t all he saw. Around each person shimmered a distinct glow—a halo of color and light that shifted and pulsed with their emotions.
Rowan’s aura glowed a soft blue, gentle and steady as a summer sky. Violette’s burned a fierce orange-red, protective and vigilant. Rell’s radiated a deep purple, strength anchored by something unshakable at its core.
And Elora... Symond nearly tripped as he looked at her. Golden light cascaded around her in waves, while dark spots enveloped the outer edges of her aura. It was like sun rays bursting through dark clouds.
“The transformation is complete,” Kaela said.
Her voice didn’t just enter his ears—it flowed through him like warm honey, each syllable carrying layers of meaning beyond the words themselves. Truth resonated within it, a harmonious chord that matched the gentle blue-green glow surrounding her.
The nightglider elder spoke next, her words heavy with resignation. “The mother has made her will known.”
The taste changed immediately—bitter undertones threaded through truth, reluctance mingling with acceptance. Her aura churned with dark purple and amber, conflicted but yielding.
Symond’s new senses overwhelmed him. He could see intentions laid bare in the colors surrounding each person, hear emotions woven through speech like music.
Every sound carried new dimensions—the rustle of leaves above contained whispers he almost understood, the creaking of branches held rhythms like heartbeats.
Around him, the platform came back to life. Apprentices spoke in stunned whispers. The elders conferred in low, tense voices. Elora stood near the edge of the platform, watching the horizon beyond the lake as if measuring what came next.
Symond did not move.
He felt the old world still out there somewhere—Florence and her plans, The Institute’s halls, the Empire’s banners snapping in distant wind.
But it no longer pressed against him.
It no longer reached inside him.
The weight he had carried for years—misplaced hatred, borrowed shame, the need to prove himself stronger than what had hurt him—had settled into something steady and known.
He did not need to fight it.
He did not need to outrun it.
He did not need to return to it.
The truth had already done its work.
He stood at the heart of the tree and felt no pull backward.
Only space.
And finally, that space belonged to him.