Chapter 12
Elora
Elora hadn’t slept. She couldn’t. From the moment Symond left, she hadn’t moved from her curled position in the corner of Arria’s bed.
Her whole body locked in place. She hugged her knees to her chest, her lungs barely pulling in enough air.
Her hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers digging into the rough blanket as if it would anchor her in the room, in the present, and not in the horrible memory of what had happened.
He has been taking every punishment that should have been mine.
The words twisted in her mind, a toxic echo that ensnared her thoughts.
She was unable to stop replaying it, unable to forget the look on Symond’s face when he said it, the burning animosity, the pain she hadn’t been prepared to see.
Thorn must be lying to him. It made little sense.
Why would Thorn do that? Why would he let someone else take her punishments?
It had to be some sick manipulation, like another twisted game Thorn was playing.
But if it was true…
A knot formed in Elora’s stomach. If it was true, if Thorn hadn’t lied, then she actually understood Symond’s rage.
He had every right to hate her, to resent her.
She hadn’t asked for protection, for Tehvan to shield her from the consequences the others faced.
But that didn’t matter. The fact remained: she had been protected, guarded from the pain, from the harsh realities of Thorn’s punishments, while Symond took the brunt of it all.
She could see it now; his anger wasn’t random. It wasn’t irrational lashing out. No, it was exacting a debt she hadn’t even known she owed. That thought hit her harder than anything he’d said. And the worst part was that, deep down, she couldn’t even blame him. How could she?
Her vision blurred as the shame curled tighter around her, pressing down on her ribs, suffocating her.
What can I even say? What could I possibly do?
The questions twisted painfully in her mind, but the answer eluded her.
All she could feel was the crushing certainty that nothing she said or did would make it right. And maybe she deserved that.
She had no right to be sorry for herself. No right to push back—what was the point? Symond had shattered for her sake. Not a single apology or gesture of contrition would ever piece him back together.
∞∞∞
The hours dragged on, blending together in a blur of silence and solitude. Elora was a prisoner in her own space, only granted the briefest reprieve to answer nature’s call, her every move scrutinized by the hawkish gaze of a guard.
She pressed her forehead against the chilled glass of the window, her breath creating small clouds that blurred her view of the courtyard below.
Students gathered in lively clusters, their laughter echoing through the air as they exchanged joyous hugs.
It was beautiful out, the sun shining, no cloud in sight.
The perfect last day compared to the usual dark clouds that hung over every single person, no matter the weather.
The day commanded freedom for all of them, besides her.
Rowan and Alfie chatted by the fountain, their exhilaration unmistakable.
They looked up and caught sight of her in the window, and their radiant smiles faded.
They offered her a faint, sorrowful wave.
It was unmistakably pity; the emotion flickered in their gaze like a dying flame.
A delicate shard within her heart splintered as she lifted her hand in a feeble wave.
At least they weren’t forgetting about her, yet.
She scanned the throng, her eyes flitting over faces she recognized, all the while searching for Tehvan.
Just a glimpse of him, even from afar, might bring her a touch of solace.
But he wasn’t there. Instead, her gaze fell upon Symond, languidly poised at the edge of the courtyard, only half-buried in the shadows of the tall stone archways that ran along the building leading to the labs.
He wasn’t mingling, didn’t join the crowds of people laughing and celebrating their success.
Granted, he never had been the lively type.
Instead, his intense eyes locked onto her window, piercing through the distance and boring straight into her soul.
Elora pressed her hand to her mouth, her fingers shaking uncontrollably as she battled the queasy sensation rising within her.
The sight of him standing there, watching her so intently, made her skin crawl.
He wasn’t doing anything, just standing there, silent and still.
But that was enough. Enough to dredge up the waves of powerlessness that engulfed her, to mirror the self-loathing he had so effortlessly instilled in her in that moment.
She could still feel his hands gripping her, bruising her, pinning her down.
Her head still throbbed from him shoving her against the wall, however many times, she couldn’t remember.
But worst of all, she still tasted him–the bitter, metallic tang of his spit on her tongue.
It was nauseating. The memory twisted her stomach and bile surged to the back of her throat, but she held it down.
Him smacking her, fine. Spewing his hate and loathing for her, nothing she hadn’t heard before. But why spit in her mouth? She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t like how helpless it made her feel, and how utterly intimate it was.
Where are you, Tehvan? Her gaze darted around the courtyard, searching for him, for that familiar figure that always showed up when she needed him most—but there was nothing.
Just then, the same guard from the previous night, the one with the flaming auburn hair, strode over to where Symond stood.
He was too far away to fully see his face, but she thought she could almost make out a mischievous smirk.
He leaned casually against the stone wall, exuding an air of nonchalance.
Symond’s hand dipped into his pocket, retrieving a small, worn silver tin.
He passed it to the guard without breaking his stare at her.
The man glanced briefly up at her window, his expression unreadable. He turned toward Symond, nodding once, as if they’d come to some silent agreement. With that, he pivoted sharply on his heel, striding across the courtyard and melting into the throng.
She stared intently at the very spot where the guard had disappeared. What was that? What did he give him? Her gaze snapped back to Symond, searching his face for any clue, any hint of what he was planning, but his expression was as blank and cold as ever.
A few moments stretched on in a tense quietude.
She clutched the windowsill tightly, her eyes flitting anxiously from side to side, as if the frantic movement could somehow unravel the mystery of what was unfolding outside.
Then she heard it: a delicate click as the lock turned, followed by the slow, ominous creak of her door inching open.
A jolt shot through her; she scrambled back onto her bed, pressing herself against the wall.
The guard from the night before hovered in the doorway.
With sunlight through her window, she saw him more clearly than the previous night.
He had the body of a soldier, tall and muscular in his crisp beige uniform.
His face was annoyingly symmetrical, besides a slight crookedness to his nose, and some sunspots along his forehead.
He looked to be in his late twenties. He would be handsome if it weren’t for the way his ginger hair sat on his head like a loaf of toasted bread.
“Elora, is it?” he drawled, as if he somehow didn’t already know her name. She doubted he was truly clueless; he had that look, the kind that suggested he collected names as if they were trophies.
She nodded, swallowing hard, her eyes darting to the open door behind him where students walked past, glancing in as they went.
“What do you want?” Her voice was shaky, but she tried to force an edge of strength into it, as if she wasn’t cowering in the corner.
“Orders from Thorn,” he replied casually, stepping inside without waiting for her permission, but he left the door open.
The tension in her shoulders eased a bit from that small mercy.
She didn’t like the stares and obnoxious laughter as her peers passed, but she certainly didn’t want to be alone with this man, either.
But the lie was glaringly obvious. She’d just seen him with Symond in the courtyard, taking something from him.
The guard pulled out the small silver tin and tossed it onto the bed beside her.
She recognized it immediately: a healing balm.
Her fingers itched to pick it up, but she hesitated.
Symond wants to heal me? Why? It made no sense, not after what he’d done, not after the hatred he’d shown her.
What she really needed was a floral tea to wash away the residual taste of his saliva. A potion of clear mind would do the trick, too. Ease her thoughts, numb the humiliation and shame, even just for a while.
“Go on,” the guard said impatiently, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Put it on your bruises.”
Elora didn’t move; her gaze darted between him and the tin.
She didn’t want to. It would ease the pain, hide what happened, but simply the fact that Symond was the one who had it brought to her made her hesitate.
He wanted to hide what he had done, and for that reason alone, she wanted to show them off.
The guard’s eyes narrowed, clearly agitated that she wasn’t listening. He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, his tone sharper now. “Look, I’m not leaving you alone with it. You either do it yourself, or I’ll do it for you. Your choice.”
She clenched her jaw and grabbed the balm, twisted off the cap, and plunged her fingers into the icy salve, smearing it onto the bruised skin of her cheek. The minty bite stung, sharp against the rawness, causing her to flinch.
She didn’t like how weak she probably looked in front of this guard, curled up in the corner, wincing.
He knew what happened, at least some of it.
She wondered what he thought when he interrupted last night.
I’m impressed, Symond. She shuttered, remembering his words.
Impressed by what? How much of a monster Symond has become?
As if he’d given him ideas on the best ways to hurt her.
She watched him casually press himself against the wall, his eyes dull and unfocused, like he was trapped in someone else’s mundane routine. Whoever he was, she hoped this would be the last time she had to be around him.