Chapter 13
Symond
Symond lingered in the courtyard, the sun looming overhead, its harsh glare slicing through the throng of students.
He was surrounded by his peers, their excited voices buzzing around him like a swarm of flies.
It was noise, white noise, meaningless chatter.
The weight of the satchel, pulled tight against his shoulder, tangibly reminded him of the life he was leaving behind.
He was not part of this scene; he was an outsider, a ghost haunting the edges of their vibrant world.
It should have felt like a relief, like flipping to the last page in a book he’d been forced to read against his will.
The achievement was like ash in his mouth, a hollow shell of what it should have been.
He understood the bleak reality ahead: a new handler, just another prick ready to pull his strings, dictate his every move, and exploit him the same way Thorn had.
It was simply another set of shackles in a different location.
But at least he’d be far from this hellhole.
Distance from Elora was necessary, distance from Gerard even more so, but what mattered most was getting away from Thorn.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the courtyard absently.
The wards flitted around like background noise, arranging the same tiring decorations and tables, all for the farce of celebrations that felt like a cruel joke.
Every year, the school hosted this ludicrous send-off for the departing students—a circus act disguised as generosity, as if the institution hadn’t drained their spirits and left them echoes of who they once were.
He watched the wards in their drab gray uniforms, heads bowed, shuffling along with trays and pitchers.
His gaze kept stealing up to that window—her window.
Every time he tore his eyes away, they snapped back—like an itch he couldn’t scratch, like some goddamn part of him refused to let her go.
She ought to be down here with the rest of the garbage, alongside those other remnants of the Institute, the ones they discarded like yesterday’s dinner.
Her new status as a ward should be laid bare for everyone to gawk at.
It would be a final slap in the face for the girl who’d always had walls around her, walls so high that they kept her from understanding the brutal truths that the rest had to face.
It’s the kind of humiliation you can’t scrub away, a stark reminder that no one escapes unscathed, not even her.
Symond caught sight of Gerard slouching his way across the courtyard, his movements languid, hands dangling at his sides like he had an eternity to spare.
A jolt echoed through Symond, a primitive instinct that surged up unbidden.
There was something about Gerard, a darkness that twisted in Symond’s gut, a venomous cocktail of fear and past agony demanding action—run or strike.
But he took a breath, fists clenched tight, grounding himself where he stood.
He reminded himself that this was almost over.
Gerard came to a stop in front of him, looking bored, his expression unreadable beneath the lazy grin he always wore. He extended his hand, the silver tin of healing balm nestled in his palm.
“Here,” Gerard said. Symond yanked it from his grasp, cramming it into his pocket without glancing at the man. Looking into Gerard’s eyes would require a strength he simply didn’t possess. Avoidance was easier.
“What if he talks to her?” Gerard spoke casually, but the question lingered heavily between them. “Asks her what happened?”
He was talking about Tehvan, obviously. The threats from last night looped in Symond’s mind like a broken record, a relentless echo of danger—dragging him back to the Institute if Tehvan found out about Symond’s little stunt.
It was a gamble he was unable to take. He’d wanted the world to see Elora’s suffering, to make it a spectacle, every ounce of her pain on display for all to witness.
But freedom? That was a different matter entirely.
He wouldn’t trade it for anything, not even for the satisfaction of vengeance.
“Tehvan doesn’t get to be anywhere near her,” he stated flatly, like stating a fact that should be obvious. “Just make sure you watch them, alright? If there’s a way to communicate, they’ll figure it out.”
Gerard’s grin widened, a flash of teeth that made Symond’s muscle constrict.
He tilted his head, considering, and then let out a slow, mocking laugh.
“Oh, is that right?” he drawled, amusement sparkling in his tone.
“That’s conveniently outside the parameters we agreed upon.
” He stepped forward, pressing into Symond’s territory, the hot, acrid scent of his breath invading the surrounding air.
“You know I don’t operate without a price.
If you expect me to be your watchdog, you’re going to need to sweeten the deal. ”
Symond’s lip curled into a contemptuous sneer. A predictable reaction, really. Nothing ever played out straightforward with the prick. “What do you want?” he asked through clenched teeth.
Gerard’s eyes sparkled with a wicked thrill. “You know what I want,” he whispered, fingers delicately straightening Symond’s collar in a teasing caress.
Symond’s stomach clenched violently, nausea curling through him before he suppressed it.
His hands balled into fists; his knuckles white, the urge to pummel the man unbearable.
No. Not again. Never again. The mere thought of saying yes churned his stomach, threatening to spew his breakfast all over that arrogant bastard’s shirt.
Symond shoved Gerard’s hand away from him.
“Forget it.” He stalked off, fists shoved deep into his pockets, fingers twitching like they had a mind of their own.
He didn’t need Gerard’s help. Tehvan was just playing mind games.
What kind of influence did a pathetic excuse for a professor wield in this empire to pull strings like that?
It didn’t matter. He’d be fine. Even if Tehvan caught wind of what had happened, Symond convinced himself there was no way that pompous scholar had the power to relinquish his apprenticeship.
Symond slouched at a wooden table in the far corner of the courtyard, watching the sun scrape lower, bleeding its light as the afternoon dragged on.
The noise was overwhelming—students and professors buzzing like wasps, laughter ricocheting off stone walls.
Somewhere nearby, an annoying jingle spilled from a small glass orb that flickered with sparks of half-cooked alchemy.
It was a sound orb, a glass sphere filled with alchemical vapors that hummed and glowed, projecting the melody stored within.
Symond sensed the rhythmic pulse of the music vibrating through the ground beneath his feet, but it only made him feel more out of place.
Renna slipped into the chair beside him, her smile bright and hopeful.
She was still buzzing from the dance floor, breathless, her dark hair a wild cascade framing her round face.
For a moment, she just watched him, her brow creased.
Then, with a small, tentative gesture, she moved closer and enclosed his hand in hers.
“Come dance with me,” she said softly, giving his hands a squeeze.
Symond pulled away as if her touch burned him.
He glued his gaze to the scuffed table surface, avoiding her stare.
He didn’t have the energy to give. He couldn’t muster even a false grin; faking emotions had never been his forte.
Renna’s shoulders slumped, and she let out a quiet sigh.
She lingered, as if she might say something more, but then she pushed herself up from the chair and left without another word, disappearing into the crowd.
Symond watched her leave, a nagging twinge of guilt worming its way into his mind.
But it faded under the weight of his desperate need to escape this absurd circus of laughter and so-called joy.
Celebrating? What was there to celebrate?
He wanted silence, an end. His fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against his knee, eyes darting through the crowd, searching for anywhere to hide.
People were too happy, too loud. He was a ghost among the living, out of place, waiting for the moment he could finally slip away.
But then his gaze collided with Tehvan’s.
The professor, speaking with another teacher across the courtyard, kept his eyes fixed on Symond. There was no pretense of kindness in his expression, just a cold, sharp malice that made Symond’s chest constrict. It was unmistakable; the fury he had seen last night simmered beneath the surface.
Symond spun away, severing the unbearable gaze.
He forced his focus downward, his eyes glued to the cracked stones beneath him.
Still, he sensed Tehvan’s piercing scrutiny lingering, a weight that felt invasive.
He can’t do anything. Just a lot of noise, empty threats meant to rattle me.
Breathe. Focus. This is a power play. He can’t touch my apprenticeship; that’s mine, I earned it.
Thorn stands above him—infinitely more superior.
The thought should have brought some peace, but it didn’t.
The pit in his stomach twisted into a tighter knot of anxiety, the kind that gnaws at you when you’re being hunted.
He curled his fingers into tight fists under the table, nails biting into his skin like a reminder of what was at stake.
He couldn’t let Tehvan’s threats get to him.