Chapter 16
Thorn
Today was the day. Nine years of watching, waiting, while Tehvan’s na?ve protection allowed her to believe she was something more than she truly was. But that would end soon enough. Elora would see the truth today. She would know what she had been all along.
Thorn traversed the halls, the steady rhythm of his boots echoing in the silence.
Old parchment, burnt herbs, and the metallic tang of alchemical residue faintly perfumed the air.
The blend seeped between the stones and clung to every corner of the institute: the walls, the paintings, the upholstery, everything.
The summer heat made it worse. Permanently damp and humid air hung heavy, the mist-shrouded sea constantly moistening the island.
He despised the disheveled state it caused him; the sweat beading on his forehead and slipping down his temple like a betrayal of his usual composure.
His meticulously pressed coat stuck uncomfortably to his skin.
He’d pick up a cooling draught on his way back to his study.
He refused to let the humidity spoil today.
The wards, those miserable souls who had managed to survive this long, were already hard at work. They scurried past him, avoiding his gaze. They knew better. Unlike that insolent girl, Elora. But she would learn.
He passed over closed doors of lecture rooms and study chambers, none of any interest to him. He had only one destination in mind. There would be no interruptions this morning. This was a personal matter.
Tehvan’s study appeared ahead, and Thorn neglected to knock. He had no need for pleasantries.
Tehvan glanced up from his desk, startled, his ink-stained fingers frozen mid-sentence on the parchment in front of him. The irritation that flickered across his face was brief, but Thorn caught it. Always so predictable.
The man always maintained a facade of composure, always so maddeningly calm. He had a knack for carrying himself like he wasn’t a failure. Yet, Thorn saw the cracks in Tehvan’s armor. They were plain to anyone who knew where to look.
“I need a memory potion,” Thorn said flatly.
Tehvan hesitated, eyes flicking from the workbench to Thorn’s face. “What are you planning, Abernathy?”
Thorn’s jaw tightened, his irritation flaring like a spark against dry tinder. Abernathy. The name felt inappropriate here, in his sanctum, where he ruled with absolute authority. It was too familiar, too casual.
“Does it matter?” He pushed his frustration aside. “You have the skill. I need the potion.” Thorn could make the potion himself in mere minutes. He was better than Tehvan at everything, but that wasn’t the point.
Tehvan hesitated, then sighed, a sound filled with reluctant resignation. Thorn could almost hear the internal struggle. Obey or resist. Challenge or concede. Thorn knew how this would end. He always won.
Tehvan stood and moved to the workbench. Thorn watched with cool detachment as he began the meticulous process of gathering the ingredients, his hands slightly unsteady.
It was fitting, Thorn thought, that Tehvan would be the one to create the tool for what came next. He had shielded Elora for years, sheltered her from the truth. Now, he would unwittingly contribute to the very thing that would shatter the illusion he had worked so hard to maintain.
As Tehvan worked, Thorn’s attention drifted toward the open doorway. Movement caught his eye. One of the matrons walked past, her arms filled with linens.
“Matron,” he called, his voice keen enough to freeze the woman in her tracks.
She turned, wide-eyed, and quickly dipped her head in a shallow bow. “Yes, Master Thorn?”
“Bring Elora to the cell next to my study,” he said, brushing an invisible lint from his coat. “And make sure she has cleaned herself up.”
The woman nodded hurriedly, backing out of the room before scurrying off to do as he commanded.
Thorn let out a slow breath, shaking off the faint disgust that lingered at the thought.
The image of the courtyard from the night before flitted through his mind.
He had made her stay after the others left.
Scrubbing on her knees in the muck, cleaning the discarded food, spilled wine, and trampled mud from the party.
Hours more of humiliation under his guards’ watchful eyes.
As satisfying as it had been to see her reduced to that, hands raw and clothes soiled, he had no intention of suffering the lingering stench himself.
He turned back to Tehvan, who was just finishing the potion.
For all of Tehvan’s apparent weakness, his skill in alchemy had never faltered, a fact Thorn hated to admit even to himself.
He held it up to the sun beaming through the window, swirling it in the flask, the pale, shimmering liquid dancing in the vial.
It was perfect. Of course it was. Tehvan was too precise, too annoyingly meticulous to make a mistake. Yet Thorn scrutinized him all the same.
“You’ve gotten slow. What is it? Something on your mind?” Thorn said, feigning genuine concern.
Tehvan paused for the briefest moment, his head tilting slightly as though he were considering what to say. “Alchemy doesn’t favor haste. But you would know that if you had paid attention in your studies.”
The insolence of this man. Thorn held his composer, despite the overwhelming urge to dissect every failure, every flaw, every shameful regret Tehvan had buried. He wouldn’t rise to the bait. Tehvan was permitted to speak freely now, but the repercussions of his actions would soon become clear.
“Leave it there,” Thorn said as Tehvan placed the finished potion down.
The moment had come. Thorn pricked his finger with a sharp pin, watching as the crimson bead welled up before dropping it into the shimmering potion. The liquid rippled, its color deepening, swirling with a new intensity as Thorn’s blood merged with the alchemical mixture.
Tehvan stood beside him, and Thorn could feel the weight of his gaze. There was no mistaking the worry that darkened Tehvan’s eyes. He knew. He knew what memory Thorn had chosen.
“Abernathy,” Tehvan said, almost pleading. “Don’t do this. She doesn’t need to see…”
Thorn’s sharp smile silenced his words before they developed. He didn’t bother to look at Tehvan. The vial already held the sealed memory, and Elora would soon see exactly what Thorn wanted her to witness.
“Don’t hurt her,” Tehvan tried again, his voice cracking, almost desperate now.
Finally, he spoke, with all intention of slicing through Tehvan’s pathetic attempts to dissuade him.
“Hurt her? Oh, Tehvan...” His gaze lifted, pinning the man with an icy stare.
“I’m not going to hurt her.” He paused, savoring the flicker of confusion and dread in Tehvan’s eyes before leaning in slightly. “You are.”
Thorn’s fingers constricted around the flask, the soft clink of glass against his rings the only sound in the suffocating stillness. His smirk deepened as he watched the words sink in, watched the horror creep across Tehvan’s face like ink spreading through water.
“It’s time you took some responsibility, don’t you think?” He straightened, with a sharp, intoxicating feeling of power. “After all, you’re the one who has been lying to her all this time.”
The cell’s door creaked open as Thorn stepped inside.
A weak odor of dampness clung to the stone walls, and the murky light barely illuminated the small space.
She was positioned near the tiny window, trying to glimpse the world beyond.
The sight amused him, a caged animal desperate for freedom, unaware of how little control she truly had.
She turned when he entered, her soft blue eyes meeting his.
Somehow, under the notion that she was still untouchable, she wouldn’t meet his gaze if she thought otherwise.
Thorn scrutinized her, noting every detail.
Damp strands of dark hair clung to her face, framing her pale complexion.
He noticed faint bruises on her cheek as if they had already been healing for a week instead of only one day.
Her fingers gripped the fresh gray ward’s dress, fidgeting with the frayed edges of her sleeve.
It was an ugly dress, plain and utilitarian, just as Thorn had intended.
The dress’s design perfectly suited it for melting into the scenery and being forgotten, as the wards should be.
Its shapeless form hung on her frame; loose sleeves rolled up for work, its hem stopped at mid-shin to avoid dragging in the dirt.
A single tie at the waist cinched it in slightly, though it did little to give the garment any definition.
The wards didn’t need adornments or comforts.
Their clothing, like their lives, was practical, stripped of anything unnecessary or indulgent.
Elora said nothing, only stared at him. Good. She had at least learned something.
“Come,” he ordered.
Without protest, she trailed him out of the cell and into the corridor.
Thorn walked with purpose, leading her to his nearby personal study.
An expansive chamber opened before them, much larger and far more organized than the cramped mess of Tehvan’s office.
Bookcases covered the back wall, each shelf full of old tomes, vials, jars of ingredients, all perfectly labeled, each in their rightful place.
A large mahogany ‘L’ shaped workbench dominated the center of the room, his latest experiment’s notes and drafts sprawled out yet meticulously scattered to be exactly where he needed them.
Everything had its place, strictly arranged for efficiency.
Thorn thrived in this space; here, control was absolute.
Against one wall was a metal gurney, its surface stained with dried blood from the last poor soul Thorn had experimented on.
Elora certainly noticed it. She paused in the doorway as she scanned the room, her entire posture taut as she inched backwards as if she were about to bolt.
He would love to see her try, but she didn’t. She knew better.
“Relax,” he said, as if he actually cared. “You’re not here for that.” Yet.
Elora’s anxiety didn’t fully ease, but she redirected her attention back to him as he motioned to a large wooden chair positioned at the workstations. His chair.
“Sit.”
She hesitated, casting another look around the room, but eventually lowered herself into the seat. Thorn observed her carefully, studying the subtle movements of her body, the restrained uncertainty in her eyes. She was trying to stay composed. Trying and failing.
“What is this place?” Her hands picked at her fingernails as she avoided his gaze.
Thorn’s lips curved into a subtle smile, yet he didn’t bother answering. The question was irrelevant, and before long, she would become all too familiar with the room and its purpose. There was no need to explain it to her now.
Moving closer, he reached down and tilted her chin upward, making her meet his eyes. Her skin was cool under his fingers, her fear just barely concealed behind the mask of calm she was struggling to maintain.
“There are more important matters to deal with,” he murmured, then released her.
From his pocket, Thorn retrieved the vial, the memory potion, its silvery pink liquid swirling softly inside the glass. Elora’s eyes were glued to it immediately. He saw the recognition in her eyes. She knew exactly what it was.
Of course she did. Despite Tehvan’s coddling, Elora was skilled in alchemy.
Thorn allowed himself a moment of regret, not for her sake, but for the potential wasted because of Tehvan’s foolish indulgence.
Under different circumstances, she might have been something else. A more useful tool. A sharper weapon.
But that didn’t matter now. This was her fate.
“You know what this is,” Thorn said softly, letting the golden light from the orbs above them catch the swirling liquid. Elora’s silence was answer enough.
She remained focused on the potion, her bottom lip beginning to tremble. She was right to be afraid. But this was necessary. She had to see. She needed to understand.
Thorn turned the mixture between his fingers, savoring the moment before her world would truly unravel.
“What will I see?” She was so quiet, just a small squeak of a mouse before getting snapped in a trap.
He shook his head and let out a soft, almost disappointed sound. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He did not try to hide the condescension in his tone. “You think I can simply tell you, Elora? No. You need to see it for yourself.”
Gently, almost tenderly, he reached out, guiding her hand until her fingers wrapped around the small glass container. She didn’t fight him, but she also didn’t grip it with any strength. It wobbled in her hold, threatening to slip from her hand the moment he released it.
Elora glanced up at him, and a defiant “no” was nearly audible in her glare alone.
Smiling, Thorn leaned in, his hand remaining on hers as he guided it upward to press the vial to her lips.
He sensed her hesitation, the way her body stiffened as the cool glass touched her skin.
She was resisting, trying to hold on to that last thread of control. It amused him.
“There you go,” he whispered. “It’s time to learn.”
Her lips cracked slightly, and with that small opening, Thorn tilted the vial, letting the shimmering liquid slide down her throat.
The effect was immediate.
She slumped back into the chair, her muscles going slack. Her eyes glazed over, the bright focus in them dimming as the potion took hold.
This was what he had waited for, years of Tehvan’s control undone in a single moment. Elora, the girl who imagined she might challenge him, would soon see the reality of her existence. There was no escape from the truth. There never was.
With a faint smirk, Thorn leaned back against the workstation, arms crossed and waited.