Chapter 23
Elora
The chamber was warmer than she expected.
Not just from the fireplace, but from the aroma—cedarwood, leather, and old parchment. It almost reminded her of Tehvan’s bedroom. She hated it. Hated that Thorn’s room felt more like home than the ward’s quarters.
It was her turn to play maid for their benevolent headmaster. He was at his desk when she entered, scribbling away, quill scratching in a ledger.
“You’re early.”
“Well, I thought you’d appreciate punctuality.
” She stood awkwardly by the door, arms clamped behind her back, feet slightly rocking back and forth like an impatient child.
How old was Florence when she died? She couldn’t remember if Tehvan ever mentioned it to her, but she imagined she was rather young.
Thorn glanced over, watching her teeter on her heels. “What are you doing?”
Taking a risk. It had been three weeks since he started extracting her blood.
Six sessions so far. After the last few, she had noticed Thorn’s growing conflict in distinguishing her from his dear niece.
He indulged her curiosity. Told her about his trials and findings.
He was convinced that Tehvan only saved her to be a replacement for Florence.
Fine, she’d let him believe that. It only seemed to muddle the line further for him, and with that came its own advantages.
After the last visit to his lab, instead of scrubbing toilets like she was supposed to, she’d spent an extra hour discussing harmonic crystals.
She’d studied them extensively during her lessons, but she played dumb.
Letting him explain the intricacies and properties.
All the miraculous ways he could use them to steal people's life essence and make the lowest class of civilians nothing more than walking blood bags. Well, he didn’t phrase it that way, but that was all she heard.
“I thought you were supposed to tell me.” The room already seemed polished to perfection. The rich, heavy drapes in deep crimson and black must have been steamed every day. They hung stick straight, swallowing any natural light that dared try to enter.
The bed sat on a raised platform at the center of the space.
It wasn’t just a piece of furniture; it was an altar.
Its frame was wrought iron, twisted with sharp, angular patterns, and the headboard bore the carved sigil of MAHO, with an added ring of thorns.
The sheets, like the curtains, were pulled taut, eliminating any wrinkles or folds.
Bookshelves lined a wall, filled with tomes bound in cracked leather and metal clasps, not a speck of dust in sight. Two enormous wardrobes, one securely locked, framed a portrait of a man with an uncanny resemblance to the master of the suite, only decades older. Grandpa Thorn, perhaps.
Besides the actual warmth from the fireplace, this space only exuded a chilling sense of control. Of dominance. Of Power. It was exactly as she imagined it would be.
Ahem. Thorn pulled her attention back to him and gestured to the bed. “The sheets need washed. Strip the bedding,” he said, before returning to his work.
She obeyed. Tugging the linens from the mattress, she attempted to fold them into respectably perfect squares, but only managed a lopsided bundle with uneven edges and puckered corners.
She hummed a song as she worked. An old melody.
Tehvan used to sing it to her when she was little.
The words had long since left her, but the tune remained.
Gentle, familiar, and just quiet enough to seem accidental.
Behind her, the scratching of the quill slowed… then stopped.
He was listening. Had he hummed the same tune to Flora?
She continued, making it to the third verse, the stillness behind her like a spell she cast over the space. Until he finally spoke.
“Stop that.”
She didn’t stop right away. Just a beat longer, finishing the chorus. Enough to see if he’d snap. He didn’t.
“I was wondering…” she began, finding the best way to keep him latched on to the illusion she was weaving. “How similar are we?”
He scoffed. “You and me? Hardly—”
“No.” She felt his eyes on her. “Me and Flora.” She glanced back at him, watching his humorless laugh from a second ago ebb away into something thoughtful. “I know we look alike,” she continued, her fingers smoothing the edge of the quilt, “but was she like me? Like… in the ways that mattered?”
The chair creaked as he reclined. “She was… very curious.” Each word seemed like it had to pass through a screen of memory before being allowed out.
“She had a brilliant mind and a sharp tongue. She knew she was born into power, and in the end, she was finally beginning to wield it. To take control.”
He rose from the chair and sauntered towards her. She didn’t dare move, a pillowcase half removed held frozen in her hands.
“You… You’re curious too. More than you let on.” He stood beside her now, though she couldn’t bring herself to face him. “You have the same laugh.”
Then, gently—too gently—he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She stayed motionless, but her breath still shuddered. His hand lingered, sliding down to her chin, coaxing her towards him.
He stared deeply into the sky blue of her eyes, searching, recognizing. She knew he was seeing Flora. That was what she wanted, right? But the closeness, the intimacy of the moment. She tried jerking her head away, but his grip only tightened.
“Thorn—”
“You’re not her. She had potential—”
“I had potential.” Shut up, Elora. She bit her tongue, but it was too late.
Thorn gave a small, bitter hum—barely a chuckle—and dropped his hand from her chin.
“Your very existence is an insult to her memory. Flora had the potential for greatness. For power. You?” His gaze swept over her like filth underfoot.
“You would never have been more than a low-level alchemist. But thanks to Tehvan, your potential only ever extended to being my lab rat.”
He turned away and walked to the far side of the room, unlocking a tall wardrobe with a key from his coat. Whips. Canes. Rods. All lined up with the same care he gave his surgical instruments.
He selected one. Bounced it in his hand, testing the weight.
When he turned back toward her, she braced herself, heart hammering. She was sure she crossed a line and he would make her pay for it. How did this type of punishment usually go? She had no idea. She was never on the receiving end.
But he didn’t swing. He just looked at her. Not past her. At her. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Hesitation? No. Conflict.
He dropped the whip down on the bed in front of her. “Clean them.” Then he just left.
Elora sat on the mattress, trembling hands massaging her temples. The whip lay beside her; the leather flaking at the seams. She wondered who these had been used on. But the answer was easy. Everyone. Everyone except her.
Picking it up, she tested the weight of it just as Thorn had.
She thought of Rian’s quiet limp. The times Arria bit her lip in pain as she struggled to sit down.
She thought of Symond. Angry, bitter Symond.
Scars lined his arms. Rows of them. Ugly and rigid.
Marks of a punishment he probably didn’t earn.
Marks that were meant for her.
Even now, she wasn’t spared anymore. Thorn had taken her blood, claimed her body for his work. Torture with a scholarly name. And yet… he hadn’t used these on her.
Not even once. Why?
The others had bled for their chance. For their future. They paid the price in pain and silence and obedience. And she got to coast through it. She hadn’t suffered like they had. And for it, she hadn’t earned her place. She was hardly paying for it now. The thought sparked a sick sort of clarity.
Maybe she was exactly where she belonged. Maybe… maybe she didn’t deserve freedom.