Chapter 30
Thorn
Thorn sat at his desk, fingers steepled, his sharp gaze fixed on the door as if willing Gerard to appear.
The room was heavy with a quiet that spoke of barely contained violence.
He forced himself to remain calm, his breathing measured, his thoughts meticulously ordered.
At least on the surface. Beneath that control, a storm churned.
One he hated himself for even acknowledging.
He’d gone over this in his mind a hundred times, each repetition more ruthless than the last: Elora is a ward. A tool. Nothing more. She is not Flora.
But the line he had drawn for himself, so clean, so absolute, was blurring. And he despised it. This meeting with Gerard was proof of it, proof of his faltering resolve, proof that Elora’s existence was becoming a complication he hadn’t accounted for.
The anger he felt toward Gerard was intolerable. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t about control or discipline. It was personal, and that made it dangerous. He loathed himself for it, for the spark of rage that coiled within him whenever he imagined Gerard laying his filthy hands on her.
It was as though the past had come clawing back to life, driving him to confront a ghost he had buried years ago. He wasn’t seeing Elora. He was seeing her, hearing her voice in every broken syllable that spilled from Elora’s lips.
And it was obscuring his judgment. He knew it, sensed the weakness worming its way into his carefully constructed control, and yet he couldn’t fully shake it. It disgusted him. He was Abernathy Thorn, and he didn’t falter, didn’t allow sentiment or memory to interfere with his goals.
Yet here he was, waiting to lash out at Gerard, not because the enforcer had overstepped the boundaries Thorn had set, but because of the way it made him feel.
The door groaned open, and Gerard stepped inside, his swagger dulled but present, though Thorn noticed the faint tightness in his shoulders.
He looked curious, but not cautious. Why would he be?
Thorn had rarely interfered with Gerard’s practices and had granted him liberties with the wards.
Gerard had been useful. Effective. More than once, Thorn had relied on Gerard to execute orders where needed, without questions or hesitation.
Thorn’s hand flicked toward the chair across from him, a silent command, and Gerard sat.
His expression was easy, calm, but there was something in the subtle shift of his eyes, a flicker of confusion, faint but noticeable.
Thorn leaned back, his fingers still steepled as he studied the man.
He gave Gerard a moment to feel the weight of the silence, to let it settle uncomfortably in the air. Only then did he speak.
“Gerard,” Thorn began. “I’m aware of your… encounter with Elora.”
The shift in Gerard’s expression was subtle, but Thorn caught it. A shadow passed over his face, fleeting but telling. Gerard held his composure as he straightened slightly in the chair.
“Is there a problem, sir?” he asked, his tone careful, but with a thread of confidence that Thorn found grating. “She’s a ward. I thought she was fair game.”
Thorn resisted the urge to snap, forcing himself to remain composed.
He sensed the anger simmering beneath the surface, clawing for release.
Control. He needed control. The fury threatened to boil over, but Thorn repeated the words in his mind like a mantra, trying to anchor himself to reason.
She is not Flora. She is not my niece. Elora is a tool. Nothing more.
But the image of her slipped through the cracks in his resolve. It was haunting, maddening. Gerard’s words only made it worse. The audacity, the casual dismissal of a girl’s suffering, ignited something dark and sharp in Thorn’s chest. But he couldn’t let that emotion show.
Instead, he shifted forward slightly, his intense stare pinning Gerard in place, the faintest edge of steel lacing his words. “Fair game?” he repeated.
Gerard had thought himself untouchable, shielded by Thorn’s reliance on him. And perhaps he had been until now. Thorn let the silence stretch again, heavier this time, forcing Gerard to squirm. The man’s use had reached its limit, and Thorn had no intention of letting him forget who held the leash.
“You were mistaken,” Thorn said finally.
“Elora is not just another ward. You don’t get to use her to satisfy your sick fantasies.
And if you ever overstep again, Gerard…” Thorn’s lips curled faintly, not in a smile, but in something far colder.
“...you’ll learn what happens to tools that lose their purpose. ”
Gerard’s brow furrowed, his posture deceptively casual as he shrugged. “Apologies, sir,” he said, his voice careful, but not nearly careful enough. “I didn’t think she was… special.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “I thought she was just another one of the wards.”
“You have access to any other ward,” he said sharply. “Even some students, when I allow it. Yet you chose her. Why?”
Gerard cocked an eyebrow, as if Thorn’s question itself was a joke he didn’t quite understand. “I didn’t think there was a restriction.” A faint curve of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. His next words were deliberate, needling. “Didn’t know you had a… preference, sir.”
The smirk, the insinuation, the casual dismissal—it was all Thorn could do not to lash out then and there.
Elora is not Flora. The thought rang like a warning bell in his mind, repeating over and over, trying to ground him, trying to drag him back into control.
She was a tool. A means to an end. A pawn in his carefully laid plan to dismantle Tehvan piece by piece.
But Gerard’s actions, Gerard’s audacity to claim what was his, had upended that control.
Thorn wasn’t blind to what the guards did, nor did he care, until now.
Gerard had no right. Not to touch her. Not to interfere.
It wasn’t sentiment. It wasn’t care. It was control.
That’s what he told himself. That’s what it had to be.
Elora was a tool. A means to an end. His to wield.
His to break. On his terms. Not Gerard’s.
“You thought wrong. Touch her again without my command, and I’ll have you flayed before morning roll call. Do you understand me?”
Gerard squinted at him, his lip curling faintly, threatening to twist into a scowl.
Thorn saw the hint of irritation, the restrained defiance lurking underneath.
He saw the wheels turning in Gerard’s mind, the hunger to press, to dig deeper, to figure out why this girl—this ward—was different.
But Gerard wasn’t a fool. He was smart enough not to provoke Thorn, even if the question clearly itched at him.
Gerard gave a sharp nod, though there was no mistaking the faint resentment imprinted on his expression. “Understood, sir.” The words were spoken out of obligation, not respect.
“Good.” Thorn leaned back in his chair. “Elora is my experiment. She serves my purpose. Any further interference—any liberties taken with her—will not be tolerated.” Each word measured, cutting, leaving no room for interpretation. It wasn’t just a warning. It was a promise.
Gerard’s head dipped again. “Is that all, sir?” he asked.
“Yes. You’re dismissed.”
Gerard rose from the chair, his movements slower than usual, as if he thought taking his time might reveal something Thorn wasn’t willing to share. He didn’t look back as he turned for the door, the faintest tension in his shoulders betraying his annoyance.
Thorn exhaled, letting the rigidity drain from his shoulders, but the anger simmered.
Gerard’s curiosity was irritating, but manageable, for now.
If he stepped out of line again, Thorn wouldn’t hesitate to remind him where he stood.
The guards were tools, like everyone else in the Institute.
Tools were useful until they weren’t. And Gerard was rapidly approaching that threshold.
Elora was becoming an issue, tangled too deeply in memories that had no place in his work.
Whenever his eyes met hers, the resemblance clawed at him.
Her face was wrong—not quite Flora’s, but close enough.
It was a mockery, a ghost wearing the barest shadow of his niece’s face.
He hated it. Hated the way it stirred something raw and unwelcome inside him, something that made him hesitate.
Elora wasn’t Flora. She never would be. She was a fabrication, a pale echo of what Tehvan had stolen. And yet, the illusion refused to let him go.
An idea formed in his mind, piercing the haze that had plagued him for far too long. The solution was so simple it was almost laughable: he could erase it, every resemblance. Face. Character. Her humanity even.
His latest experiment had finally progressed to the stage of human trials.
Elora would be the first. The perfect subject.
Her destiny had always been this. He would need a few sessions, but when he finished, she would no longer carry Flora’s likeness in appearance or personality.
There would be no trace of the past in her features, no memory to scrape at his thoughts.
She would be his creation, a vessel of his own making, purged of every shadow and ghost that lingered between them.
Yes, this would be the answer. The resentment festering in him, the confusion, the hesitation, it would all be gone. Soon, there would be no Flora in her eyes, no resemblance to plague him. There would only be what he allowed to remain.