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 inchingopen. 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. Apotion of clear mindwould 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.
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 inhis 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.”
