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 beneathhim. 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.
The massive wooden doors at the far end of the yard creaked open, and Thorn stepped into view, exuding an authority so palpable it was almost suffocating. The crowd instinctively made way, like anxious crows scattering. But it wasn’t Thorn’s bulk that drew Symond’s gaze; it was Elora, lingering in his shadow, clad in that ridiculous gray uniform of a ward.
Symond’s pulse quickened, a surge of exhilaration coursing through him. He was unable to suppress the small, twisted smile playing on his lips.Finally.No more privileges, no more shields. Just her, vulnerable. Her head hung low, gaze averted, dark strands of hair obscuring her features. It was difficult to decipher her emotions in the dancing torchlight, but he was far more interested in the absence of the bruises he’d inflicted.
He watched as Thorn said something to her and then stepped aside, dismissing her with a casual wave. Elora moved away, walking stiffly across the courtyard toward the refreshment table, each step a tightrope between her frustration and the façade she was clearly forcing herself to maintain. She picked up a glass of fizzing wine, her fingers trembling slightly as she did, but her face exhibited nothing,just a shell performing a routine, utterly absent from the scene around her.
Symond shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the stone. He barely noticed the curious stares of the surrounding students. What did their opinions matter? His focus was singular, narrowed in on her like a hawk spotting its prey.
He moved toward her, a primal need pulling him forward. Every fiber of his being was taut with the urge to confront her, to strip her of her illusions and expose just how fragile, how utterly trivial she was. There was no strategy in his mind, nor was one necessary.
His hands twitched with a craving to seize her, to shove her into the grime where she rightfully belonged. He recognized the futility of that impulse. But he’d hover, apply pressure, unleash words sharp enough to cut deep. No need for physical blows to see her shatter. Just the perfect combination of phrases, a little pressure, and she’d crumble like paper in a storm. He would take his time dissecting every second. He’d drill into her mind just how much agony she owed him, a meticulous reminder of the debt that hung between them like a noose.
Thorn stepped in front of him.
The older man appeared as if from nowhere. Thorn’s imposing figure blocked Symond’s view of Elora entirely, and the jarring interruption made Symond stumble back a step.
Thorn tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “Did you enjoy your fifteen minutes last night?” His gaze bore into him. “Did you get the revenge you needed?”
Symond let out a scoff that felt like shards of glass in his throat. He coughed, but it was an inadequate cover, a pathetic attempt to mask the disdain. His back straightened as he forced his body into some semblance of respect.
“Thank you for the gift,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice slipping into a veneer of politeness that felt as cheap as it sounded. “I just wish there had been more time. Fifteen minutes doesn’t nearly make up for nine years.”
Thorn’s smile didn’t waver. He watched as Symond, clearly distracted, let his gaze slip to Elora, who stood rigid by the refreshment table, clutching a glass of effervescent wine like it might shatter under the weight of her anxiety. Rian was beside her, speaking in a hushed, concerned tone. Elora’s eyes darted between the glass and the ground; her lips pressed together in a thin line. It was clear she wanted to respond to Rian, but she didn’t. She knew better.
She wasn’t out here earlier, setting up. If she won’t act like a ward, he should lock her away, not let her enjoy the wine. Symond’s lip curled in contempt. “Why is she out here?” he asked. “Enjoying the celebration like she’s a part of it?”
Thorn paused, the chaos of the courtyard fading into the background. He turned sharply, casting an assessing glance at her. His words sliced through the din, precise and unwavering. “Elora.”
Her head snapped up, eyes wide and filled with panic as she met both Thorn’s and Symond’s gazes. Rian fell silent, backing off, while Elora, shoulders curled as if Thorn had reprimanded her, trudged away from the table. She approached them slowly, hesitantly, and when she reached Thorn’s side; she extended the glass of wine to him. Thorn took it, then his fingers curled around the nape of her neck, yanking her closer with an intensity that was neither tender nor gentle. It was rough and direct, like everything else he did.
“She’s not out here enjoying herself,” Thorn said, dripping with condescension. He squeezed her neck, forcing her to look at Symond. “She’s learning her place, serving me for the evening.”
Symond chuckled, his eyes raking over Elora with a twisted satisfaction.His personal servant.A dark impulse coiled in his mind; what if she were his servant for the night, bending to his every command?
