Thorn’s grip clamped around the base of her skull, a heavy reminder that he thought he owned her. He pressed his fingers into her skin as if they were meant to be there. She knew he was talking about her now, just by the way his tone shifted, dripping with that infuriating satisfaction. She tuned back in, just in time to catch the wordsfailureanddisobedienceslipping from his lips.
“This one,” Thorn said, tightening his grip around her neck, like he wanted everyone to know she was the lesson. “Is a reminder of what happens when you refuse to learn, when you defy the rules. Elora failed where others succeeded. She didn’t learn obedience. And this,” — he yanked her a step closer, forcing her to face the crowd — “is the price.”
I’m not your lesson. I will not be your puppet.The words remained trapped behind clenched teeth, burning her from the inside. Elora’s cheeks burned, but she kept her gaze glued to the cobblestone, avoiding the stares from her classmates, the professors, even the other wards who looked at her like she was some kind of tragic painting.
Her body ached, a heavy tiredness creeping in, knees quaking from standing for what seemed like an eternity, but it didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t give a single thought to his words, didn’t even flinch at the humiliation. All she wanted was for the night to end, for this spectacle to be over.
Thorn’s speech concluded with a flourish, his voice echoing through the courtyard. The wards and professors erupted into cheers, clapping for the departing class, but Thorn barely acknowledged them. He snapped his fingers, calling Elora to follow him into whatever came next.
The wards were hustling behind them, like busy little bees, scrubbing away the last bits of the party, empty glasses and scraps. Elora cast a brief glance behind her, wishing for the chance to stick around and lend a hand, but Thorn’s fingers tightened around her, steering her forward.
The walk to the docks was short. She saw the ship, swaying like it was dancing, sails whispering secrets to the wind. The Empire’s colors, red and gold, splashed boldly on its side like an art piece onthe ocean. She watched her friends board the ship. Every laugh, every whispered secret under the stars, every shared victory and moment of solace seemed to follow them up the gangplank, leaving her behind. Those memories were the last pieces of light in her world, and as they ascended to their promising futures, they took the warmth with them.
Alfie turned and waved, his smile like a burst of sunlight, pure and almost innocent. Rian followed, blowing her a kiss, a soft breeze of affection that hung in the air. Then came Rowan, pausing at the top of the gangplank, as if he were stuck between two worlds. He looked back at her, and the corners of his mouth dipped. He whispered, “I’m sorry,” with his lips barely moving, before he turned and melted away into the deck, like he was just an echo now.
Seeing them all bursting with this crazy mix of hope and endless possibilities hit her right in the chest. It was an odd ache, a bittersweet feeling. She was genuinely happy for them, even for the ones who had made her feel like she didn’t belong. Even for Symond, who lingered near the edge of the group. He looked different, lighter somehow, as if shedding the weight of the Institute had already begun to change him. Despite everything he had done to her, she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. He was getting the freedom he’d longed for, the freedom she would never have.
Thorn’s fingers dug into her shoulder, yanking her violently from her thoughts. She didn’t need to look up at him to feel the possessiveness in his touch, the silent, oppressive promise that this was all she had now. Him. His world. His control. The future was an abyss, and Thorn was already standing in it, pulling her in.
Chapter 15
Elora
Elora scrubbed at the wooden tables lining the grounds, her arms aching with every stroke. The once vibrant surface was now stained with wine spills and remnants of the feast. Her friends had left an hour ago, the wards abandoning the courtyard shortly after. Leaving only her to finish with the cleanup. Her fingers were shriveled like prunes, her grip on the brush slipping over every stubborn smear. Frustration bubbled beneath her exhaustion. She just wanted this night to end. But apparently, humiliation had no time limit.
The plaza was quiet now, save for the faint chirping of crickets and the distant lapping of waves beyond the cliffs. The air was cool against her sweat-damp skin, soothing and biting all at once. Her eyelids drooped.Almost done. Just a few more tables.
“Elora.”
Her head jerked up. She scanned the empty courtyard. There was no one but a few guards patrolling. Then she heard it again, softer but urgent, coming from the nearby window framed by ivy-covered stone. Cautiously, she moved closer, keeping her brush moving over the table to avoid drawing attention.
“It’s me,” came the voice.Tehvan.Her shoulders sagged, the knots in them loosening, finally. A barely cracked window allowed the faintest sliver of warm lamplight to seep through. The curtains inside obscured his face but just hearing him was enough. She needed this. Needed him. Someone to remind her she wasn’t completely alone.
“Hold on a bit longer,” he whispered. His voice warmed the chill that had wrapped itself around her since this nightmare began. “I’m going to get you out of here. Iwillfind a way.”
Of course,she thought.Of course he’ll get me out.He always did. Ward status, Thorn’s cruelty—none of it mattered. Tehvanwouldprotect her. She just had to endure a little longer.
But the flicker of hope darkened as her thoughts twisted back to the night before. She was completely at Symond’s mercy. She shuddered, still tasting him on her tongue. Where was he then?
“Where were you last night?”
A pause. Then, quietly, “I tried.” Regret bled into his words. “I tried to get to you. But Thorn… He’s made it impossible for me to get close.”
Part of her wanted to believe him.Neededto believe him. But the memory, the powerlessness… it bothered her.
“What happened?” Tehvan asked, his voice faltering, as if afraid of the answer.
Her mouth parted—
“Hey.”
Elora jolted, the brush slipping from her fingers and clattering over the tabletop. She spun around and found herself face-to-face with the guard that sported a loaf of ginger hair.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he drawled. His gaze shifted toward the window, but the curtains remained still.
She failed to suppress the deep sigh at the sight of this guard again. Who was this man? She had never seen him before the other night, and now he was inching his way into her world more and more.
He seemed annoyed this morning when he brought her the healing balm from Symond, but now—with his jacket hung open and the scent of spirits on his breath—he seemed less stiff, relaxed even.
