"What happened, Symond? What did you do?" Violette asked, studying his face like she was seeing him for the first time.
He shrugged, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "Nothing much. Just visited an alchemist. For something to help me sleep better. Must have worked."
"An alchemist," she repeated, horror dawning on her face. "What kind of alchemist? What did they give you?"
"The kind of potion that takes memories you don't want and puts them somewhere else," he replied, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the stone floor. "Nothing important. Just... things that kept getting in the way. Bad dreams. Waking up screaming, apparently, though I don't recall that either."
"You erased your memories?" Violette's voice cracked on the last word. "Symond, those memories were part of you. They made you who you are—who you were."
"Well, they weren't very pleasant memories, from the sound of it," he replied reasonably. "So good riddance, I say."
The child had gone very still. His small hand rested on his father's chest, but his eyes were fixed on Symond now, wide and wary.
"The Institute," the boy said suddenly. "Is that where the people in black suits take children?"
Symond nodded, oddly pleased by the question. "That's the one. Black suits, big promises. They come through the towns every few seasons, looking for special children." He tilted his head, studying the boy. "They might like you. You've got that look about you."
"Enough," Violette snapped. "Don't listen to him, kid. The Institute is not somewhere you want to go. It's a terrible place that does terrible things to children."
"Is it?" Symond asked, genuinely curious. "I don't remember it being particularly terrible. Just... there. A place with walls and people and lessons. But then, there's quite a lot I don't remember these days."
Violette stared at him for a long moment, something like grief passing over her features. Then she turned back to the boy, kneeling once more to bring herself to his level.
"I can't bring your father back. And I can't make this better. But I promise you, I will find you somewhere safe to go. Somewhere far away from the Institute. Will you trust me? Just enough to leave this place?"
The boy looked at his father's face one last time, reaching out to touch his cheek with trembling fingers. Then he nodded, a tiny movement almost lost in the shadows.
"There's my gran," he whispered. "In the river district. Papa said to go there if something happened."
"We'll find your gran together," Violette said, offering her hand.
He hesitated, then placed his small hand in hers, allowing her to help him to his feet. He stopped to pick up the fallen wooden bird, tucking it carefully into his pocket before giving his father one last, lingering look.
Whatever Violette thought she knew about his past, about the Institute, clearly didn't match with what little he recalled. Funny how memories worked—or didn't work, in his case. Like trying to read a book with most of the pages torn out, just fragments of a story that didn't connect to anything.
The void where his childhood should have been felt comfortable, in its way. A blank space where nothing mattered. Much better than screaming in his sleep, certainly.
"Ready?" Violette asked him, her voice cool as she led the boy toward the passage they'd entered through. Her eyes held a wariness that hadn't been there before, like she was looking at a stranger wearing her friend's face.
"Always," Symond replied cheerfully, pushing himself away from the wall. "Though I still think this is an unnecessary complication."
"I'm sure you do," Violette said, her voice tight. "We'll discuss your... memories... later."
Symond shrugged, following them toward the passage. Behind them, Rylok's body lay cooling on the cellar floor, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, seeing nothing at all. Somehow fitting, Symond thought. The void staring into the void.
Chapter 43
Elora
They reached the city outskirts, the forest thinning into patchwork fields and muddy lanes lined with squat fencing. Kilfaire’s walls rose up in the distance, sun-bleached and crawling with late-morning traffic. The horse—by now as tired of the woods as its riders—snorted and tossed its mane as they approached the low fence of a thatch-roofed livery.
Rell swung down and looped the reins over a post. “We walk from here,” he said, patting the horse’s flank as if apologizing. “I’ll come back for you, old girl. Promise.” He slipped the stable-hand a coin, then helped Elora down with unnecessary care, his grip warm and lingering on her waist.
As they neared the city, Elora noticed the first signs of civilization. Or what passed for it here. The outskirts of Kilfaire were nothing like she had imagined. The houses, if they could even be called that, were little more than fragile shells of rotting wood, held together by rusted nails and a prayer. The air hung heavy with the stench of decay and unwashed bodies, assaulting her senses and making her stomach churn. She had expected the city to feel more welcoming, but this was different. This placereeked of desperation.
Elora tried to keep her gaze forward, but it was impossible to ignore the eyes that followed them as they walked. She saw shadows move in the darkened doorways, the shapes of people hidden beneath tattered hoods and grimy cloaks. She could feel them sizing her up, and her hand instinctively tightened around her satchel, clutching it closer to her side.
The outskirts felt like a haven for the desperate and the criminal—people with nothing to lose and everything to gain by making a quick deal. It was like being in a place where secrets thrived, where any wrong move or look could spark trouble. She could almost feel the tension crackling in the air, a place where danger was as common as breathing.
