“She’s from the Institute,” he spat.
Violette’s eyes widened. “Another runaway apprentice?”
Symond chuckled darkly, the sound void of humor. “No, not an apprentice. She failed. She’s a ward. She should be wasting away there with the rest of the rejects.”
Violette frowned, her gaze shifting to Elora. “You’re a ward?”
Elora’s fingers gripped the table tightly as she forced herself to speak. “I was.”
“You are,” Symond corrected. “Don’t confuse escaping the Institute with escaping who you are. Some things, you carry with you.”
"Maybe you’re right," she said softly, her voice trembling but steady enough to sting. "Is that what you’re doing here? Trying to escape who you are? Do they know—"
“Watch your mouth,” he said, his voice low and dangerous as he stepped closer, the space between them shrinking with every word.
She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand. He’d endured pain and humiliation. Because of her! She had no right to judge him. No right to speak like she understood what it meant to survive in a world that wanted to break you, to destroy you piece by piece until there was nothing left but scraps.
Symond’s lips curled into a snarl. He could feel the heat in his chest, the bitter taste of rage and something darker, something vulnerable that he couldn’t let her—or anyone—see.
“That’s enough,” Rell said sharply, stepping between them. His usual playful demeanor had vanished, replaced by something far more commanding. “I don’t know what went down between you two, but we’re not doing this here.”
But Symond ignored him. “Tell me,” Symond took a slow step forward. “Did you have fun with Gerard? Did he do as I asked?”
Elora froze, her entire body stiffening. Her cheeks flushed, a sheen of unshed tears glistening in her wide eyes. Symond could see it, she understood exactly what he meant.
He took another step forward, his gaze completely skipping over the mercenary clad in all black between them. “Go on, Elora. Answer me.”
Her lips quivered, but no sound came out.
“Enough,” Rell said sharply.
Symond ignored him again, his fury radiating off him in waves as he closed the distance between him and Elora, the tension in his frame barely restrained.
Rell moved in a flash, his hand shooting out and gripping Symond’s shoulder firmly. The pressure stopped him in his tracks.
“I said enough,” Rell repeated through clenched teeth.
Symond turned his head slightly, his glare shifting to Rell. “You don’t know what she did,” he growled.
“And I don’t care,” Rell snapped, his tone firm as his grip tightened on Symond’s shoulder.
He could feel the weight of Rell’s hand like a leash, and it made his blood boil. Rell’s gaze flicked briefly to Elora, lingering just long enough for Symond to notice. He saw it, the faint shift in the mercenary’s expression.
She was staring at the ground, her shoulders tense and rigid. He had struck a nerve; he could tell by the way her breath hitched, by the slight tremor in her frame. Weak. She was still weak.
And yet, here Rell was, standing between them like some self-appointed shield. Why? What was so special about her that she warranted his protection?
“Why is she even here?” Symond spit out the words.
“Back up,” Rell said evenly, like he was talking to an unruly child. “And I’ll tell you.”
The nerve. But after a tense pause, he took a step back, if only to get this over with.
Rell released his shoulder, straightening as he crossed his arms. “She’s here because we need her,” he said. “She’s an alchemist, and she’ll be making the shards we need for the job.”
Symond barked out a laugh. He couldn’t let Rell see the irritation bubbling under his skin. “She’s going to make the shards?” he asked, his voice dripping with mockery. “What are you going to do when she screws it up? Because trust me, she will. There’s a reason she is a ward and not an apprentice.”
The lie rolled off his tongue easily, though his stomach twisted slightly. He knew better. She was one of the most skilled alchemists of their class, far better than anyone wanted to admit, least of all him.
