But that left another question.
“What happened to him?” Symond asked, his tone neutral, though his hazel eyes gleamed with a darker curiosity. “Tehvan. If he helped you, what did Thorn do to him?”
The pause before her response sent Symond’s thoughts spiraling.
Maybe he’s dead. Or maybe Thorn caught him, tortured him.
The image filled Symond’s mind, and he felt a sick sense of justice stirring in his chest. He knew Tehvan had to be involved in the treatment he suffered. Tehvan must have traded Symond’s safety for Elora’s. He hoped the professor was suffering in a dark damp dungeon. It would be poetic.
But Elora’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Tehvan’s fine,” she said finally.
Symond’s gaze sharpened, his interest deepening. He leaned forward, catching the faintest flicker of doubt in her expression.
“Fine?” he echoed. “You sure about that?”
Elora’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned back to her potion. “Yes.”
Symond was about to push further when the door to the lab creaked open.
Rell stepped in, his gaze immediately landing on him. His eyes narrowed, his body language radiating annoyance. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
Symond gestured lazily toward Elora, leaning back against the table. “Just talking.” He glanced at her and added with a faint smirk, “She’s fine. Aren’t you, Elora?”
Rell’s gaze flicked to her, his irritation softening slightly as he took in her seemingly calm demeanor. Elora wasn’t visibly upset—her movements remained precise, controlled—but the stiffness in her posture and the tension in her jaw likely hadn’t escaped his notice.
“Come on, Rook,” Rell said, jerking his head toward the door. “We need to go over the plan for tonight.”
Symond gave Elora one last look before following, something catching his attention.
It was her eyes.
For the first time in years, he reallylookedat her, and the difference stopped him cold. Her pupils were rimmed with a faint ring of gold, glinting in the warm light of the lab. That had never been there before. He was sure of it. At The Institute, he’d avoided her gaze as much as possible, but now he felt certain, this was new.
Another thing about her that had changed.
Who even is she now?
The thought lingered as he turned and followed Rell out of the room, the question echoing in his mind.
Chapter 12
Rell
Rell leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs toward the crackling fire. The flames cast a warm glow across the room, dancing over the mismatched furniture and the slumped figure of Elora. She had barely lasted two minutes in the armchair before her head lolled to the side, her arms crossed loosely over her chest.
He flipped to a fresh page of his journal and lifted his charcoal, beginning the rough outline of her profile. He liked to draw people, capture them on the pages of his journal like tiny glimpses into his memories. He didn’t want to ever forget a face. The first person he drew was a young girl from a northern village that he vowed to save one day. Drew her up so he’d be able to find her. He never did.
He already had Elora cataloged in his journal, he had no reason to draw her again. He just needed to keep his hands busy. But as the soft lines took shape on the page, something made him pause. The exhaustion was etched deep into her features. Even now, she looked like she was bracing for something, her hands curling loosely over her forearms, her shoulders too stiff for someone who was supposed to be resting.
He stared at the half-finished sketch, then at her sleeping form. Drawing her while she worked was one thing—just passing time,nothing more. But this felt... different. Wrong somehow. Too vulnerable. Too intimate for what she was to him.
Some random alchemist he hardly knew.
Rell erased the lines with his thumb, leaving smudged charcoal residue across the page. He closed the journal and set it aside, shifting his weight as his other hand fidgeted with the hilt of his dagger. He needed to start getting ready for their mission tonight. But something kept him rooted to the spot.
What is it about her?
