Page 136 of Scars of the Unbound
He looked up at her, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of the vulnerability he'd hidden so well before. "Help me with what? I don't even know what I need help with anymore."
"We need to undo what you did to yourself first—"
“No.” The word flew out of his mouth before she could even finish.
“Symond—”
His lip quivered slightly. “Vye, there are fifty empty vials on my bookshelf. Fifty memories I decided were worth forgetting. I must have thought this was the best thing to do for a reason. I… I’m scared to know what memories were contained in those vials,” he said quietly, and the simple honesty of it broke something open in her chest.
"I know," she said. "But this isn't the way. This is just... postponing it. And when it finally catches up with you—and it will—you won't have any of the tools you spent so long building to deal with it."
He nodded slowly, and she could see the weight of understanding settling on his shoulders. The artificial lightness was fading, replaced by something heavier but more real.
"So, what do I do?" he asked.
Violette reached across the space between them, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he needed to. When he didn't, she placed her hand over his. "You let me help you find your way back to yourself. Your real self. All of it—the pain and the strength, the scars and the healing."
For a moment, she thought he might refuse. His whole body tensed, and she could see the fear flickering in his eyes.
Then, slowly, he turned his hand palm-up beneath hers.
He nodded, and though she saw the uncertainty in his eyes, there was something else there too: hope. Not the false hope of someone who thought they'd found an easy solution, but the harder, more honest hope of someone ready to do the work.
The heavy doors to the common room swung open with a resounding creak that made both of them look up. A tall woman strode through, her dark brown hair pulled back in a severe braid that did nothing to soften the harsh lines of her scarred face. Rough leathers, worn from years of use, creaked with each step as she moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to command.
Behind her followed a group of people probably around Symond’s age, their faces pale and drawn with exhaustion and fear. They moved like frightened animals, staying close together, eyes darting around the room as if expecting another threat to emerge.
The missing apprentices. Finally.
Violette felt relief wash through her as she took in the sight of them—alive, relatively unharmed, and free. The boss had done it. She'd brought them home.
Her eyes flicked to Symond, watching for his reaction. These were the people he'd grown up with at the Institute, the ones who'dshared his experiences under Thorn's cruel tutelage. Though she had a sense they didn’t face nearly the same amount of brutality Symond had. Would he even remember them without access to those locked-away memories?
His face was a study in confusion. Recognition flickered in his eyes—some part of him clearly knew these faces—but he looked lost, unable to settle on the appropriate emotion. He started to smile, then stopped, his expression shifting toward concern before falling back into bewilderment. Like he should be happy but couldn't figure out why happiness felt wrong.
Several of the apprentices spotted him and broke away from the group, rushing over with cries of relief and recollection. They reached for him, embracing him, speaking rapidly in voices thick with emotion. Symond returned their embraces mechanically, his responses stilted and uncertain.
Violette stepped back, giving them space. Whatever reunion this was, it wasn't her place to intrude. Instead, she made her way across the room to where the boss stood, watching the scene with those sharp, calculating eyes.
"You did it," Violette said, unable to keep the warmth from her voice. "You brought them back. They're safe now."
The boss didn't return her smile. If anything, her expression grew more severe. "They need to be settled quickly," she said, her voice carrying that familiar edge of authority. "I don't want to wait long before The Hive starts conditioning them into what they should be."
Violette frowned. "Conditioning? They're alchemists and enchanters. What else would they be?"
The boss turned to look at her then, and something cold flickered in her blue eyes. "They're Thornforged," she said quietly. "But theywillbecome a symbol for change."
"What does that mean?" Violette asked, confusion creeping into her voice. The way the boss said it—like it was something significant, something planned—made unease settle in her stomach.
The boss didn't answer. Instead, she turned away, her boots clicking against the stone floor as she began to walk toward the exit.
"What does that mean?" Violette called after her, louder this time.
Still no response. The boss continued walking, her shoulders rigid with purpose.
"Florence?" Violette's voice cracked slightly on the name, desperation bleeding through her usual composure.
She didn’t stop, leaving Violette standing alone with questions burning in her throat and a growing sense that something fundamental had shifted in The Hive with the return of their leader.
