Chapter 2 #2
The Queen’s system is designed to grind people down slowly. Food shortages, punishments, exhaustion, and enough suffering to keep everyone obedient.
So the rebellion does what it can.
Sometimes that means battles. Other times it means smuggling weapons. And sometimes it means porridge and bread.
It turns out revolutions run on logistics.
Varek picks up the coil of wire from the crate and turns it over slowly in his hands, the metal catching the morning light that filters through the cracked warehouse windows. He tests the weight of it with his fingers, assessing the thickness the way a soldier evaluates armour.
“You repaired the eastern gate hinge,” he says.
“Yesterday.”
He lifts his eyes to mine again, hard and steady. “It was damaged during the last transfer?”
“Yep.”
Varek waits, patient as stone, clearly aware that the answer I gave him barely scratches the surface. He has a particular talent for silence—the kind that stretches just long enough that you feel compelled to fill it.
Eventually, I sigh and lean back against the worktable, folding my arms. “Eight weeks ago,” I say. “That was the last successful run through that route.”
The shift in his posture is subtle but unmistakable. “Eight.”
“Yeah.”
Saying the number out loud leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Eight weeks is a long time when people are trying to escape.
The eastern gate isn’t really a gate anymore.
It used to be part of the canal lock system back when this district still moved cargo through the waterways, but the city expanded and the routes changed.
Now it’s just an old maintenance barrier buried deep in the tunnels beneath the warehouse district—an iron frame set into a narrow stone corridor where several of the canal passages converge.
It looks like it hasn’t been touched in decades, which is exactly why it works. The Queen’s guards don’t patrol places that appear abandoned.
Unfortunately, abandoned infrastructure has a habit of collapsing when you need it most.
“The patrol pattern shifted earlier than expected that night,” I continue, rubbing absently at the back of my neck as the memory forms. “About ten minutes sooner than usual. We were already halfway through the tunnels when one of the watchers came running back to warn us.”
Varek’s expression grows very still. “How many were in the group?”
“Six,” I say. “Four Riftborn trying to get out. Two Glowranth escorts.”
His silver eyes narrow slightly at the number.
The Glowranth have become unexpected allies in this whole mess.
Which is ironic, considering the Queen herself is Glowranth and most of the crown’s power structure is built around keeping the rest of us exactly where we are—useful, controlled, and very easy to replace.
Officially, the Glowranth run this world. Their houses control the trade routes, the courts, the military posts, and most of the city’s infrastructure. The Queen’s authority rests on that network.
Unofficially… some of them disagree with how she uses it.
A handful of Glowranth in the city have quietly thrown their weight behind the rebellion. Some because they’ve seen what the labour houses do to Riftborn. Some because the Queen’s policies are bad for business. And a few because fate has a twisted sense of humour and handed them Riftborn mates.
Turns out love is a very effective way to ruin someone’s loyalty to the crown.
Funny how quickly loyalty shifts when someone you love ends up wearing a collar in the Queen’s labour houses.
“The hinge seized when we tried to open the gate,” I continue. “Rust, mostly. Years of neglect. But the locking bracket had also jammed itself into the stone frame. Either it warped over time or someone tried to wedge it shut at some point.”
“You believe it was tampered with?”
I shrug. “Could have been. Could also just be old metal doing what old metal does.”
Either way, the result had been the same. The gate wouldn’t move, and the patrol was getting closer.
“So we forced it,” I say. “Didn’t really have another option at that point.”
“With tools?”
“With a pry bar and a great deal of enthusiasm.”
Varek’s gaze flicks briefly to my shoulder.
“That is how you injured yourself.”
“Not the first time,” I say lightly.
The memory returns in focused detail now—the grinding scream of rusted metal, Rin bracing her shoulder against the stone wall beside me while I levered the hinge with everything I had, the echo of approaching footsteps somewhere far down the tunnel network.
Eventually the hinge had given.
Just not the way we’d hoped.
“When the gate finally swung open,” I explain, gesturing with one hand, “the bracket tore straight out of the wall. Stone cracked, bolts sheared, whole thing twisted sideways.”
Varek’s eyes narrow. “And the patrol?”
“Close enough to hear us.”
That part had been… exciting. The tunnels amplify sound in strange ways. One wrong noise travels for half a kilometre.
“What did you do?” he asks.
I allow myself a small grin. “We ran.”
The grin doesn’t appear to reassure him.
“The lower canal channel floods every few hours,” I add. “We cut through there while the guards were still figuring out where the noise had come from.”
The water had been cold, waist-deep in places, the current pulling hard against our legs as we pushed through the submerged tunnel. But it had also washed away our tracks.
Sometimes luck is just physics working in your favour.
“And the gate?” Varek asks.
“Collapsed halfway off the hinge behind us.”
Which meant the route was dead for two months.
I nod towards the coil of wire resting on the table between us. “Took me eight weeks to track down enough decent metal to rebuild the hinge frame without it snapping the first time someone pushes on it.”
Varek says nothing for several seconds. Then he asks quietly, “You repaired it alone.”
“Not entirely.” I straighten slightly, counting the names off on my fingers.
“Rin was there helping. She knows the canal tunnels better than anyone alive and is impressively strong. Olek was on patrol watch above ground. And the Glowranth pair helped keep an eye on things, then later with moving the refugees once we got the gate open.”
His brow furrows. “The bonded ones.”
“Talek and Mirren,” I confirm.
Both are Glowranth and stubborn as hell. They’re also absolutely unwilling to let the Queen keep their Riftborn mates chained to labour houses.
Love, it turns out, is also a surprisingly effective recruitment strategy.
Still, when it came down to it, the hinge repair had been my responsibility.
Varek exhales slowly, the sound controlled but heavy. “You should not have been the one repairing it.”
I shrug. “Someone had to.”
His gaze intensifies. “And it had to be you?”
“Well, unless you know someone else in this district who can hang off a half-collapsed gate bracket and rewire a hinge while standing in canal water up to their knees, yeah. It did.”
The air in the room shifts. The change is subtle but unmistakable. Something darker moves behind his silver eyes—something instinctive, protective, and not entirely pleased.
“You could have been trapped,” he says quietly.
“Wasn’t.”
“The patrols—”
“Didn’t find us.”
“Pax.”
My name leaves his mouth with a low edge to it, a growl threading through the syllable before he reins it back under control.
Nyxerian voices do interesting things when their instincts get involved. Which is deeply unfair because it absolutely should not sound that good.
I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow at him. “Relax.”
“I will not relax.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“That is not the point.”
“It’s exactly the point.”
His eyes narrow. “You risk yourself too easily.”
I grin. “You should see the other guy.”
He does not smile, which makes the tension between us intensify.
The expression that crosses his face is complicated—equal parts frustration, reluctant respect, and the unmistakable urge of someone who would very much like to remove me from danger entirely and place me somewhere much safer.
“You cannot continue doing this without protection,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow. “Pretty sure the commander of the rebellion standing in my warehouse counts as protection.”
His expression darkens slightly. “That is not what I meant.”
“No?”
“No.”
The growl slipped back into his voice again, deeper this time, and I really wish my brain would stop noticing that.
Because it absolutely should not be that attractive.
Varek studies me for another second, like he’s still deciding whether to continue arguing about the gate. Eventually, he exhales through his nose and shifts the subject instead. “Tell me about tonight.”
“There are two groups,” I say.
“How many?”
“Five bodies total.”
Strain flickers across his face. “That’s too many.”
“Situation’s too desperate.”
He doesn’t argue with that because it’s true.
Since the citadel break-in, the Queen’s labour houses have been closing their grip. Patrols have doubled. Punishments have gotten harsher. Anyone suspected of even thinking about escape tends to vanish.
Someone in the palace is getting nervous, and nervous tyrants have a habit of lashing out.
The back door creaks open before either of us can say anything else.
Three figures slip inside, moving quickly before the door closes behind them.
They’re different species. One has mottled blue skin and gills flaring faintly along his neck.
Another is tall and narrow, insect-limbed and unsettlingly quiet.
The third is human, their shoulders hunched the way humans here tend to stand after too long under palace oversight.
They freeze the moment they notice Varek, and then all three straighten instantly.
“Commander.”
Varek inclines his head in acknowledgment, the gesture easy and unforced. “How fares the southern district?”
The blue-skinned male answers first. “Patrols have increased since yesterday. But the canal route remains clear.”