Chapter 4 #3
The storage yard gate comes into view ahead. And with it my next job.
The gate mechanism is worse than the pump. I can tell that the moment I kneel beside it.
Rust has worked its way deep into the hinge assembly, the metal swollen and warped from years of exposure to the canal damp.
Someone has tried to repair it before—badly—using mismatched bolts and a strip of Glowranth alloy that was never meant to interact with human steel.
The result is a mess of friction and corrosion that locks the entire gate whenever someone tries to open it.
I crouch beside the frame, running my fingers along the hinge while the storage yard owner hovers nearby.
“Can you fix it?” he asks.
“Eventually,” I say.
He sighs like that’s not the answer he wanted. I roll my shoulders once and start working.
The yard sits along one of the quieter canal offshoots, a long fenced stretch where crates and scrap materials pile up in leaning towers. A human shipping container sits beside Glowranth stone blocks and strange metallic structures that clearly didn’t originate in this world at all.
More casualties of the rift.
Over the years, entire chunks of other worlds have bled into Terrafeara. Buildings. Machines. Vehicles. Most of them end up here eventually—broken, abandoned, or cannibalised for parts. Which makes this place perfect for my kind of work.
I dismantle the hinge carefully, prying apart the warped bolts and grinding away the rust with a small handheld file. The process takes time. The morning sun climbs higher above the canal bridges, light reflecting off the slow water and filling the yard with a humid glow.
As I work, my thoughts drift back to the rumours I heard earlier.
The Queen searching the city for her son.
More patrols.
More tension.
More eyes on the streets.
Not ideal for someone who makes a living quietly moving Riftborn through the city’s underbelly.
I check the final bracket and test the gate. It swings open with a smooth metallic scrape.
The yard owner exhales in relief. “Finally.”
“That’ll hold for a while,” I say, wiping grease from my hands. “But if the lower rail warps again, you’ll need to replace the hinge completely.”
He nods, already reaching into a pouch to pull out payment: Two small sacks of dried canal fish and a bundle of cured root strips.
Fair trade.
I sling the bundle into my satchel and start back towards the street. The district has grown busier since morning.
Canal barges drift past the docks while merchants shout prices across crowded stalls. Riftborn labourers move through the streets under the watchful eyes of Glowranth overseers, hauling crates or pushing carts through the narrow alleys.
The usual chaos of city life. But the tension is there. A quiet undercurrent beneath everything.
People are watching the guards more than usual. And the guards are watching everyone.
I pull my jacket around me and head towards the canal bridge that leads back towards the warehouse district.
A pair of Glowranth soldiers pass me halfway down the street while another patrol moves along the upper walkway above the canal.
Too many of them.
The Queen is locking things down, and if that keeps escalating, my tunnel routes won’t stay hidden forever.
I’m halfway across the bridge when I see them. Three guards are escorting a prisoner down the opposite side of the canal road.
The prisoner stumbles. Blood is streaked down the side of their face, one eye already swollen nearly shut.
My stomach drops. I know them.
Riftborn, a human bloke named Garrick. He works the shipping docks two districts over.
And occasionally, when no one is looking, he passes along information about patrol routes.
I slow instinctively. I don’t stop, but it’s just enough to allow me to look.
Garrick lifts his head. His eyes find mine instantly. Recognition flashes there followed quickly by relief. It’s there for a split second. Then something else replaces it.
Guilt.
My pulse spikes. No.
No no no—
Before I can react, Garrick jerks against the guards’ grip and shouts. “Him!”
The word cuts through the street noise like a blade. The guards snap towards him.
Garrick’s voice cracks with desperation. “It’s him! The human!”
My blood turns to ice.
“He’s the one!” Garrick screams. “He’s the one helping them escape!”
Everything freezes. For half a heartbeat, the entire street seems to stop moving. Then the guards turn, and they’re looking directly at me.
The instinct hits before thought does. I’m already starting to move before I think the word, Run.
I pivot on my heel and bolt.
Behind me someone shouts, “Stop him!”
Boots thunder against the stone as the patrol launches after me.
I sprint down the street, weaving through startled pedestrians and market stalls. A merchant curses as I vault over his cart, crates of glowing fruit spilling across the cobblestones behind me.
The guards are fast. Faster than most humans, but I’ve had ten years to learn this city.
I cut left down a narrow alley, sprinting past stacked crates and hanging clotheslines that whip against my face as I pass. Shouts echo behind me. They’re still on my heels.
I burst out onto another canal street and nearly collide with a pair of labour carts. People scatter as I shove through the gap, ignoring the startled curses that follow. My lungs burn.
The warehouse district is still two streets away. Too far. If they catch me above ground—
No. Don’t think about that. Just move.
I duck into another alley and leap over a stack of shipping crates, landing hard enough that my knees protest violently. The sound of armour clattering grows closer. They’re gaining.
Of course they are. Glowranth soldiers are built like war machines.
I cut toward the warehouse block.
Almost there. Just one more street—
Something hard slams into my back. The impact drives the air out of my lungs and sends me crashing face-first into the cobblestones. Pain explodes through my ribs, and for a moment, the world spins.
Ten years ago that hit might have kept me down. Ten years ago I would have panicked. But Terrafeara has a way of teaching people resilience.
I roll as the first guard lunges for me, his spear stabbing down towards where my chest had been a second earlier. The blade sparks against stone, and I kick his legs out from under him before scrambling back to my feet.
Another guard charges.
I swing the tool satchel into his face. Metal clanks as the impact knocks his helmet sideways. He staggers, and I run again.
The warehouse door is just ahead now.
Twenty metres.
Fifteen.
Ten—
A second blow slams into my side. This one lands clean, and something cracks.
White-hot pain shoots through my ribs as I crash against the wall beside the door. I gasp, struggling to pull air into my lungs.
Hands grab me. I swing wildly, catching one guard across the jaw. Another drives a fist into my stomach hard enough to make the world go black at the edges.
I drop to one knee as boots surround me.
Armour.
Weapons.
Too many.
Someone grabs the back of my jacket and hauls me upright. I swing again, but it’s pointless.
A spear haft slams into my ribs. Another fist crashes into the side of my head, and the world tilts violently.
Voices shout around me.
“Hold him!”
“Don’t let him reach the door!”
I try to push forward. Try to break through them. But there are too many bodies pressing in now.
A wall of armour and muscle.
The last thing I see before everything fades is the warehouse door. So close. Just a few metres away. Then something heavy smashes into the back of my skull.
And the world goes dark.