Chapter 7 #2
But that raises about fifty other questions.
What’s the plan?
What’s he actually meant to do once he’s inside?
And more importantly—
What the hell did Kael and Sonny find in the citadel?
The break-in wasn’t for fun. Kael and Sonny didn’t nearly get themselves killed just to prove they could pull it off. They were after something.
Records.
Scrolls.
Information about the rifts.
About how people end up here.
About whether they can leave.
My chest pulls slightly at that thought. I shove it aside. I can only handle one problem at a time.
Find Varek. Then get answers. Then try not to punch him for making decisions that involve trading princes like currency.
Simple.
Slightly ahead, the corridor opens out, widening into one of the central passageways that lead back towards the front section—the bowling alley entrance on the outskirts and the more active parts of the settlement for training.
Voices carry more clearly here.
Movement increases.
I step into the flow of it, adjusting automatically, slipping between bodies and crates and people like I’ve done it a thousand times before.
Because I have.
Different place.
Same survival rules.
And then—
“—I’m telling you, if it had teeth like that, it was not meant to be eaten.”
The voice cuts clean through the noise. It’s familiar, loud, impossible to miss, and distinctly Aussie.
I stop and turn slightly.
And there he is. Sonny.
He’s leaning against a wall like he owns it, talking absolute shit to a couple of very patient-looking Riftborn who are either entertained or deeply regretting their life choices.
I huff out a breath. “Of course,” I mutter. “Start with the loudest bastard in the place.”
And just like that, my search for Varek takes a slight detour.
“…and I’m just saying—” Sonny is mid-rant, one hand gesturing like he’s presenting a case to a very unimpressed jury. “—if it has more than four legs, I’m not eating it unless it’s deep-fried and I’m drunk enough not to care.”
The two Riftborn he’s cornered—one with scaled skin that shifts colour faintly under the cave light, the other taller and narrow-faced with elongated ears—exchange a look that reads somewhere between long-suffering and why did we stop walking.
“Then you would starve,” the taller one replies dryly.
“Rude,” Sonny says immediately, offended on principle.
I snort before I can stop myself, and his head snaps toward me.
Recognition hits fast. His eyes widen, and then his whole face splits into a grin. “Well, fuck me sideways—look who’s not dead.”
“Disappointing, I know,” I say, stepping closer.
The two Riftborn take the opportunity to escape, murmuring something that sounds vaguely like gratitude as they slip past me and back into the flow of the corridor. Sonny doesn’t even notice they’ve gone. He’s too busy looking me over like I’m a particularly interesting wreck.
“Mate,” he says, pushing off the wall, “you look like absolute shit.”
“Cheers. Exactly what I wanted to hear.”
He circles me once, exaggeratedly, hands on his hips like he’s doing a full inspection. “Yeah, nah,” he mutters. “You got absolutely wrecked.”
“Insightful.”
He claps me lightly on the shoulder—carefully, but still enough to make me wince.
His grin falters for half a second. “Still breathing, though,” he adds, softer. “That’s something.”
“Low bar,” I mutter.
“Still counts.”
I shift slightly, easing my weight back against the stone wall near the exit passage.
The air here is cooler, a faint draft slipping in from the tunnel that leads up and out towards the bowling alley.
It carries the scent of open air, dust, and something metallic coming through the reinforced entry beyond.
Close enough to the outside to feel it, but not close enough to see it.
“How long you been up?” Sonny asks, leaning back beside me.
“Ten minutes.”
“And you’re already wandering the tunnels like a problem?”
“Couldn’t stay in that room another second,” I say. “I was about to start counting cracks in the ceiling.”
“You say that like it’s not a legitimate pastime.”
“It’s not.”
“Debatable.”
I huff a quiet laugh, then shift my stance again, ignoring the pull in my ribs. “Where’s Varek?”
Sonny’s grin shifts. Not gone—just… tempered. There’s a flicker of something more aware behind it now. “Busy.”
“Yeah, I figured that much.”
“Rebellion and all that,” he says lightly. “Bit of a full-time gig.”
I glance past him towards the exit corridor. There’s more movement than I remember from years ago. People coming and going. Supplies being moved. Weapons being checked, passed off, adjusted.
It’s not chaos. But it’s close enough to tension that it might tip if something pushes it.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Sonny follows my gaze. “Same shit, different day,” he says. “Crown’s tightening patrols. More checkpoints in the city. More disappearances.”
My jaw flexes. “Figures.”
“Plus,” he adds, quieter now, “everyone’s a bit on edge after… you know.”
I raise a brow. “After the part where the Queen used me as bait?”
“Yeah, that bit.”
“Charming.”
“Right?”
I glance back at him. “And you’re all just… carrying on, pretending like everything’s normal?”
He snorts. “This is normal.”
Fair.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “You sure you should be up?”
“No.”
“Cool.”
There’s no judgement in it. No lecture. Just acknowledgment.
We share a brief look. Then his grin creeps back in, slow and deliberate.
“All right,” he says, pushing off the wall again. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“If you’re gonna ignore medical advice, you may as well do it properly.”
“Is that an official recommendation?”
“Absolutely not,” he says cheerfully. “But I stand by it.”
I shake my head, but I push off the wall anyway because standing still isn’t helping, and sitting around waiting for Varek to show up on his own? Yeah. Not happening.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if I pass out, you’re carrying me.”
Sonny looks me up and down. “Bold of you to assume I’d survive that.”
“Fair point.”
We fall into step together, heading towards the broader passage that leads deeper into the active parts of the settlement.
And for the first time since I woke up, I’m not just thinking about the pain. I’m thinking about answers and how the hell I’m going to get them.
Sonny doesn’t give me much time to overthink it.
He jerks his head toward one of the wider passages. “I want you to meet someone.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not,” he says. “Well. Not that ominous.”
“Reassuring.”
We move together through the flow of the settlement, Sonny taking the lead like he knows exactly where he’s going—which, to be fair, he does.
I have no idea how long he’s been here, but I have the feeling it’s been for a while.
He cuts through the busier corridors, weaving between people and supplies, before veering off down a quieter branch that slopes slightly upward.
There’s less noise and traffic here. The glow in the walls softens, less buffed by constant movement.
“Who am I meeting?” I ask.
“Jack.”
I glance at him. “That a threat or a promise?”
“Depends how much you like blunt honesty and zero emotional cushioning.”
“Ah,” I say dryly. “So we’ll get along great.”
Sonny grins. “Exactly.”
We round a bend, and the space opens slightly—a natural pocket in the rock that’s been half claimed as a rest area with a couple of crates shoved against one wall, while on the other, there is a rough table where someone’s abandoned tools sit, left mid-job.
And there he is.
Jack.
And yeah. There’s no mistaking where he’s from. Varek described him to me… accurately.
He’s built like the outback—solid, grounded, the kind of bloke who looks like he’s spent most of his life under a brutal sun and come out the other side tougher for it.
Dust and grit might be gone, but it’s still in him.
It’s in the way he stands, in the way he watches everything like he’s already assessed the exits and decided which one he’d take if things went sideways.
That and he’s wearing an Akubra on his head. The sight of it hits me with a wave of nostalgia.
“Oi,” Sonny calls. “Look who finally got off his arse.”
Jack turns. His gaze fixes on me, intense and assessing.
It’s not unfriendly. Just… thorough.
Then he nods once. “You’re up.”
“Observant,” I say.
A corner of his mouth rises. “Good. Means you didn’t cark it.”
“Not yet.”
He steps forward, offering a hand. I take it. His grip is firm but not testing. It’s solid.
“Jack,” he says.
“Pax.”
“Yeah. Heard.”
Of course he has. Nothing stays quiet around here.
“Still breathing,” I add.
“Good start.”
Sonny snorts behind me. “Jesus, you two are the same person.”
Jack shoots him a look. “Not sure if either of us should be insulted by that.”
I huff a laugh despite myself. Yeah. I like this guy.
We settle into the space easily enough. Jack leans back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. Sonny drops onto one of the crates like he’s claimed it permanently.
I stay standing for a moment, then decide my ribs are not as committed to this plan as I am and ease down onto the edge of the table.
Jack watches me settle. “You’re moving like someone who got hit by a truck.”
“Close,” I say. “Royal guards.”
“Ah. Worse.”
“Significantly.”
He nods like that tracks.
“How long you been here?” I ask.
“About three months,” he says. “Give or take.”
“Still counting?”
“Trying to.” He shrugs. “Losing track already.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That happens.”
There’s a brief pause.
Then Jack tilts his head slightly. “You from Australia?”
“Yeah. Well, I moved there as a kid from the UK.”
“Where?”
“Melbourne,” I say. “I spent a lot of time out west too. Mines.”
His expression shifts—recognition, understanding.
“Western Australia?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus,” he says. “That explains a lot.”
“Explains what, exactly?”
“You’ve got that ‘I’ve worked forty-degree days and lived to complain about it’ look.”
“Accurate.” I hesitate for half a second, then ask, “What’s it like now?”
Jack frowns slightly. “What?”