I realise I’ve gone still.
“If the rifts could send people back,” he continues, voice quiet but relentless in that way of his, “what would you do?”
I hesitate and stare down at the table as the bond pulses faintly in my chest. It’s annoying and persistent. “I’d go,” I say. The words come out before I can soften them, and silence drops like a stone.
Varek doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, but his hand flexes once at his side.
The bond tightens, a thrum of pressure.
And I hate that I feel it.
CHAPTER
TWO
Morningin the warehouse starts with bread.
Not fluffy bread like I remember picking up from the local bakers for Mum in Melbourne, unfortunately. Nothing that fancy. But the grain we cracked open a few days earlier goes a long way once you know how to stretch it. It’s more like damper… but harder.
I’m elbow-deep in a mixing bowl when the first knock comes.
Three taps.
Pause.
Two taps.
I wipe my hands on a cloth and head for the side door.
The knock pattern changes depending on who’s coming through. No one gets the same one twice in a row. It makes it harder for palace guards to fake it if they’re feeling curious.
I slide the bolt back and crack the door open. A pair of narrow golden eyes peer up at me. “Morning, Letha.”
The small reptilian woman slips inside before I’ve even finished speaking. Her scaled tail flicks nervously as she scans the alley behind me.
It’s clear, so I shut the door again.
“You’re early,” I say in Glowranthian.
“The overseer changed shifts.” Her voice is soft and raspy. “I had a window.”
Varek’s gaze turns intense. “Which overseer?”
Letha’s eyes widen and she hesitates. “Commander.” She swallows hard. “Third floor. South loom.”
“Name?”
She swallows again, and I get it. Varek—careful with me or not—is still an intimidating being. “Kerris,” she answers.
Varek nods once, already filing it away. I can see it happening—how his mind locks onto the detail, turns it, fits it into a pattern I didn’t even realise was there.
“He rotates irregularly.”
Of course he does. And of course Varek knows that. Tracks it. Uses it. It shouldn’t do anything for me. It absolutely does.
Letha blinks. “You know him?”
“I know the pattern,” he says. “Irregular shifts mean internal pressure. Either production quotas are failing… or someone is stealing from the crown.”
