I snort. “Or both.”
His eyes flick briefly to me. “Often both.”
“Good timing, then,” I say, getting the conversation back on track as Varek steps outside.
Letha works in one of the Queen’s textile houses. Officially, she’s paid labour. Unofficially, she’s closer to indentured property. That’s how the crown handles most Riftborn who are deemed valuable—assign them work that keeps them barely alive and too exhausted to cause trouble.
She visits every three or four days. It’s the same with the others.
I head back to the table and hand her a bowl. “Eat.”
Her shoulders relax instantly.
That right there never gets easier to see: People who’ve been hungry long enough learn not to waste time with politeness.
She devours the first spoonful of porridge like she’s afraid someone might take it away.
“Slow down,” I say.
“I am slow.”
“You’re inhaling it.”
She pauses mid-bite, considering that. Then she shrugs and keeps eating.
Fair enough.
The back door opens again a few minutes later. There’s no knock this time, just a familiar heavy tread.
I glance up as Varek steps inside. He ducks slightly under the frame out of habit.
The room changes when he enters.
Not dramatically.
But noticeably.
Like gravity shifting a fraction.
Letha freezes. Then she slides off the stool so fast, she nearly spills the bowl. “Commander.”
Varek inclines his head slightly.
“Letha.” His voice is calm, low, respectful. “Continue eating,” he tells her.
And that’s the thing about him. He treats everyone like they matter. It doesn’t matter if they’re a warrior, a scavenger, or a half-starved seamstress sneaking food before her shift. He sees them, which is probably why half the rebellion would walk into a volcano if he asked nicely.
She hesitates and glances at me.
I shrug. “He’s not here to inspect your table manners.”
Varek’s mouth twitches, and Letha climbs back onto the stool and resumes He moves quietly through the room, checking the storage racks. Food, bandages, waterskins…. Supplies that appear and disappear with the rhythm of the city.
The warehouse looks messy to an outsider, but to me it’s organised. The crates are stacked by route while the shelves are marked with symbols instead of words.
There are trapdoors hidden under rugs. The tunnels are hidden under those.
Decades ago, the building used to be part of a canal shipping hub, which means it sits on top of half a dozen forgotten maintenance tunnels.
