When Varek first brought me to the city, this place was barely more than a shell. Rotting beams, cracked stone, a leaking roof, and a door that barely shut. Perfect, since no one important comes to investigate buildings that look like they’re about to fall down.
At the time, all I wanted was distance. Distance from Dathanor, from the rebellion. And most of all, distance from the male who’d killed my husband, saved my life, and somehow ended up tangled in a bond with me that I hadn’t asked for.
So Varek gave me what I wanted—a place in the city and a way to disappear.
He added no expectations or pressure to join the rebellion. He just gave me space.
Turns out space is dangerous when you’re the sort of person who can’t ignore a problem right in front of you.
I found the tunnels a few weeks after moving in.
Old maintenance passages from the canal days, half collapsed in places but still running under most of the district. Hidden access points, forgotten trapdoors, routes that bypass three patrol streets entirely if you know where to step.
Once I realised what they were, the warehouse stopped being just somewhere to sleep. It became a doorway.
Riftborn come through here all the time now. Some escaping labour houses, some slipping away from factory overseerswho’ve decided they’re replaceable, while some are just trying to survive another week without starving.
I give them food and a place to breathe for a night. Sometimes it’s for longer. And when they’re ready, we move them through the tunnels, across the city, and past the patrol lines. Eventually, the journey leads them towards Dathanor.
Funny thing is, that was never the plan.
When Varek left me here, I was supposed to stay out of the growing rebellion. My mission had been to stay hidden and alive. Instead, the warehouse turned into something else entirely: a quiet doorway out of the Queen’s reach.
Not that anyone realises how directly I connect to the rebellion. And they definitely don’t know that the commander of that rebellion is my fated mate. That sort of knowledge would get both of us killed.
Varek steps beside the worktable, glancing at the bowl and the pale foam starting to bloom across the surface. “You have more firebloom.”
“Yeah,” I say, stirring the mixture. “Found a crate a couple days ago.”
His gaze flicks up to mine. “With difficulty.”
“That’s a very undramatic way of saying I nearly got caught.”
“You were nearly arrested by palace guards.”
“I wasnotarrested.”
“You were chased.”
“Briefly,” I shoot back. “Honestly, if they can’t catch one human with a head start, that feels like a them problem.”
His expression doesn’t change. If anything, its stillness sharpens. “You could have been taken,” he says quietly.
“And yet—” I spread my hands slightly. “—here I am. Tragic for them.”
“That is not a defence. That is an outcome.”
I roll my eyes. “Same difference.”
“No.” His voice drops—heavier, steadier. “One is chance. The other is control.”
I lean back against the table, folding my arms. “You don’t get to talk to me about control.”
That lands. I see it hit as his jaw hardens, just slightly.
Funny thing is, years ago I wouldn’t have said that. I would’ve swallowed it, smoothed it over, kept the peace. Now it just… comes out.
I don’t even try to stop it.
