“The patrol pattern shifted earlier than expected that night,” I continue, rubbing absently at the back of my neck as the memory forms. “About ten minutes sooner than usual. We were already halfway through the tunnels when one of the watchers came running back to warn us.”
Varek’s expression grows very still. “How many were in the group?”
“Six,” I say. “Four Riftborn trying to get out. Two Glowranth escorts.”
His silver eyes narrow slightly at the number.
The Glowranth have become unexpected allies in this whole mess.
Which is ironic, considering the Queen herself is Glowranth and most of the crown’s power structure is built around keeping the rest of us exactly where we are—useful, controlled, and very easy to replace.
Officially, the Glowranth run this world. Their houses control the trade routes, the courts, the military posts, and most ofthe city’s infrastructure. The Queen’s authority rests on that network.
Unofficially… some of them disagree with how she uses it.
A handful of Glowranth in the city have quietly thrown their weight behind the rebellion. Some because they’ve seen what the labour houses do to Riftborn. Some because the Queen’s policies are bad for business. And a few because fate has a twisted sense of humour and handed them Riftborn mates.
Turns out love is a very effective way to ruin someone’s loyalty to the crown.
Funny how quickly loyalty shifts when someone you love ends up wearing a collar in the Queen’s labour houses.
“The hinge seized when we tried to open the gate,” I continue. “Rust, mostly. Years of neglect. But the locking bracket had also jammed itself into the stone frame. Either it warped over time or someone tried to wedge it shut at some point.”
“You believe it was tampered with?”
I shrug. “Could have been. Could also just be old metal doing what old metal does.”
Either way, the result had been the same. The gate wouldn’t move, and the patrol was getting closer.
“So we forced it,” I say. “Didn’t really have another option at that point.”
“With tools?”
“With a pry bar and a great deal of enthusiasm.”
Varek’s gaze flicks briefly to my shoulder.
“That is how you injured yourself.”
“Not the first time,” I say lightly.
The memory returns in focused detail now—the grinding scream of rusted metal, Rin bracing her shoulder against the stone wall beside me while I levered the hinge with everything I had, the echo of approaching footsteps somewhere far down the tunnel network.
Eventually the hinge had given.
Just not the way we’d hoped.
“When the gate finally swung open,” I explain, gesturing with one hand, “the bracket tore straight out of the wall. Stone cracked, bolts sheared, whole thing twisted sideways.”
Varek’s eyes narrow. “And the patrol?”
“Close enough to hear us.”
That part had been… exciting. The tunnels amplify sound in strange ways. One wrong noise travels for half a kilometre.
“What did you do?” he asks.
I allow myself a small grin. “We ran.”
