“That is not the point.”
“It’s exactly the point.”
His eyes narrow. “You risk yourself too easily.”
I grin. “You should see the other guy.”
He does not smile, which makes the tension between us intensify.
The expression that crosses his face is complicated—equal parts frustration, reluctant respect, and the unmistakable urge of someone who would very much like to remove me from danger entirely and place me somewhere much safer.
“You cannot continue doing this without protection,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow. “Pretty sure the commander of the rebellion standing in my warehouse counts as protection.”
His expression darkens slightly. “That is not what I meant.”
“No?”
“No.”
The growl slipped back into his voice again, deeper this time, and I really wish my brain would stop noticing that.
Because it absolutely should not be that attractive.
Varek studies me for another second, like he’s still deciding whether to continue arguing about the gate. Eventually, he exhales through his nose and shifts the subject instead. “Tell me about tonight.”
“There are two groups,” I say.
“How many?”
“Five bodies total.”
Strain flickers across his face. “That’s too many.”
“Situation’s too desperate.”
He doesn’t argue with that because it’s true.
Since the citadel break-in, the Queen’s labour houses have been closing their grip. Patrols have doubled. Punishments havegotten harsher. Anyone suspected of even thinking about escape tends to vanish.
Someone in the palace is getting nervous, and nervous tyrants have a habit of lashing out.
The back door creaks open before either of us can say anything else. Three figures slip inside, moving quickly before the door closes behind them. They’re different species. One has mottled blue skin and gills flaring faintly along his neck. Another is tall and narrow, insect-limbed and unsettlingly quiet. The third is human, their shoulders hunched the way humans here tend to stand after too long under palace oversight.
They freeze the moment they notice Varek, and then all three straighten instantly.
“Commander.”
Varek inclines his head in acknowledgment, the gesture easy and unforced. “How fares the southern district?”
The blue-skinned male answers first. “Patrols have increased since yesterday. But the canal route remains clear.”
Varek’s attention fixes on him completely. The shift is subtle, but it changes the shape of the room all the same. Conversation and focus tightens.
“Clear,” he repeats, the word measured.
The male adjusts his stance. “Clear enough.”
