Fantastic.
I nod my thanks and continue down the street.
The air feels heavier now. The tension I noticed earlier hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s getting worse.
I pass another patrol near the southern bridge. There are definitely more guards than usual. More weapons too. There are also more questions for the people moving through the district.
As I slip past them with another quiet exchange of coins, I can’t help wondering how long the current balance will hold.
The Glowranth allies in this area have influence, but even influence has limits when the Queen starts getting desperate. And if the palace is really extending their search for Aelith, then things are about to get very fucking dangerous.
I cross the bridge and head towards the storage yard where the broken gate waits. As I walk, my thoughts drift briefly to something else. A memory from months ago.
I was standing on a rooftop in this same district while a massive figure moved through the streets below. A warrior wreathed in living flame killed a shopkeeper who was “stealing” from the Crown. In other words, the shopkeeper had been feeding Riftborn beggars in secret.
Pyronox.
Solan.
I’d only seen him from a distance. But even then, it had been obvious the male was dangerous in a way most soldiers could only dream of being.
Now he’s part of the rebellion and working with Varek. Fighting for the same cause.
I shake my head slightly. The world has a strange sense of humour.
Ten years ago, I was a mechanic in Western Australia trying not to think too hard about the bruises on my ribs. Now I’m fixing broken machines in another dimension while quietly helping a rebellion that might eventually bring down a queen.
Life’s funny like that.
The storage yard gate comes into view ahead. And with it my next job.
The gate mechanism is worse than the pump. I can tell that the moment I kneel beside it.
Rust has worked its way deep into the hinge assembly, the metal swollen and warped from years of exposure to the canal damp. Someone has tried to repair it before—badly—using mismatched bolts and a strip of Glowranth alloy that was never meant to interact with human steel. The result is a mess of friction and corrosion that locks the entire gate whenever someone tries to open it.
I crouch beside the frame, running my fingers along the hinge while the storage yard owner hovers nearby.
“Can you fix it?” he asks.
“Eventually,” I say.
He sighs like that’s not the answer he wanted. I roll my shoulders once and start working.
The yard sits along one of the quieter canal offshoots, a long fenced stretch where crates and scrap materials pile up in leaning towers. A human shipping container sits beside Glowranth stone blocks and strange metallic structures that clearly didn’t originate in this world at all.
More casualties of the rift.
Over the years, entire chunks of other worlds have bled into Terrafeara. Buildings. Machines. Vehicles. Most of them end up here eventually—broken, abandoned, or cannibalised for parts. Which makes this place perfect for my kind of work.
I dismantle the hinge carefully, prying apart the warped bolts and grinding away the rust with a small handheld file. The process takes time. The morning sun climbs higher above the canal bridges, light reflecting off the slow water and filling the yard with a humid glow.
As I work, my thoughts drift back to the rumours I heard earlier.
The Queen searching the city for her son.
More patrols.
More tension.
