I swallow and focus on the grain. “We needed this,” I say, because it’s easier than apologising.
After a moment, he answers. “Yes.”
“There’s enough here for two weeks if we stretch it with the roots.”
“Yes.”
“And the wire will be useful.”
He nods once.
I risk a glance at him. “Did you bring in the snare line from the eastern wall?”
“It is done.”
“Any sign of patrols?”
“Not near the canal. Two on the main road at dawn.”
That gets my full attention. “Palace guard?”
“Yes.”
I straighten. “How many?”
“Four in each. Not searching. Moving through.”
Not searchingyet, then.
The city has felt coiled these past few weeks. Queen Serresta’s grip pulling in. More guards on the roads, more fear in the markets, more whispers about disappearing people. Riftborn vanish. Human Riftborn vanish more often. Those taken by theCrown don’t come back unless they’re broken enough to serve as warning.
Every time I think about the compounds, about branded wrists and collars and the obedient emptiness in enslaved Riftborn eyes, something in me goes cold. I’ve had enough of men who think ownership is their right. An entire regime built on it makes me want to burn the bloody world down.
We’re not strong enough yet. Not organised enough. Varek’s fight—his rebels—cracked something open years ago, but cracks aren’t collapse. Not yet.
Here in the city, it’s just survival. Strategy. Waiting for the right weakness to pry apart.
I rub at my shoulder absently. Varek notices.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Pax.”
“Don’t start.”
He takes one step closer. “Let me see it.”
I open my mouth to argue. Then the pain gives an acute throb that makes the decision for me.
I mutter something rude under my breath and drag out a chair to get closer to the table. “Fine. But if you make a fuss, I’m revoking your warehouse privileges.”
A strange softness moves over his face. “You have not granted them.”
“I’m considering it retroactively.”
That almost-smile again.
