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Her anger fills the room like smoke. I can’t help the faint smirk tugging at my lips, though I quickly mask it. She’s fiery, perhaps even more than me, but beneath her outrage is sharp intelligence.

“I would have thought,” she continues, voice colder now, “that with your dwindling resources and fragile alliances, you’d want my counsel.”

Drogor leans back, watching with amused detachment. Za’tan frowns.

“I want results,” the Al’fa says with finality, though his jaw ticks slightly. “You of all people should understand the stakes.”

Rosalind’s gaze flicks to me, and there’s instant calculation behind her glare. She sees me not just as another alien, but as a rival, a threat wrapped in silk and steel. For power, for influence, perhaps more.

“And what is the proposal that is before us?” Rosalind asks, voice like silk and steel. “I assume the Queen is not here for personal reasons.”

“Rosalind,” I greet with a nod. “My presence was requested. I did not know you would not be here. Nor did I know that I would also be treated with such disrespect.”

“I see,” Rosalind says, pursing her lips. She moves closer to the model and drums her fingers on the edge of the table. “What have I missed?

“Though I wassummoned,no proposals have been made,” I say, looking from her to the Al’fa who glares at the both of us. “But I have asked for an alliance. The same as I have before, but we seem unable to come to an agreement.”

“And?” Rosalind asks, looking at the Al’fa. “Are you not ready to put aside your differences yet? Have we not seen the power of this Shaman. All the reports tell of how it grows worse and worse. We are running out of time.”

“We can carry the weight of our peoples together,” I say. “None of us need face the end alone. If we can set aside our pasts.”

The Al’fa studies me, silent, unmoving. The slow flick of his tail betrays his simmering thoughts. Drogor’s smile grows sharper, but he holds his tongue, eyes glinting with calculation. Zat’an’s nostrils flare, but it is the Al’fa I focus on. His call, his choice. At length, he exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate.

“Sit,” he commands.

It is not an invitation. It is a test. To show submission, to acknowledge his authority, even here, in a negotiation. But I do not hesitate. I glide forward and take the seat, back straight, head high, meeting his eyes as an equal. Vapas stiffens behind me but does not interfere. The Al’fa watches with suspicious eyes and grunts, turning back to the model on the table.

“Speak then, Queen of nothing,” he says, voice heavy with irony. “Tell me why your lost people are worth saving.”

I clench my fists beneath the table, unseen. His cruelty is deliberate, meant to provoke. But I have weathered worse storms than this. I lean forward, my voice steel-wrapped silk.

“Because together,” I say, “we are the only thing standing between your people’s survival and the end of everything you hold dear.”

For a heartbeat, the chamber holds its breath.

Drogor laughs again, the sound like broken glass, and in his eyes gleams a hunger that has nothing to do with food.

“Yes,” he says, “I definitely like her.”

5

ELARA

Ihuddle in the farthest corner of the cell, arms clamped tight around my knees, as if I could hold myself together by sheer force. The air hangs damp and heavy, saturated with the bitter scent of metal and stone. The only sounds are the slow drip of unseen water and the sudden, jarring creaks of shifting stone — each one a predator in hiding.

Time passes. There is no way to know how much. I slip in and out of a restless, fractured half-sleep. I’ve never been so scared in all my life, but below the fear lies the burning embers of anger. It’s buried deep, but I cling to it. Holding on to not lose who I am. I know, on some primal level, that if I lose the anger I’ll descend into a madness brought on by terror.

The torch guttering outside the cell sputters and smokes, its weak glow bleeding away inch by inch. My heart beats faster thinking about losing even that small bit of light. Hunger knots my stomach. Thirst claws at my throat. The throbbing in my ankle dulls to a heavy, dead ache, a wound forgotten by everything but my body. It only hurts badly when I move it. I stare at the glistening black walls, desperation clawing at my thoughts. I have to get out of here. It feels like the room is closing in.

When I hear footsteps echoing down the corridor my heart jumps. Sweat beads across my skin. The cool air causes me to shiver. The steps are not hurried, but come with a steady stride. My muscles tense as I force myself to sit up straighter, wiping the vulnerability from my face like smudged makeup.

Without warning, the door sighs open. Flickering torchlight spills across the floor and standing at the threshold is him. Z’leni. The Urr’ki warrior who, once, showed me a sliver of kindness. He steps inside and I see him with eyes clearer than I have before. He’s tall, his lean frame coiled with the kind of strength that doesn’t need showing off. His green skin glistens under the dying torchlight, carved in sharp relief against the shadows. His dark eyes flick to me, sharp and unreadable, cutting through the stale air like a blade.

He crouches without a word, placing a tray on the ground. Water. A chunk of... something that barely looks like food. He turns to leave, and the silence needles me.

“You didn’t have to throw me in here like some animal,” I snap, the words tumbling out before fear can silence them.

He freezes, then slowly turns back around, towering over me. His jaw flexes and his hands tighten into fists. For a second, I think he might hurt me, but then his gaze pins me in place.