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Now I return. Surrounded not by Urr’ki nobles or priests—but three warriors, the humans, and our ancient enemy, the Zmaj.

A fitting procession.

Thick smoke lies over the city. The air has an acrid tang—sulfur and something worse. The outskirts have always been the city’s worst part, but now they are utterly ruined.

My heart breaks.

This isn’t the place I ruled. It’s a husk, a wounded beast bleeding in the dirt. The buildings sag inward, ash clings to every ledge. Broken stalls and shattered walkways litter the streets. The banners of the Shaman—tattered and faded—flap weakly above doorways that once opened to laughter and song. There is no laughter now.

Dirty faces peer out of half-collapsed homes and from shadows. Children. Half-starved, gaunt, with haunted eyes lurking in the shadows. Uncertain of what they are watching, but afraid all the same. A few older citizens, broken, barely able to lift their heads to care, watching in stony silence as we march past. There is terror in their eyes until they see me. Their terror doesn’t vanish, but it changes.

Some gasp. Others drop what they are carrying. A woman falls to her knees, tears streaking the dirt on her cheeks.

They remember me.

And I remember them—every face, every promise broken because I was too weak to stop what came. My throat tightens, but I force myself to keep walking. One foot in front of the next. Fixing my eyes on what lies ahead.

“They see you, my Queen,” Khiara whispers.

I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. My eyes burn from more than the smoke.

Ahead, the city center looms: Kala Tavara, once my home, once a sacred testament to the skill and abilities of the Urr’ki—now a twisted monument to the Shaman’s corruption. Grotesque, like a blade plunged into the heart of our world.

Ahead is our destination. The ceremonial plaza that surrounds the tower. Once a place of gathering, celebration, and camaraderie before the Shaman twisted it, turning it into a place of torture, sacrifice, and lies. Today I will reclaim it. Z’leni, Elara, and Ryatuv have stopped the sacrifices but the bells continue to ring. High and sonorous. Summoning the people like cattle to the butcher’s block. The Shaman calls.

Let him. I come now. That is where I will confront him. In the heart of my city, I will free my people.

A fresh pulse of fury races through and I quicken my pace. I strike my staff on the stone with purpose. The sound echoes off walls and the army flows behind me. There is no fear left. Only fire.

I am not the girl you dragged from the throne. I am iron, forged in the pyre of what was. And I am coming home.

42

RANI

We turn the corner, smoke curling through the narrow avenue—and I hear a familiar sound.

Boots.

Not Zmaj. Not humans. Not Maulavi.

Urr’ki.

Vapas stiffens, his hand drifting to the blade at his hip. Khiara stops mid-step, tension radiating from him like heat from sun-scorched stone. The Al’fa’s wings twitch as his massive frame shifts forward, protective and wary.

They emerge from the smoke like ghosts—dust-covered, their skin smeared with ash, the stink of sweat and soot clinging to them. Some carry old ceremonial blades, others wield tools as weapons. Wood axes, spears with stone tips, and makeshift clubs. There are hundreds of them. And at their front walks a broad-shouldered warrior in cracked armor, the edges scorched and patched with scrap leather.

Janara.

The lines on his face are even deeper and his expression is grim. The beginnings of white thread through his dark hair, but his eyes haven’t changed. Sharp. Calculating. Fierce as ever. His gaze locks with mine and I stop walking.

The Zmaj army freezes. The Urr’ki resistance stalls behind Janara, weapons raised but uncertain. The moment stretches. Seconds ticking past. Then someone shouts—a younger fighter, barely more than a boy. He stares at the Zmaj, then draws his blade with shaking hands. Others follow.

A warning growl rolls through the Zmaj ranks. The wicked blades of their polearm weapons gleam and their wings rustle. A hiss cuts through the air. The humans falter, backing into one another. The air grows heavy, like the city itself holds its breath.

“Hold!”

The word cracks like thunder, echoing off stone. Every eye turns to me as I step forward, staff in hand, cloak trailing through the ash that covers the streets.