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I curl tighter into myself, knees hugged to my chest. The anger is still there, flickering low and steady, but something else has joined it. Something confusing and dangerous.

I hate him. But I also don’t. And that terrifies me more than the cell.

6

RANI

The arguing stretches well past mealtime. So long in fact that the Al’fa had food brought to the chamber. He is as stubborn as bedrock. Immovable, absolutely certain of his own rightness, and unwilling to consider any other view.

Rosalind is mercurial, never seeming to fully commit to either side. She appears careful not to draw too hard a line with either myself or the Al’fa, but I see through her charade. She moves us steadily toward a middle ground, her true goal.

I have very little leverage and I know it as well as everyone else in the room. Mostly I am relying on personality and desperation to bluff my way into what I want. Beyond that all I have is the truth. The Shaman’s madness will awaken the Paluga and once he does life under the mountain will be reset. It will not destroy only my people, but all of us.

“We do not know that the surface is again habitable,” Rosalind counters.

“You brought your people here and disrupted my peace,” the Al’fa snaps.

“Peace?” I ask softly, arching one eye as Rosalind scoffs.

“You do not know the meaning of the word,” she counters, her voice harsh.

The arguing spirals, no agreement in sight. Every time we near consensus, the Al’fa shifts course, dragging us back to stalemate. Za’tan steps out of the shadows, arms crossed, scars catching the flickering torchlight. His growl cuts through the chamber like a blade.

“Your ‘truth’ is a desperate plea wrapped in fear. The Paluga is a ghost story.”

His voice rumbles, cutting through the chamber. His scars catch the flickering torchlight, making him look more beast than strategist. Drogor, calm as ever, stands with his four arms laced behind his back, observing the fray like a predator scenting blood.

“Ghost stories do not have bones,” I counter, keeping my voice steady.

“Enough!” The Al’fa slams a clawed hand onto the stone table, the force reverberating through the room, a crack echoes sharply.

Za’tan stills, but openly glares at me. Drogor merely lifts a brow ridge.

“We are trapped in the dark while danger brews above and below,” the Al’fa says. His gaze flicks between us. “You, Queen, may yet be an asset, but tread carefully.”

Za’tan’s lip curls. Drogor gives a slow, deliberate nod, but it is Rosalind stepping forward with the finality of a judge.

“This deadlock is a waste of time,” she says. “Whether you believe in the Paluga or not, the Shaman has unified the desperate Urr’ki under him. If their rebellion fails, which it will without help, then the Shaman’s forces will come for us.”

Za’tan’s growl deepens, but Drogor hums softly, rubbing his chin.

“For once, the human is correct,” Za’tan sneers.

I narrow my eyes at Za’tan.

“For once?”

He smirks faintly, ignoring the bait.

“The Shaman, Paluga or not, is the clear and present threat,” Rosalind continues. “We are outnumbered and pressed against a wall of stone.”

The Al’fa straightens. The bone chest plate rattles as he crosses his arms, his talons tapping against his arms.

“And you suggest an alliance with the Queen? With the leader of the Urr’ki who hunted us for generations? Who invaded my territory and even kidnapped your people?”

“And how do we know she won’t betray us the moment we close on her city? Or after we help dispose of the Shaman, likely having taken losses of our own forces to return her to her throne?” Za’tan asks, barking a bitter laugh.

“Then we all die under the Paluga’s maw,” Rosalind speaks before I can.