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The humans stay grouped together, quiet and alert. I catch sight of Rosalind near the center, guiding her people with quiet words and steady calm.

I walk in the heart of it all. A pulse of old memories vibrates in my bones with every step. Each footfall echoes down to the city’s molten core.

I know these streets as they were. Before the decay of the Shaman and the recent quakes left them broken. So many once familiar buildings are nothing but a pile of rubble.

I remember the curve of this old avenue, the arch of that window where banners once hung. Laughter used to echo here. Once, I drank kaphi with friends at a saravam here. Now there is only the crackle of falling ash.

That was long before the sacrificial bells tolled. The bells are ringing again as we approach the gathering square. We round the last bend and it comes into view. I inhale sharply and nearly choke.

Smoke curls in greasy spirals. Ash sifts through the air like dying snow. The platform at the square’s center, my platform, the one I used to stand on during festivals is broken. One side has crumpled from the explosion. The machine is twisted and tangled, hissing steam and glowing faintly. It pulses like a dying heart.

And there before it, looming like a shadow from a nightmare, stands the Shaman.

He’s thinner now, more bent, his eyes wild and hysterical. His ceremonial robes are torn and scorched, one sleeve is entirely missing. The paint on his face runs in streaks of soot and sweat. Still his voice is high and raw as it echoes through the square.

“This is the end of this world! You know it as well as I do. The lizards march on our city! We must awaken the Paluga now if we are to be welcomed into the next and resume our rightful place as the First Born! Only through sacrifice do we survive!”

Armed soldiers form a barrier around the square, their attention inward towards the Shaman and his display. The Shaman himself is surrounded by Maulavi who bristle with weapons drawn. They bark orders and force a group of shackled citizens into a line at the front of the stage. My people. Some of them drop to their knees, stunned into submission. Others try to flee, but are dragged back by their hair and slammed to the ground.

Among those to be sacrificed are children and elders. A woman shields a boy with one arm as she fights the Maulavi off with a ladle. My heart lurches. The assembled crowd looks like it doesn’t know whether to scream or pray.

I march ahead of the rag-tag assembly of resistance with the army of Zmaj at our backs. One of the guards hears our approach and turns. His eyes widen and his face pales. He rubs his eyes as if not believing what he sees then he shouts, his voice cracking with disbelief.

“The Queen!”

A ripple spreads through the crowd like heat across a sand dune. Heads turn. Gasps. Cries. One by one, citizens fall to their knees stunned and many weeping. The guards tense. Some raise weapons, but I don’t stop walking.

The Al’fa is at my side, a living weapon encased in Zmaj fury. His wings twitch with every shift in the crowd, amber eyes narrowed. Khiara and Vapas are on my other side. Vapas walks like he’s already tasted victory. Behind me, Janara lifts his blade not to attack, but to stand guard. His presence feels like stone at my back. Unmoving and loyal.

We stop at the edge of the square. Three guards block my path with drawn weapons but they don’t raise them. Their eyes dart between me and the Al’fa. Confusion is written across their visages. My voice carries, though I don’t raise it. I let sorrow do the lifting.

“Lay down your weapons.”

There’s a pause—a long, breathless hush.

One guard, young and wide-eyed, looks as if he’s seeing a ghost. Halrek. I remember his mother—she used to weave garlands for the mid-year flame ceremony.

“She lives,” he whispers, the words barely audible. “The Queen… she lives.”

He drops his sword. Another follows. Then another. Weapons clatter to the stone like rain.

“Traitors! Faithless worms! You bow to a corpse!” the Shaman shrieks.

But it’s too late. The crowd parts, a wave of awe and grief rolling before me. Some reach out me as I pass, their fingers brushing against me. Others weep. One old woman drops to her knees and presses her forehead against the stone.

“I never stopped believing,” she murmurs. “Never.”

My throat tightens. The Maulavi close tighter around the Shaman, their formation a wall of blades. The Al’fa inhales, preparing to give the order to attack, but I lift my hand and signal the Al’fa to wait.

“Not yet,” I whisper.

Let me end this my way. I fight not only for the Shaman’s demise, but for the heart and soul of my people. To reclaim what is by all rights mine.

We move together, Khiara, Vapas, Janara, the Al’fa, and me. The city watches with bated breath. The square is no longer his. It’s ours.

Mine. Once again, mine.

I ascend the ruined steps of the platform. The stone is cracked and coated in slick ash. My boots scrape over broken machine pieces. The air hums with residual heat and the acrid smell of molten lava.