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“Move!” Rosalind’s voice cuts through the panic like a knife as she appears standing high on a broken wall. “Go! Now! Exit routes are open—head for the northern tunnels!”

Her commands are fast and efficient. She looks like a being come from the stars, which in truth she is. Dressed in her white suit, cape flowing in the breeze, her drawn sword glinting in the firelight. She’s already in motion, directing citizens away from the splintering square. Commanding her humans into action.

The humans fan out with precision, guiding and helping Urr’ki civilians toward escape routes. Zmaj also follow her commands and help. They use their wings to stir the smoke as they assist. No hesitation. No questions. She was prepared. This was her plan all along.

I have no doubts that Rosalind suspected this would happen. Maybe not this scale, not this fury—but enough. And she didn’t wait for permission to prepare. Even now, she doesn’t look to me or the Al’fa for orders. She acts. And in the chaos, people follow.

But I don’t run. Neither does the Al’fa.

The Shaman is still standing. Still smiling.

He believes this quake is his. His reward. His proof.

I see it in his face—that wretched, arrogant glow. The belief that he’s been vindicated. That he was right all along. He turns to me, triumphant.

“Do you feel it, Queen? The God comes to claim his due. He answers my call.”

“You didn’t call him,” I growl. “You woke him. Like a child poking a sleeping zemlja.”

The ground bucks again, harder this time. Cracks widen across the square. Steam pours through. From somewhere in the depths below, a sound rises, not a quake, not a tremor.

A roar.

Not a beast’s cry. Something older, vaster. It vibrates through my bones, silencing the world. Even the Shaman stops laughing. Then the square explodes.

Molten rock erupts in a screaming geyser, flinging bodies like grains of sand before a storm. My people, Maulavi, even some of Rosalind’s humans. I grab Khiara and his fingers close tight around mine as we stagger back from the blast. The Al’fa throws himself in front, shielding me with his wings, even as molten debris rains down around us.

Screams rip through the square, but through it all the Shaman laughs. He’s staring into the smoke, the fire. Waiting.

I hear it before I see it.

A grinding, gurgling sound, like stone scraping against molten metal. Then something massive moves beneath the surface. The stone beneath the Shaman glows orange. Then red. Then white-hot. Then it splits wide.

And the fire worm rises.

Not the great Paluga itself—I know this instinctively, feel it in my marrow—but one of its spawn. A harbinger. A creature of living fire, all burning coils and ridged scales that glisten like wet obsidian. Its head is a gaping maw of jagged teeth. Lava spills from its jaws like drool.

The Maulavi break formation.

Even they know better. One shrieks. Another crumples to his knees, abandoning all pretense of courage.

The fire worm rears up, towering over the square, and the heat is blinding. My skin blisters even with the Al’fa shielding me. Khiara growls in pain, clutching his arms to his chest, and Janara shouts something I can’t understand over the roar.

And still, the Shaman does not flee.

He raises his arms.

Closes his eyes.

His face is serene.

“I am yours,” he whispers. “Take me.”

The worm obliges.

With terrifying speed, it snaps forward. A blur of molten muscle and snapping jaws. The Shaman’s scream is lost beneath the roar of fire as the creature coils around him and yanks him from the platform.

His scream lingers even as the creature yanks him into the abyss—and then, silence.