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No one breathes.

The crack collapses as the thing retreats, sealing in the heat, the madness, and the end of the Shaman’s reign.

I stand frozen. Not in fear.

In awe.

The Shaman is gone.

The square—his altar, his stolen kingdom, his lie—is broken. The ground is scorched, melted, and ash-covered. The tower groans, fire flickering from its hollow windows.

Rosalind’s voice comes again, barking orders in the distance. Civilians are fleeing in terror while her people guide them. The Zmaj are helping, wings dark against the red glow of the sky. Panic has given way to motion. To survival.

Beside me, the Al’fa lowers his wings. His eyes meet mine, glowing amber and grim.

“We need to go.”

“Yes,” I say softly. “We do.”

“Where?” the Al’fa asks.

“To your compound,” I say. “To warn them. To prepare. The Paluga isn’t done.”

The tremors haven’t stopped. The ground keeps shifting beneath my feet.

I turn back to the crowd or what remains of it.

A woman cradles a child in her arms, blood on her temple, but resolve in her eyes. A Maulavi stares at the cracked ground where his master vanished and then slowly removes his helm, dropping it to the earth. An old man kneels, weeping—not for the Shaman, but in release. In relief.

They look to me—not for orders, but for hope. I lift my voice.

“This city stands no longer. Not as it was. But we still stand. And we will rise.”

“We return to the surface. To fight. To rebuild. Together,” the Al’fa says, stepping forward, his voice a thunder beside mine.

A cheer rises. Shaky, ragged—but real. Another quake hits. A final rumble deep and vast, the cry of something old turning in its sleep. But this time, no one flees. They brace. And I brace with them.

The fire still burns.

This time, it burnswithus now.

44

RANI

The world breaks.

The air groans with pressure. The ground heaves like a wounded beast. A fresh quake splits the stone. The scream of a collapsing spire echoes like thunder down the corridor.

“Move!” I shout, my voice vanishing into the chaos. “Keep moving!”

The narrow tunnel shudders, dust raining from the ceiling. Screams echo—Urr’ki, Zmaj, human—all of them trying to flee a city that’s no longer safe. The Paluga has awakened. The Old One beneath the world, the creature we called myth. No one doubts it any longer.

I dart a quick glance back. Khiara clutches a boy in his arms, blood smearing his shirt where he dragged the child from the rubble. His face is pale with dust, but his eyes burn with urgency.

“I have him!” he calls. “Go!”

Janara heaves a fallen beam aside, opening the path ahead. Vapas follows him, dragging a limping elder Urr’ki woman. His teeth are gritted, shoulders straining. The Al’fa comes last. His wings are curled tight to avoid the crumbling tunnel ceiling. His body bruised, burned, and smoking where the molten lava he shielded me from glanced off his scales. Our eyes meet, his eyes burning bright with drive. We are a parade of ash-covered warriors and bleeding survivors.