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For a moment, only ragged breathing fills the corridor.

Then his head appears in the barred window of his door and those eyes find me again.

His scales shimmer faintly in the dim light, darkened by bruises and dirt, but still radiant. The curve of his horns frames a face carved from defiance. I swallow hard. My voice barely works when I whisper.

“Why did you come here?”

He holds my gaze, unwavering.

“For you.”

My heart lurches.

I grip the bars tighter, mind racing, but words elude me. There’s so much I want to ask. How, why, who sent him, but all I can do is stare.

“For me?” I echo dumbly.

He nods once, slow and deliberate, even as exhaustion tugs at him. My throat tightens. That strange pull between us, that tether. I feel it again. Stronger now. I inch closer to the dividing wall, fingers brushing against the cold stone.

“What’s your name?”

He exhales, voice low but steady. “Ryatuv.”

Ryatuv.

The name settles in my chest — solid, right, like a missing piece slipping into place.

“I’m Elara,” I say.

His lips twitch at the corners, like he already knew. We sit in silence, broken only by the echoing stomps of the guards retreating boots.

For the first time in forever, I don’t feel alone.

8

RANI

The council chamber is a cavern of shadows and crimson light. I sit across the scale model from the Al’fa who remains standing. Za’tan and Drogor are on his flanks. Rosalind is to my left. At her side is a hooded Zmaj who towers over her much smaller human frame. Khiara is my guard for this meeting.

Seven people. Seven minds. Each with their own wants, desires, and agendas. Each with the power to derail my intention of creating an alliance. One I truly hope will outlast all of us.

My people have lost the war. If I had been insightful enough to realize that before the Shaman rose to power none of this would have happened. I could have negotiated from a position of much greater strength than what I am now. A Queen in exile with no real leverage navigating turbulent waters.

The Al’fa stands at the head of the room, broad-shouldered and brimming with unspoken authority. His scales catch the crimson glow, and the sharp angles of his jaw and horns give him a permanent air of menace. But beneath that, I see the flickers of conflict, the subtle hesitation that betrays his hard-edged façade.

To his right, Za’tan is ever-watchful, arms crossed, distrust written plainly across his face. To his left, Drogor appears relaxed. He is not only strong, the only thing these Zmaj respect, but he’s smart. I see it on his face that he’s always calculating. Then there’s Rosalind, the sole human among monsters, her cool demeanor hiding a will of steel.

I observe. I listen.

The Zmaj argue in deep, resonant tones. I track every word, every shift in posture, reading them as clearly as if they were etched into stone.

“Peace with the Urr’ki is impossible,” Za’tan says, voice edged with disdain. His eyes flicker to me for the briefest of moments. “They cannot be trusted.”

“And yet,” I interject smoothly, “I am here. I am the Queen and my people will follow me. I want this war to end, do you truly wish it to continue?”

Silence.

The Al’fa’s eyes flash, but he says nothing. I feel the room tilt, if only slightly. A gamble, but one I’m willing to take.