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“That is the question, isn’t it?” she says with a wry smile.

“Then we must find the answer.”

Rosalind rises to her feet, her expression thoughtful.

“I will see what leverage I can find. But understand this, Queen, if I determine the risk outweighs the reward, I will not move forward with this.”

“That is fair,” I agree, inclining my head.

She lingers for a moment longer, as if debating saying more. Then, with a sharp nod, she turns and strides toward the door. Before she leaves, she pauses.

“You said something earlier. That I think beyond myself.”

I meet her gaze, waiting for more. I am not sure what she is thinking or where this is leading. When she doesn’t answer I express my agreement.

“I did.”

Her lips press together and the lines on her face become more prominent. They don’t mar her beauty, if anything they make her more stunning, but I recognize the weight. It is not dissimilar to what I myself feel almost all the time.

“You’re right. I do. And that’s why I will never make decisions based on personal sentiment. Not for my child. Not for myself. I think of all of us — Urr’ki, Zmaj, human alike. I do this not because I am a mother, but because I am a leader.”

With that, she steps out, leaving me alone with the fire once more. I watch the flames dance, my mind already shifting to the next move. Rosalind is right. This is not about personal sentiment. This is about survival. And I will do whatever it takes to ensure my people have a future. Even if it means playing every piece on the board to its fullest potential.

Even if it means sacrificing what little of myself I have left.

14

ELARA

My fingers tremble as I dip a scrap of cloth into the cup of tepid water. The cold of the black stone floor seeps into my knees, amplifying the discomfort until it’s nearly pain. You’d think it would numb me — but no. It only makes everything sharper, crueler. Ryatuv grunts, moaning softly, his eyes half-closed.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, an empty platitude if I’ve ever uttered one in my life.

None of this is okay. They beat him mercilessly. Granted, he refused to stop fighting, but still. No matter how I struggled and screamed they wouldn’t stop. Two of them held me, including Z’leni. Z’leni had leaned close, his voice a ghost against my ear, telling me towait.I didn’t listen. Couldn’t. Watching them beat Ryatuv had torn something inside me apart.

That led to the bruise on the side of my cheek where the other Urr’ki also restraining me had slapped me with the back of his hand. He hit so hard my head spun and I couldn’t see straight for a minute at least.

Right as my vision stopped swimming, one of the guards managed to land a blow at the back of Ryatuv’s skull and he dropped to the ground. He’d gone down hard, still and silent, sprawled like a broken doll. I had screamed, certain that he was dead, until the guards bound his wrists and dragged him to his feet. He groaned loudly, rousing, but they had him then.

They dragged us back to the cells but instead of separating us they shoved us both into mine. They’d had to half-carry, half-drag him. He walked like he was drunk. The amount of punishment he’s taken since his capture should have killed him but he keeps going. An unstoppable force, but why?

He said he came for me. The words loop in my mind, making my heart pound and my mouth go dry. It makes no sense — none — but some stubborn part of me clings to them like a lifeline.

I feel a connection to him, but what does that really mean? Sure, it feels like some kind of déjà vu, as if I should know him, or think I do, but I don’t. Seeing him around the compound is a long ways from knowing him the way it feels like I do.

I dip the rag, a torn scrap of my shirt, into the water and wring it out. Red and filth squeeze into the cup. The water is so filthy that it’s barely working to clean the blood crusting his wounds, but it’s all I have. His golden-hued scales are dulled by the grime and blood. His body is battered from the beating they gave him and the rough bandage sealing the piercing wound is crusty with more dried blood. Yet even in this rough state he is formidable. His muscles are tight with restrained pain but his breathing is slow and measured.

“This is all I can do,” I murmur, pressing the damp cloth to a deep gash along his collarbone. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even make a sound.

“You should not waste water,” he says in his admonishment.

His voice is rough, gravelly, but steady. I press a little harder than necessary.

“I’ll decide what’s a waste.”

His amber eyes flick to mine, searching. He doesn’t argue further, but he does let out a long, slow exhale as I work. The silence between us stretches, thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged fears. I don’t know why he came for me or why he fought for me, but now he’s paying the price. Guilt swells forcing bile up my throat until I choke on it.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” I say, though my voice lacks the bite I intended.