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17

RANI

Istep forward, though every instinct warns me to stay still. The weight of the warriors’ stares presses in from all sides, thick with distrust. But it is the Al’fa’s gaze that I feel the most. Heavy, piercing, and measuring.

I steady my breath, forcing my expression into impassivity. The next words I speak will determine whether I walk out of this chamber with influence or quite possibly in chains.

“The Shaman does nothing without purpose,” I say, my voice ringing clear. “You think the raid was a reckless strike. A desperate act meant to provoke your anger. But it wasn’t mere aggression.”

A pause. Some scoff under their breath. Others shift uneasily.

“The Shaman does not risk his warriors without a plan,” I continue. “Every battle, every move is only a piece of a larger game.”

“And what strategy is that?” one of the warriors growls.

“Control,” I say coolly, meeting his glare without flinching.

A murmur spreads through the chamber. The Al’fa’s eyes narrow slightly, his posture still, unreadable.

“You believe he wants war,” I say. “And perhaps he does. But only when it is on his terms. The Shaman does not fear you. He fears what he cannot control.”

More shifting, soft murmurs, eyes shifting from one to another and I see it now. Small ripples of doubt. They are proud, these Zmaj, but if I know anything for certain it is that pride alone does not win wars.

“He wants you to strike first,” I say. “Blind with rage. He wants you to march straight into his trap, to fight on ground of his choosing, under conditions he will have already prepared.”

I let the words hang between us. A heavy silence follows. Then…

“You still haven’t answered my question.” The Al’fa’s voice is even, but there is an edge beneath it, sharp as a blade. “If you are so certain of his plans, tell me, what would you have us do?”

Another test. I meet his gaze, ignoring the quickening of my pulse.

Misstep, and he’ll brand me a liar. Say too little, and he’ll dismiss me.

I inhale slowly, steadying.

“Do not act in haste,” I say. “Be patient. Take control of the field.”

A scoff. One of the warriors leans forward crossing his arms. His tail lifts and slaps the floor twice.

“And what would you have us do, Urr’ki? Wait? Let them raid our home at will? Destroy our supplies with impunity? How is that not an invitation?”

“We don’t sit idle,” I say. “We prepare. We make sure that when we go to war, it’s on our terms, not his.”

The Al’fa studies me. “And how do you propose we do that?”

I brace myself. This next truth will test them.

“We forge alliances. Force the Shaman to fight not only the Zmaj—but the humans, the surface Zmaj, and those still loyal to me.”

A growl ripples through the gathered warriors. The Al’fa’s expression hardens.

“We do not rely on outsiders.”

“No,” I agree. “But you already fight beside humans. And now, I ask you to consider the Urr’ki.”

The chamber erupts. Warriors snarl, voices clashing, but I stand firm, waiting. The Al’fa does not immediately react. He watches the chaos unfold around him, unreadable. Then, he lifts a hand and the room falls silent.

“You believe your people would side against the Shaman?” he asks.