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I do not let myself hesitate. This may only be a glimmering chance, but I must take it. My next words will be my riskiest yet, the tidbit of information I’ve been holding back as my final bargaining chip.

“Some already have. There is resistance within the Urr’ki city, warriors who defy him in secret. But without aid, they will be crushed.”

The Al’fa tilts his head, staring silent. Moving slowly he takes a step forward, leaning onto the edge of the table that holds the scale model. Rosalind’s eyes dart from me to him then back to me, silently watching and judging.

“And you expectusto save them?” he asks.

“I expect us to save each other,” I say.

The words land heavy between us. A challenge, yes, but also a truth. The Al’fa’s expression does not shift, but I see it in his eyes. He is thinking. Then, a voice cuts through the tension.

“The Urr’ki do not fight for others,” Za’tan spits. “They fight for power.”

“And the Zmaj do not?” I counter, turning to him. “Tell me, then, why doyoufight?”

Za’tan scowls but does not answer. I look back to the Al’fa.

“You fight for your people. I fight for mine. Rosalind fights for hers. And now, the Shaman threatens us all.”

Another pause. The Al’fa lowers his head until I can no longer see his eyes or even attempt to read his face. His shoulders bunch. The silence in the room is pregnant with expectation. Tension building for the coming decision. A decision that will very likely decide the fate of my people.

“You speak well,” the Al’fa says, speaking at last. “But words, no matter how pretty, do not win wars.”

“No,” I say, speaking softly, appealing to him alone. “But allies do.”

He exhales, a slow, measured breath then looks up. He narrows his eyes, purses his lips, and his tail lifts over his head.

“You are asking us to fight for your people without proof they would fight for us, not against us.”

I expected this. I lift my chin.

“Then I will bring you proof,” letting the silence sharpen around me like a blade.

The warriors exchange glances, wary. The Al’fa’s gaze does not waver.

“How?”

If I have learned nothing in all my time as Queen of a people on the brink of extinction it is to listen to everyone. To know all those around you, by name, and to hear their thoughts. Give some amount of care to who they are. Listen to the struggles they face in their lives and learn.

It has been my experience, though it might seem such a small thing to do, it opens many doors. Mostly, it makes them comfortable. Comfortable enough to talk and to share things that they would never say in front of the ‘Queen’ or, as I am now, the prisoner.

The Zmaj have responded no differently. From the guards on my door to the ones who bring supplies to my room, food and fuel for the fire. Clean blankets and fresh water to cleanse myself. They come, they talk, and they share. And this being one of my last cards, I’ve been holding it back for the right time to put it into play.

I take a deep breath and brace myself. This has to work. I need this alliance more than they do, but only on the surface. I know the Shaman’s plan and he is both cunning and devious. If my people fall, if I fall, nothing will stand in his way of destroying the undermountain. Urr’ki, Zmaj, and human alike.

“Elara.”

At the mention of her name, something shifts. There is recognition in the Zmaj warriors’ eyes. Tension. But my eyes are on Rosalind. She clenches her jaw, squinting her eyes, making the wrinkles there more prominent.

Murmurs, growls, and hisses fall into silence while I wait. Letting the name sink in. Letting them realize that I know it at all is my revealing information, extending trust. Rosalind takes a step forward, uncrossing her arms. She places her hands on the edge of the table and the soft drumming of her fingers is the only sound in the room. She locks eyes with me, leaning in.

“What about her?” she asks, her voice soft and calm, but the storm in her eyes gives it all away.

“Elara is in the Shaman’s hands,” I say.

“Heh,” the Al’fa scoffs, his wings rustling and his tail rasping across the floor rapidly. “You cannot know that.”

“Can’t I?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.