Page 7

“That is settled, the Al’fa is waiting,” Chanka says, motioning towards the door.

Ak’tral walks out first. Chanka waits, clearly planning to bring up the rear. I hesitate, only for a moment then look at the two brothers.

“You two should wait here,” I say. They both open their mouths to protest but I shake my head. “Chanka is allowing a guard and we know I will be safe. We do not need to make a show.”

They exchange a look, communicating in the way that only those of shared blood can. Disagreement, argument, then understanding happening in the briefest of moments and I watch it in their faces. Finally Dilacs nods.

“Yes, my Queen,” he says and Khiara nods his agreement.

The tension in their bodies doesn’t ease which makes their reluctance clear. I touch each of their shoulders, appreciating them.

“Thank you,” I say, turning and walking to the door.

Vapas rushes ahead and pulls the heavy leather aside. I duck under his arm and emerge onto the walkway. Ak’tral waits, tail swishing with agitation. I smile but he only frowns and takes off without a word. Vapas grunts, falling in at my side. Without a word, Vapas positions himself between me and the deadly drop—a silent wall of muscle and devotion.

We quickly reach the bottom of the concentric rings that go around the open space that they call the arena. The hard packed dirt floor with training dummies, many of which are decorated to look like Urr’ki. My people.

The acrid tang of warriors training and scorched stone stings my nose. Muted growls and the wet smack of fists on training dummies echo around us. They pause as we march through. Staring, grumbling, discontented that Vapas and I, their mortal enemy, freely walk amongst them. Vapas is tense and grumbles at my side. Even though we’re outnumbered he would fight them all without hesitation.

This is my inheritance—a legacy of blood and loss. One dying race facing another. But for what purpose? One dying race facing off against another and to what end? What purpose is there in hating the Zmaj? Because they are different than us? Because they ‘stole’ the surface from us?

I know the tales of my people as well as any, but what do I know of the truth of it? If I have learned anything it is that truth bends beneath the will of the victor. Only the vanquished remember differently.

Did the Zmaj steal from us or did we bring war to them? Are we the architects of our own demise? And even so, after we were driven from the surface, generations later, they wrought the event they call the Devastation. Does that not mean we are all the cause of our own doom?

My thoughts return to this over and over. Neither of our races are going to survive the awakening of the Paluga. I hope to forge a peace that will outlast the capture and demise of the Shaman, but at the very least I need them to save my people. Dare I hope of a future where our two peoples might live in some kind of unity?

The glares and angry mutterings as I pass the Zmaj warriors do not inspire hope. But minds can be changed. And the catalyst for change is in the Star People, the ones who call themselves humans. They are the best chance of survival that not only my people have, but for the Zmaj too. The Zmaj have no females. My people have no hope. There must be some middle ground between us that will stop the killing. There has to be and I will find it.

Ak’tral enters the tunnel at the back of the arena. As the walls close around us I’m grateful for the escape from the reproachful, hateful eyes of the warriors. Though I would not show such to them, it hurts my heart. It is yet another sign of my failings as a leader.

When we enter the office space that the Al’fa uses his second Drogor and former second Zat’an are at his sides. Between them, I see the future of the Zmaj balanced on a blade’s edge—one misstep and it will be my blood that oils the floor.

The three of them are looking over the table that holds a replica of their compound and the tunnels outside of it. The room is tense before I enter. When the Al’fa looks up and sees me he grunts, shaking his head, then returns his gaze to the model.

I step into the chamber, my every movement measured. I keep my chin high, my pulse steady, at least on the surface. Beneath my facade, the storm churns.

He does not rise. Does not acknowledge my presence with a proper greeting. Instead, Vapas and I stand, treated as nuisances, not dignitaries. I breathe deeply, willing the sting of insult to be my ally rather than my weakness.

I bow my head, slightly, not submission, but diplomacy then I lift my chin.

“Is this the courtesy with which the Al’fa greets those he would turn into allies?” I say, voice cool as a cavern spring. “Or are courtesy and decorum relics of the surface as well?”

The Al’fa raises his eyes of molten amber. Unblinking, calculating, and sharp as blades.

“You are not a guest. You are a problem.”

A ripple of anger runs beneath my skin, but I lace my fingers tighter in front of me, as though I can squeeze composure from my own bones.

“And yet,” I murmur, taking a step closer to the table, to him, “here you stand, discussing the fate of your people, while mine bleed and die beneath the Shaman’s heel.”

Zat’an stiffens at his side, his eyes narrowing. Drogor’s gaze flicks toward me, amused, intrigued but unreadable.

“You assume we care for Urr’ki blood,” the Al’fa growls.

I hold a hand up to silence him, never taking my gaze from his.

“You should,” I say softly. “Because when the Shaman finishes with us, he will turn his sights to you. You know this. That is why you watch your tunnels like frightened prey.”