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“That was not me,” he says when he finally speaks.

“No, it was your kind, though,” Z’leni says.

“It was also an Urr’ki trap that killed my brother,” Ryatuv says. “Not some ancient ancestor of yours. Possibly, even, one set by you. Would you compare the two?”

“You think I haven’t known loss? My people know nothing but. You cold-blooded monsters hunt us like animals.”

“We protect ourselves,” Ryatuv shoots back.

“You kill without remorse!” Z’leni shouts, stopping his walk and confronting the Zmaj.

I’m stuck between the two of them and the fantasy of peace and maybe more shatters as they square off.

“And your kind do not?”

“The only reason the Shaman was able to rise to power is because we’ve lost everything! You don’t just kill us, you killed hope! Any idea of a future. Of safety for our children.”

“Children?” Ryatuv hisses, his wings twitching as he shifts, angling to face Z’leni fully. “I would kill every one of you for the opportunity to have a child. You dare challenge me? You think I do not know my treasure when I see her? She is meant to be mine. Not yours.”

“Yours!” Z’leni shouts, moving in response.

I throw myself between them, slamming my palms against their chests, shoving hard enough that they both stagger a step back.

“Enough!” I shout. Sweat drips into my eyes, burning as I try to blink it away. “Treasure? Dragoste? Did either of you think to ask me what I thought? Or are you two going to throw down without even bothering?”

That stops them. Their angry looks disappear as they shift their attention from one another to me. Looking between the two of them it’s almost comical that they both have the same look of shock mixed with remorse. Wide eyes, open mouths, and shaking heads.

“Elara I am—” they speak in unison and that is enough to stop them again.

They look at one another then back to me. The anger fades leaving only the rising heat of the air and the three of us with too much said yet not enough either. I take my hands off them, unwilling to admit how even that light touch ignites desire and need. I wipe my forehead with my sleeve, trying to stop more sweat from hitting my eyes.

“We should keep moving,” I say. “If we’re to stand a chance of finding peace, you two need to figure yourselves out.”

Their jaws audibly snap shut. I can’t look at them, not right now, so I move ahead. They move quickly back to my sides and we travel in a silence that is no longer comfortable, nor easy, but I think it’s a necessary one. If there is any hope to be had, it’s going to start with us.

Some of the buildings are partially standing. The architecture that remains is amazing. I’ve seen a lot of different designs since the generation ship crashed onto Tajss. From the first city we all lived in that they called Draconov to the bunker, down to the underground Zmaj compound and then the Urr’ki city, but none of them compare to the remnants I see here.

Delicate frescoes that look so delicate and precise. The walls have remnants of color, faded and worn, but once it was probably brilliant and bright. The buildings were tall. Much taller than anything in the Urr’ki city. The Zmaj compound is tall, but it doesn’t come close to this and is mostly natural caves modified to use.

The deeper we go, the rougher the road becomes. Cracks become more common turning into full on crevasses that force us to navigate our way around. The air keeps getting thicker. There is an acrid scent that is cloying and sticks in the back of my throat. And we don’t need the torch anymore.

Gradually, the buildings become nothing but rubble. There is nothing left standing. Then we step onto what once must have been a central square. Or a circle and at the center is a jagged rift. The ground has cracked open leaving an open pit of glowing lava below. Its light pulses like a heartbeat.

“Is that?” I ask, not sure what I’m trying to say.

The three of us step closer. The heat rolls over my skin as we move. It’s so hot that sweat doesn’t bead on my skin, it sizzles off. A breeze of molten air rises and for a second I swear I hear it breathing.

Maybe ten or fifteen feet down is the lava. It shifts and stirs, bubbles popping. The Paluga sleeps below it and it’s stirring. Z’leni kneels beside the fissure, his jaw tight.

“They built the city over this. Did they know it was here?” he murmurs.

“Maybe they worshipped it,” Ryatuv says, standing tall and grim.

“Either way,” I say, turning to them, “this ends here. We can’t let it wake. Or if it does… we have to be ready.”

Neither of them argues. That tells me they believe it too.

“We need to escape,” I say. “The Zmaj compound. Rosalind, the human leader will know what to do.”