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“I understand,” I say. “If the Zmaj intend me harm, it is much too late to do anything about it. Stay, brave warrior. This is no dishonor. Tell the others I go to finalize the hope of our people.”

His body trembles with barely contained rage, but he takes a step back, shifting his gaze from the Zmaj to me. He searches my face for any hint that I mean something different than my words. For a moment I’m not sure if he will obey or if he will push the Zmaj over the edge and let him fall to the arena far below.

When he nods I have to keep the relief from showing on my face. Uncertainty is not something a Queen ever displays, no matter what’s happening inside. Ever. He takes another step back. I turn and follow the Zmaj.

When we reach the base of the ramps that angle around the arena we don’t turn towards the Al’fa’s office chambers as I expect. Instead of going to the right, they turn left. My heart skips a beat and speeds up. I clasp my hands in front of myself to keep them from trembling as fear slips over my nerves.

No one else is in the tunnel that they lead me down. I struggle to not let myself be triggered. The last time I was marched down narrow passages like this ended with me in a cell, left to rot by the Maulavi. The Zmaj remain silent, marching quickly along.

The passage winds around, angling lower and lower. The one in the lead stops in front of a door. An actual, real door, made of porous stone, not the heavy leather they normally use. He takes out a key and unlocks it. My throat clenches but I keep my composure, despite every instinct screaming to run.

The door silently opens and reveals steep stairs going down. The Zmaj looks at me once then starts down them. I follow, though my stomach is churning. This could be my end. If so, all I can do now is face it with as brave a face as possible.

The stairs spiral downward for what feels like an eternity, until at last they end and we’re in a tunnel that looks more natural than carved. Ahead I hear the soft murmur of voices and see the flicker of flames.

We come to a doorway and the Zmaj with me stop, motioning for me to step around and through. There is no door, at least, so this is not a cell. Further evidence this might not be my end comes when the one behind me turns and walks back to the stairs. The one who led is watching so I nod and walk around him then he also leaves.

I step into the chamber. It’s quiet, carved but still partially natural. Crystalline veins snake through the rough walls, catching the torchlight and bathing the chamber in a muted glow.

Four figures are gathered at a long stone table that is older than any of us. No guards. They stop talking as I walk in, all of them turning to look at me. I stride forward, exuding confidence I do not feel until I am standing on the side opposite the Al’fa.

We meet each other’s eyes. Between us lies years of blood and grief. It’s heavy, a weight that we both carry, but somehow must find a way to set it down. The past is crushing us even now, but somehow we must not only let it go, but also convince our people.

Rosalind takes her seat first, calm and coiled, the human diplomat is always watching. Drogor lingers behind her, leaning against the wall, his eyes gleaming with secrets. Za’tan stands beside the Al’fa, silent and unmoving, but I don’t miss the tension in his jaw.

The Al’fa doesn’t sit. Neither do I.

He stares with that same unyielding intensity he’s worn since the first moment we met. It would be easier if he raged. If he postured and roared. But no—this man has learned to listen. To weigh. It makes me worry much more than if he hadn’t.

“I’m not here to beg,” I say, letting the silence break beneath my voice. “I brought you the proof you requested that there are those still loyal to me. That they will fight with the Zmaj if we form this alliance. You must know this, though, I will fight for my people. That includes fighting you, if I must.”

A flicker moves behind his expression. Approval? Irritation?

“Good,” he says. “Because anything less would be an insult.”

Rosalind’s fingers tap the table once. A signal.

“Shall we begin?”

I unroll the crude map, drawn from memory and etched in smudged charcoal.

It shows the remains of the Urr’ki city, the tunnels beneath, and the fire veins below it that are waking.

“We no longer have time for caution,” I say. “The Shaman is moving faster and the Paluga is awakening. You’ve felt the quakes. You must feel the building heat. It’s a warning, a precursor, not a myth.”

“You speak of legends as if they’re facts,” Za’tan snorts.

I meet his gaze, holding his one good eye with mine.

“Ask your elders. Your seers if you have them. The Paluga is real, its truth was buried beneath fear.”

Drogor steps forward, uncharacteristically quiet.

“I agree. I believe her.”

That surprises them and me too. Even Rosalind lifts a brow. I have never seen Drogor take sides. It feels as if he’s already picked his winner. I press on.

“If the Paluga rises, it will destroy us all. Human. Zmaj. Urr’ki. It does not care who once ruled or who rules now. It is death and destruction. The world ender.”