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The Al’fa’s teeth flash in a smile that lacks all warmth.

“We are hunters, Queen, not prey.”

“And yet you hide,” I whisper, letting the insult fall like a blade between us.

His wings twitch, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth audibly.

“Careful, exile. You tread close to the edge.”

I tilt my head, allowing myself the smallest, sharpest of smiles.

“Perhaps it is time you stood closer to the edge too. The ground here is crumbling beneath both our feet, whether you admit it or not.”

Drogor chuckles dryly. Of all the Zmaj, he is the hardest even for me to look at. His mutilated body, with the extra limbs that look as if they were taken from a cavern spider and grafted to his body and his tail which ends in a sharp stinger, unlike any other Zmaj. I’ve heard whispers that refer to him and a handful of other Zmaj as ‘experiments’. The scars make it clear someone did that to him, but I cannot fathom who would do something like that to another being.

That is not true. I can. Someone like Kire. Someone who smiles while he carves ruin into flesh.

“I like her,” Drogor says, but I do not look at him. All my attention is on the Al’fa.

“I came to propose an alliance,” I continue, pushing past the lump in my throat. Neither my pride or fear can matter now. “I will not beg. But know this, if you refuse me, you will face the Shaman alone.”

“I already face my enemies alone,” he replies. His voice is low, rough like stone dragged over stone. “You, your people, your Shaman, and the loss of everything.”

For a flicker of a second, his veneer cracks. I see the weight of responsibility on him. The lives of the Zmaj who trust him to lead them out of darkness. It mirrors the burden I carry. And in that reflection, something unexpected stirs in me, not pity, not yet respect, but the hint of understanding.

“Then perhaps we are more alike than you think,” I say, gentler.

“I am nothing like you,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“Because you fear to be,” I counter, voice soft but unwavering. “You think compromise is weakness. But it takes more strength to reach out a hand than to draw a blade.”

A silence falls between us, thick as the underground air.

“You think you can lecture me on strength?” His voice is a growl, the predator barely leashed.

“I do not lecture,” I reply smoothly. “I offer truth.”

His gaze flicks to Drogor, then Zat’an, before returning to me. He leans forward slightly, his presence oppressive, challenging.

“Tell me, Queen, if I did agree, what makes you think your people would fight beside mine, after centuries of blood and war?”

I step closer, matching his heat with my own.

“Because I will command it,” I say quietly. “Because survival leaves no room for grudges. Not when a far greater death stirs beneath our feet.”

We stand locked in this tension, two forces neither yielding nor attacking. Yet. Inside, I feel the tremor of something ancient, an instinct, perhaps, or fate itself threading between us. We are adversaries by history, but necessity makes strange allies.

I brace myself for the storm I know will come next. Either in his words or in his actions.

The Al’fa’s grunt draws the attention of the others. Drogor’s reptilian eyes narrow on me like I’m prey already halfway in his jaws, while Za’tan’s expression, with his one milky eye, is unreadable but no less heavy with disapproval.

“I do not have time for this, we will meet later,” the Al’fa says, waving a dismissive hand.

“We will meet now,” I counter, taking a half-step forward.

Vapas moves with me, a silent shadow of tension, the coiled threat of violence shimmering under his skin. He’s ready to fight, but that’s exactly what we have to avoid.

“I was not aware the Queen of the Urr’ki had trouble understanding simple instructions,” the Al’fa says, tone like iron scraping against stone.