Page 92

“Then we strike,” Za’tan says, shifting but keeping his arms folded across his broad chest.

“If we attack the Urr’ki city, without knowing what resistance we will face—” Rosalind says leaning forward. Her frown lines are deep and her brows are drawn tight.

“We risk everything,” Drogor finishes for her. His tail lashing once. “There are too many unknowns. We haven’t confirmed whether the Shaman is within the city or if he’s moved deeper underground, for one.”

They argue, voices rising and falling like waves battering against stone. I listen, but part of me drifts, pulled to something else entirely. A name.

Elara.

The human who is still in the Shaman’s grasp. I don’t know that he has her, but I do know him, and that leads me down one path. I don’t know why she matters so much — only that she does. Tajss doesn’t speak in words but in instincts, and mine scream her name.

“Has there been any word on Elara?” I ask, cutting through their debate.

The chamber falls silent. Za’tan’s gaze flicks to me then to the Al’fa.

“There has,” the Al’fa answers.

He rises and I see the flicker of something behind his eyes, something I can’t name. He gestures toward one of the Zmaj standing along the wall. The warrior steps forward and lays down a battered piece of fabric. A scrap of human clothing that must be Elara’s.

My heart stutters. I don’t know why she’s important, all I know is that I feel it in my bones. Tajss doesn’t speak to us in words, but in feelings and knowing. It’s a gift not all, not even most, Urr’ki have but I was blessed with it. And I learned at a very young age to trust my instincts.

“We found signs,” the Al’fa says. “Elara is alive. And she is not alone.”

For a moment, I forget how to breathe. Khiara gasps softly beside me.

“She lives?” Khiara asks.

“She lives,” he confirms. “And she’s traveling with two others. A Zmaj warrior, Ryatuv, and one of your own.” He looks at me then, his voice roughening. “An Urr’ki male.”

I close my eyes. Relief and dread crash into each other, clashing in my chest. I want to cry. I want to rage. I want to break down and scream until this stone around us splits in half, but I do none of those things. I only nod.

“Good,” I say softly. “Tajss will provide.”

He watches me. His eyes burn, but for once, the fire in them isn’t anger. It’s something quieter. Warmer.

“She must be found,” I add, louder. “If she’s with a Zmaj and an Urr’ki, then they have already done what we did not dare attempt.”

“You think three lone travelers can survive the tunnels? The quakes?” Za’tan grunts.

“No,” I say. “But I believe in fate and that she is important. And you should, too.”

Rosalind watches with a look that is somewhere between suspicion and wary hope. I’m not sure which. There’s a pause. The kind of silence that spreads slowly, thoughtful, weighty. Then the Al’fa speaks.

“We will send scouts. A smaller force can move quickly. I’ll select them myself.”

He doesn’t say what I suspect he’s thinking, but I see it on his face. If she’s alive, and moving toward the surface, she may be key to ending this war without bloodshed. He knows it too. Does he also hear Tajss speaking? Is this the clear cut hand of fate moving all the pieces together?

“Good,” I say, nodding sharply.

He stares at me with that same look from the arena, like he’s trying to unravel me with his eyes.

“I would not leave her to die,” he says. “Any more than I would leave you.”

The air in the chamber thins. For a moment I forget the others, the strategy, the maps, and murmurs of the council. All of the urgent weight of what we’re planning. Because his words land like thunder in my chest.

“I am not your responsibility,” I say, the slightest tremor in my voice.

“No,” he answers, not looking away. “You’re not.”