Page 29 of Orc’s Redemption (Red Planet Dragons of Tajss #35)

29

RANI

“M y Queen.”

I startle awake, heart hammering, still in a half-dream state. I jump at the sound and hit my head on the stone of the cubby that serves as a bed. I yelp in surprise and pain. Memories of hands grabbing me in the middle of the night and dragging me away were strong but are fading.

“Wha—” I say, blinking away the last vestiges of fear.

Vapas is crouching beside the cubby, his dark eyes glistening in the dim light of the coals.

“The Zmaj,” he grumbles. “They say their Al’fa…” he trails off, eyes narrowing, mouth deepening into a frown, “…he demands your presence.”

Demands. Once I would have had anyone who demanded anything of me punished. Once, no one would have dared. Or if they had, I probably would never have known about it because those around me would have taught them the error of their ways. That is no longer the case.

“Thank you, Vapas,” I say, rubbing the small bump forming on my head. The Zmaj have terrible design skills. “If you don’t mind, could you ask them to give me a moment to dress?”

“Of course,” he says, rising and bowing before he leaves my room.

I slip out of the cubby, pausing to look at the thing that the Zmaj call a bed. No wonder they’re so warlike. They’ve probably never had a decent night’s sleep in their entire lives. Resting inside a cubby carved into stone. Hard, cold, and uncomfortable. Kind of like the Zmaj themselves.

Except him. He’s hard and cool, yes, but beneath those scales there’s a fire.

Shaking my head, I roll my shoulders, then swing my arms to get the blood flowing. I dress quickly. It’s not as if I have choices in what I wear, which makes this much simpler than it ever was before I was imprisoned.

Before that, I had handmaids who selected my elaborate dresses from massive closets. That was when I was a symbol as much as a leader. I always chafed at that part of my duties, but even so, I knew how important they were. The people needed something to believe in, and that was the role I played.

I run my fingers over the frayed cloth that is all I now own. The grandeur and spectacle are gone, stripped away. What remains is forged iron. My people depend on me whether they know it or not. This is a battle of wills. Mine versus the Shaman and me versus the Al’fa. If I do not bring the Al’fa and his Zmaj to an alliance, then all hope will be lost.

I cannot fail.

He waits—in the middle of the night.

I should probably feel trepidation. I don’t. I am calm and ready. I will not be beaten. Not only my people depend on me; all of us do. Zmaj, humans, and Urr’ki alike.

As if in response to my thoughts, a tremor shakes the ground. The Paluga is awakening. There may be no stopping it now. All the stories and wisdom of my people tell the same tale. The Paluga brings the end of the world, ushering in the next in waves of fire.

Dust falls from the ceiling, settling onto the coals and dimming them further. The air is chill as I dress. I could stir up the fire, but it would be a waste of fuel since I won’t be here long enough to appreciate the warmth.

Dressed, I retrieve the scroll I was working on before I went to sleep and turn to the leather door. It’s only been a few moments since Vapas woke me up, but it feels as if it’s been longer. I do not want to keep the Al’fa waiting, but I need this moment to myself. I lower to my knees, bow my head, and offer up my own heartfelt prayer to Tajss.

I do not believe this world is done. Grant me wisdom. Show me the way forward.

Nodding I rise and walk to the door. Vapas pulls the leather aside before I touch it. I give him a smile and his eyes light up. Impulsively, I put my hand on his free arm, holding his eyes for a moment. The surprise and gratitude on his face is more than enough reward for the small gesture.

Two Zmaj stand in the shadows, staring. They look at each other then back to me.

“I am ready,” I announce.

“Good, we go,” one of them says and starts walking.

The other one waits, clearly intending to bring up the rear. Vapas and he glare at one another, and I decide not to intervene. I barely take a few steps before a scuffle breaks out behind me. Turning, the Zmaj is blocking Vapas from joining me.

“What is happening?” I ask, voice carefully neutral.

“Alone,” the Zmaj says.

“Over my dead body,” Vapas growls.

“Not a problem,” the Zmaj says, his tail darting up and curling over his head as his hands ball into fists.

“No,” I snap, stepping up to the two males already engaged and ready to fight. “Vapas, it will be fine.”

His eyes flick to mine, then back to his opponent. A low growl rumbles from his chest.

“My Queen,” he grumbles.

“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.”

“Even if this monster is real,” Za’tan snaps, “why would your people wake it? Your own legends say it’s the end of the world. Why would they want that?”

“Because we’ve lost,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

The weight of the admission hurts, but this is not the time to hold anything back. This is the moment everything has been building to. I will either leave this chamber with an alliance or I’ll leave it a failure. I can’t meet their eyes so I stare at the edge of the table. Studying the small marks from the chisel that formed it. The wear lines. Dozens maybe hundreds of hands have worn the stone smooth.

“If we’ve won then why?—”

“Enough,” the Al’fa cuts Za’tan off. “Leave it be.”

I look up sharply, surprised by his intervention. His eyes are boring into me, burning with something that I can’t read. No, I can read it, I don’t want to. I’m scared to. Because it can’t be.

Rosalind leans forward, sharp eyes glittering.

“So what are you proposing?” she asks.

I draw a line between the Zmaj stronghold and the outer rim of the city where I know the Resistance will be hiding.

“A joint force. My loyalists will rise. They’ll fight the Shaman and his Maulavi, but they won’t survive alone. Not in time. If we strike together, we can crush him and evacuate both of our cities before the fire comes.”

“And then what?” Za’tan growls. “You return to your throne and we trust you not to rebuild your army?”

“If I wanted to continue this war with your kind,” I say coldly, “you’d already be fighting one.”

Silence. It stretches for long heartbeats.

Then the Al’fa moves. Slowly, deliberately, he places both hands on the table and leans forward, the light catching on his scarred cheek.

“You ask Zmaj warriors to die alongside the same creatures who have killed us for generations.”

“I ask you to help us stop something worse than any of us have ever seen.”

He doesn’t blink.

“And what makes you think I won’t turn this alliance into a slaughter the moment your enemies fall?”

“I don’t,” I say. He straightens. “But I believe you won’t,” I continue. “Because if you wanted that, you’d have already used me as bait. Instead, you have waited and you have listened.”

That earns me a long, searching look. The others fade into the periphery. Drogor watching with his quiet, simple determination. Rosalind, quiet as the still waters of a deep cavern pool. Za’tan, watchful and wary, ever the blade behind the throne. But it’s the Al’fa who matters.

“You think we can convince them?” he asks finally. “The others? To fight beside the Urr’ki?”

I hesitate. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because the truth is brutal.

“No,” I say. “But we have to try.”

Za’tan’s jaw tics. “You’ll tear the compound apart.”

“Better now,” Rosalind murmurs, “than when the ground opens and this monstrosity rises.”

The Al’fa looks at each of us in turn. Rosalind. Drogor. Za’tan. Me. His shoulders rise, then fall. And he nods. Once.

The meeting ends in silence, no signatures, no blood oath. Just the weight of what we’ve agreed to—an alliance that defies everything that generations of hate and war have taught us.

But it’s after the others leave that the real moment comes. He waits behind, lingering by the map I drew. I stay, unsure why I haven’t walked away.

“You were impressive,” he says at last, his voice low and rough, without looking up.

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

His gaze lifts to mine, steady and quiet. I step toward him, drawn by something I don’t name. Not yet.

“You’ve been using war as a shield,” I say softly. “To hide the part of you that doesn’t want to fight anymore.”

A flicker of emotion crosses his face.

“And you use diplomacy as armor. So you don’t have to admit you’re afraid.”

I stop, a breath away from him.

“I am afraid.” That startles him. “I’m afraid that no matter what we do, it won’t be enough,” I say. “That I’ll lose everything trying to save it.”

He watches me for a long moment, then steps closer. Close enough that I feel the coolness of his scales.

“You don’t have the luxury of brute force,” he says.

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t.”

“But you don’t need it. You’re already dangerous,” he says, his voice dropping to a near growl.

The words settle between us like sparks on dry leaves. He’s looking at me like he’s on the edge of something he doesn’t know how to name either. His fingers twitch at his side, like he wants to reach for me. Like he’s stopping himself. I inhale sharply.

“If we do this, there’s no going back.”

“Then let’s go forward,” he murmurs, a decision and a promise entwined in those simple words.

The moment could tip. Right now. I could close the space between us. He could touch me. It would be easy. But instead?—

We part. Because now is not the time. Not yet.

Outside the meeting chamber, we both know that a storm is brewing. Rosalind and Drogor will have begun to whisper of an alliance. The humans will debate what price survival is worth.

Za’tan, I am not sure. I fear he will be muttering dissent among the Zmaj warriors. And the Zmaj will have to decide if they’re willing to bleed for my people. The creatures they once called enemies. If they’re willing to trust.

I step into the hallway alone. The heat of the deep tunnels rises to meet me, heavy and suffocating, as if the planet itself is holding its breath.

The Paluga stirs below and war waits above.

And I, Queen of a people on the edge of extinction, have just gambled everything on the one alliance no one wanted.