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Page 31 of Orc’s Redemption (Red Planet Dragons of Tajss #35)

31

RANI

I stand on the Al’fa’s left, with Drogor on his right and Rosalind beside him. Zat’an stands to my right. Together, we overlook the arena — a wide expanse of dirt and sand, the very heart of the Zmaj stronghold. The ramp that encircles the walls curves like stone arms embracing this ancient battleground, where generations of Zmaj have trained with practice weapons worn smooth by use.

Trained to kill my people on sight.

I shove the thought down. Knowing this alliance is our only chance for survival doesn’t erase the past — it only buries it under necessity.

People file onto the sands, filling the space. My handful of Urr’ki huddle together with their human mates at their sides. The space immediately around them is empty, silent testament to the underlying hatreds between our peoples.

Humans and Zmaj cluster together uneasily — some bound by friendship, others by bonding, and others out of wary necessity — but everywhere, invisible walls divide us.

The depth of what we must overcome is written in every stance and glance. But the Shaman and beneath him the Paluga are a threat that overwhelms differences. The rivalries of our peoples pale in comparison to what is happening and what will come next. They may not see it yet, but they will. They must. And that is on us.

I thought the Al’fa was my rival, but he was only the embodiment of it. Compared to this, winning him over was easy.

My muscles ache with the effort of stillness, but I keep my composure carefully stoic. The only allowance I give to nerves is letting my eyes wander around the arena. I study the structure, that being easier to confront than all the staring eyes.

The stone is ancient. Weathered by time and countless lives that have touched it. Each crack and crevice whispers tales of lives lived and gone. The ramp spirals upward past hollowed-out homes carved into the stone, most long abandoned. The emptiness speaks of a people in decline, their numbers thinned by endless war.

Forcing myself to look at those whose minds I must win, I shift back to the assembled. From the elevated balcony, I can see the entire expanse. Rows upon rows of Zmaj warriors, their iridescent scales reflecting the torches. Interspersed amongst them are clusters of humans, their expressions a mix of hope and apprehension. The air is thick with anticipation. The weight of this gathering presses down on my chest.

The Al’fa, his golden scales catching the light, is a living embodiment of strength and authority. Za’tan stands slightly apart from me. I’m acutely aware of the chasm that separates me from him, not just in distance, but in trust. The murmurs of the crowd rise and fall like the tide. A symphony of voices echoing off the stone walls.

The Al’fa steps forward, lifting a clawed hand. Silence crashes down like a stone. His voice, deep and resonant, fills the arena.

“Warriors, humans, our allies,” he begins, his gaze sweeping over the assembled masses. “We stand at a crossroads,” the Al’fa says, his voice a rumble that seems to shake the stone itself. “A storm approaches —one no Zmaj and no human, can weather alone.”

A ripple of unease courses through the crowd. The tension is a palpable force that sets my nerves on edge.

“To face this impending threat,” the Al’fa continues, “I have decided that we must forge an alliance. That we must look beyond the grievances of the past.”

He pauses. Letting the idea sink in, building on the moment. Only a moment, but the seeds of his idea are planted. He continues after six beats of my heart.

“I am entering an alliance with the Urr’ki. We will stand as one against a threat that seeks to consume all of us.”

The reaction is immediate. Murmurs swell into shouts. A cacophony of disbelief and anger. Zmaj warriors exchange heated words while the humans look to one another in confusion. The name ‘Urr’ki’ is anathema. A wound still raw, not yet healed. No matter how it hurts I know that even the sight of one of us is a bitter taste on the tongues of many.

From the throng, a figure emerges. A huge and hulking Zmaj warrior, his crimson scales glinting like embers. His presence commands attention, and the crowd parts to let him through. He steps into the open space before the balcony, his gaze locked onto the Al’fa.

“Al’fa,” he calls out, his voice carrying the weight of challenge. “We have opened our homes to the humans. We have welcomed our brethren from the surface, though they once drove us to flee, to live under the mountain. We have shared our resources and our knowledge.”

Agreement is a low rumble from the crowd, empowering Galt’in. He throws his arms wide, shifting his glare between the Al’fa and me.

“You would have us kneel beside the very hands that spilled our blood?” Galt’in roars. “You ask us to forget generations of betrayal?”

The arena holds its breath. All eyes turn to the Al’fa, awaiting his response. Beside him, I feel the weight of this moment. The precarious balance on which our futures teeter. The Al’fa meets the warrior’s gaze, unflinching.

“It is not out of desire that I suggest this, Galt’in,” the Al’fa says, leaning onto the parapet of the balcony. “It is from necessity. The quakes that have threatened us are only a precursor. The Paluga stirs and will awaken. Such a thing is not something we can face alone.”

“The Paluga?” Galt’in snorts. He throws his arms wide and spins to look at the assembly. Murmurs of dissent and agreement fill the cavern. “You ask us to forget ages of blood and loss for a myth? That we bind together for what? To fight a bed time story?”

The Al’fa stiffens, tension rolling off of him so thick that it makes my skin prickle. His claws gouge deep furrows into the stone. A low growl rumbles from his chest, the air around him charged with barely restrained violence. His lips part and I know, with all the certainty that I will draw my next breath, that he is about to destroy the one hope I have.

My thoughts race, seeking something, anything I can do to calm him. This requires rationality, not force. I know he can do this, but the rage is in his eyes, in the coloration on the edges of his scales, and in every vibrating muscle.

Impulsively I reach out and press my hand to the small of his back, just above the tail — a silent tether, unseen by the crowd but felt by him. It’s subtle and no one below us can see what I’ve done, but Za’tan makes a soft noise. Not a protest, but a hiss of surprise I think.

The Al’fa lowers his head, closes his eyes and his mouth, inhaling deeply, his nostrils flaring. When he looks back up he is calm and in control. I pull my hand back but at my side Za’tan makes a tsk sound. I’m not sure if it’s approval or disapproval.

“I hear you, Galt’in,” the Al’fa says, his voice calm. “And in your words I hear the challenge. If you wish to disagree with me, that is your right. I will accept your challenge, though it is not yet time for it.”

Galt’in was posturing for the crowd, having turned his back to the Al’fa and us. He instantly stops. Dropping his arms to his side as he slowly turns around. The angry coloration on the edges of his scales is gone, now they are a paler shade. A fact that I file away for later examination alongside the change in the coloration I just saw on the Al’fa.

“I did not inte?—”

“Do not deny your intent,” the Al’fa snaps. “I have earned the right to lead you, not by words, but by blood and time.”

A new murmur rises. This one sounds of surprise and agreement. I watch the Al’fa in my peripheral with growing respect. I knew there was a sharp mind behind the bluster and bravado. He is leveraging his opponent to get what he wants from this. He is winning their hearts and minds over. Clever.

Galt’in looks abashed. The eyes of all his fellows are on him, waiting to see how he will handle the Al’fa’s counter. His tail twitches, throwing sand into the air behind him. Those closest to him subtly move away, not far, but enough.

“Yes, Al’fa,” he says, his voice no longer certain and booming, but full of deprecation.

Galt’in bows his head, shame darkening his scales, and steps back — no longer a challenger, but a wary follower. The Al’fa looks over those gathered, waiting for someone else to step up.

“I do not do this lightly,” he says. “Nor do I claim to trust the Urr’ki. I do not ask that of you, nor have I extended such. What I know is that we face a force that will not discriminate in its destruction. I am certain that alone, we are vulnerable, but that united, we stand a chance.”

Galt’in’s eyes narrow, his tail flicking in agitation.

“And what of trust? We all know that the Urr’ki have betrayed us before. What assurance do we have that history will not repeat itself?” he asks, clearly not relinquishing his position yet.

A murmur of agreement ripples through the Zmaj ranks. The humans remain silent, their faces a canvas of uncertainty. I step forward, the weight of the moment heavy on my shoulders. My heart pounds, but I force my voice to remain steady.

“Trust is not given lightly, nor should it be. You must understand that the Paluga is a threat that eclipses our past grievances. If we let old wounds fester, we doom ourselves to a future without hope.”

Galt’in turns his gaze to me, his eyes burning with intensity.

“And you, Queen of the Urr’ki, would have us believe that your people seek genuine alliance? That this is not a ploy to work your way inside our defenses?”

I hold his gaze, refusing to waver.

“I cannot erase your pain,” I say, voice ringing out over the arena. “But if we let it chain us, it will be the last thing any of us remember before we fall.”

“I agree with the Urr’ki Queen,” Rosalind says, stepping forward too.

I look past the Al’fa. She is determined and certain, throwing what weight she carries onto the arena floor. Three leaders, all of us of one accord, presenting the unthinkable. Hope flickers in my heart like the flames of a sputtering torch. Desperately clinging to life.

The arena is thick with tension, the scales of fate are balanced on a knife’s edge. The warrior seems poised to respond but, before he does, the ground trembles. A low, ominous rumble that increases in intensity until the floor of the arena undulates and cracks snake across the sand and dirt.

The earth heaves underfoot. Cracks spider across the ground. Dust and stone rain from above, the acrid tang of ancient earth splitting open fills my lungs. Screams split the air as the wall crumbles with a deafening roar.

The earth’s fury is unrelenting, a stark reminder of the looming threat. The Al’fa’s voice cuts through the chaos, commanding and resolute.

“This is but a glimpse of what awaits us. The Paluga is awakening. We must decide to either stand divided and fall, or unite and fight for survival.”

The rumbling tremors subside, leaving a haunting silence in their wake. The warrior before us, once defiant, now appears contemplative. The reality of the situation is sinking in.

From the crowd, voices rise, not in dissent, but in agreement. A shift. Subtle yet profound. The seeds of unity sown in the crucible of impending doom.

The Al’fa turns to me, his gaze softer, yet no less intense. Dust hangs in the air like smoke, thick with the scent of scorched stone and ancient earth torn open. My lungs ache with each breath, but I hold his gaze.

“You speak not only as Queen of the Urr’ki,” he says, his voice lower, no longer for the crowd. It’s only for me, “but as someone who understands what’s coming. That is why I have chosen to stand with you at my side.”

My heart clenches, too tightly to breathe. The balcony is silent. Even the other leaders, Za’tan, Drogor, and Rosalind say nothing, but they are watching. Waiting.

Is this a test? A moment of genuine trust? Or both?

He steps closer. The crowd murmurs below, a tide of voices swelling with each heartbeat. My skin prickles under their scrutiny. I have stood before armies, before the Shaman himself. But never like this. Never have I felt so exposed in all my life. I wet my lips then meet his eyes.

“I stand for peace. For survival. If we do not find a way forward together, there will be nothing left to rule.”

His jaw tightens. I can see the war within him. Zmaj pride clashing with the hard-won wisdom of a leader who has tasted too much death. And then, he lifts his arm.

“She is no longer our enemy,” the Al’fa proclaims, his voice like a blade slicing through the charged air. “She is our ally. My equal. She represents the future.”

The breath I take is sharp and stunned. Not just at the words, but at the silence that follows. It lasts a beat too long. My pulse thunders in my ears. Then the uproar begins again.

Not fury, or not only fury, and not just confusion. But amazement. Shock. A flicker of something even more dangerous to the status quo. Possibility.

I glance at Za’tan. His expression is unreadable, but I do not miss the narrowing of his eyes. Rosalind, across from him, exhales slowly and folds her arms across her chest, unreadable as always. Drogor watches with an inscrutable intensity, the way a dragon watches a candle, curious, but ready to snuff it out.

On the sands below the warrior who challenged kneels, not in submission, but in recognition. A fragile beginning. A promise, trembling like the air after the quake.

“If she stands with the Al’fa,” he says, “I do too. But I also wait and watch. I will not forget what has been done.”

“Nor should you,” I reply, louder than I expect. “But we must not let the past decide whether we live to see the future. Learn from the past, understand it, but do not let it alone shape what we do next.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment, then rises and steps back into the crowd. One by one, others follow. Not all kneel. Some nod. Some simply do not protest. That’s enough. We have not won them all, but we have begun. The Al’fa leans toward me, his voice a low rasp.

“That was the hardest part. And the easiest.”

“There will be more challenges,” I agree, glancing at him.

“But now they know where I stand. And where you do,” he says with a slight nod.

I could fall into this moment. Into the way he watches me, like I’ve stopped being just a symbol, and started becoming something more. But there’s too much still undone. Too many risks unspoken.

The crowd disperses and workers rush to assess the damage of the latest quake. One of the outer walls has split entirely down the middle. At the far end of the arena there a crevasse has formed and even from here, I see firelight flickering through it. The soft orange-red glow of lava. The Paluga isn’t just stirring, it’s cracking the surface.

“It’s happening faster than I expected,” I whisper, more to myself than to anyone.

Rosalind hears me anyway.

“We need to evacuate the lowest tunnels. And we need to get Elara back.”

That name. A knife of worry cuts through the pride swelling in my chest.

“Has there been word?” I ask.

“Not yet. But if she’s near the fault… we have to assume she’s seen the worst of it,” she says, shaking her head.

“This alliance isn’t enough on its own. We have to act,” I say to the Al’fa.

“And we will,” he says. “But if I move too fast, the others will see it as weakness. As surrender to Urr’ki.”

“What you did just now, declaring me your equal, was seen as surrender by some of your people,” I say.

He doesn’t deny it. He steps closer instead.

“Let them see it. Let them question it. The ones who matter will feel what I feel.”

His fingers brush my hand. Just a ghost of contact. But I feel it in every part of me.

“You risk everything by standing beside me,” I whisper.

“I risk more by standing without you.”

Though, the tremors may have stopped nothing feels steady, not yet, but his touch anchors me.

This is not a declaration of love. This is something deeper. A root just beginning to take hold, growing in the ashes.

The Al’fa turns to the crowd.

“Let this be the first step,” he calls. “Let the Zmaj, the Urr’ki, and the humans bear witness to what we build together. And let those who would stand in the way… consider what Tajss itself has to say about it.”

He gestures toward the ruined wall. And no one protests. Dust dances in the air while I stare at the cracked arena and the fire-glow bleeding through the stone.

The Paluga is no myth. The alliance is no longer a dream. Everything is real now. And this is just the beginning.