Page 33 of Orc’s Redemption (Red Planet Dragons of Tajss #35)

33

RANI

T he arena still hums.

The crowds trickle away as the Al’fa leaves the balcony, followed by the others who drift away into shadowed corridors. My body aches with tension as tight as a bowstring refusing to release. My breath catches, shallow and uneven. I force my steps to stay measured, but my legs are shaky.

I have witnessed history. I helped shape it. My vision, the last hope I see for my people, is now real.

Yet, all I feel is the unbearable weight of hundreds of watching eyes. The echo of jeers and cheers still tangle in my ears, and the knowledge that I have tied my people’s fate to our enemies.

I walk alone. Khiara lingers behind, likely still listening as Zat’an briefs the warriors on fortification efforts and gathering reports on the damage from the quake. The Al’fa has vanished down a tunnel with Drogor and Rosalind in tow. The moment I’m out of view of the crowd, I sag against the cool stone wall. I press my hand to my heart like I can will it to slow.

He defended me. Not just me, what I represent.

He stood in front of his people, looked them in the eye, and said I speak for the future of both peoples. He doesn’t even trust me. Not fully. But he did it anyway. Why?

My pulse thrums louder and I’m not sure that it’s only adrenaline. The memory of his voice, low and steady in front of the crowd, replays in my mind. His stance was grounded, so sure when he stepped forward to silence the challenge against me.

He carried the weight of an honored warrior claiming his mate, which leaves me with weak knees and this racing heart. No, it was more than that. That was a leader choosing a path he cannot walk back from.

I press my hands to the wall and close my eyes.

Everything’s moving too fast. I’ve found support from my former General, Janara, built a brittle alliance, stood on a stage beside a male I swore I would never be able to trust and now here I am. Breathless, raw, and aching for something I don’t have words for.

“Queen,” Khiara says softly from behind.

I straighten, quickly fixing my expression into something regal. I turn, grateful he doesn’t ask what I was thinking. I know by the look on his face that he doesn’t have to.

“There’s a gathering in the strategy chamber,” he says. “The Al’fa called it. He wants you there.”

Of course he does. I nod and fall into step beside him, trying to quiet the storm inside my head.

We walk in silence. The tunnels twist like veins through the compound, pulsing with warm light from flickering torches. My heart won’t still. It pounds louder with every step. It’s not fear. Or maybe it is, but if so it’s layered with something else. Something deeper. Something dangerous.

Longing.

It claws at my chest, fierce and unwelcome. I hate that I feel it — but hatred doesn’t make it disappear.

The strategy chamber is full when we arrive. Zmaj warriors line the walls. Rosalind stands beside Drogor. Za’tan is present, with his arms crossed, and expression unreadable. And at the head of it all is the Al’fa.

He turns when I enter, and for a moment, we simply look at each other. I don’t bow. I don’t smile. But I feel it. again. This unspoken thread that pulls taut between us, just like it did in the arena. Still there. Still humming. Still dangerous.

“You’re late.” The Al’fa’s voice is low, roughened by something more than irritation.

“I was breathing,” I answer. “Something you might consider trying.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. His eyes, storm-shadowed, flick over me like he’s searching for cracks in my armor. And he finds them. I see it in the way his brow furrows.

“Come,” he says at last, and gestures to the stool beside him. “We have much to discuss.”

I move across the room, acutely aware that all eyes are on me. I keep my head high, shoulders square, and my hands firmly clasped in front of myself. I take the stool, spine straight and face unreadable. But inside?

Inside, I’m cracked glass.

The Al’fa speaks first. His voice is calm, but there’s something sharp beneath it, like steel barely sheathed.

“We cannot wait. The damage to the compound is more extensive than we can quickly fix. There are sections that will collapse under their own weight if we don’t do something. Every tremor weakens the compound. Assuming the Queen is right and this is the Paluga stirring, we must act. If we delay longer, there will be no compound left to defend, no Urr’ki stronghold to take. All that will be left is ash and ruin.”

“ 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.”

Silence and tension stretch between us.

“The damage to the compound is… extensive,” Za’tan says, breaking the moment.

“Report,” the Al’fa says, tearing his eyes away and leaving me feeling chill without the warmth of his gaze.

Za’tan gives the reports. Others come forward offering what information they have as well. Discussion resumes and plans are made. The assault will be soon because everyone agrees that time is running out. Search teams are organized and sent to try and find the missing human and those with her. I assign Khiara to take his brother and meet with Janara.

Hours pass and finally all is in place. The chamber slowly empties. Rosalind pauses in the door, looking over her shoulder with a pensive air, as if she has something to say, but isn’t sure if she should. She purses her lips, narrows her eyes, then shakes her head and leaves.

Tension lingers like smoke, curling in the corners, hanging in the breaths of every departing advisor. Only Za’tan remains, his tail quickly flicking with tight irritation as he crosses his arms. Always the same stance. Rigid and unreadable as if he is partially carved from stone. Za’tan steps forward, cutting between us like a drawn blade.

“This alliance,” he says, his voice low but sharp, “was built too quickly. On hope, not strength. And now you plan to attack the enemy with only partial intelligence?”

“I plan to strike with strategy,” I answer before the Al’fa can, lifting my chin so that I am staring at his one good eye. “Would you have us do nothing while the Paluga tears your city apart from beneath?”

“You forget, Queen, it’s not my city that harbors the beast,” he snaps, his lip curling.

The sting of accusation pierces through me, but I don’t flinch. I meet him eye to eye, voice steady.

“No, but just the same it is yours that will crumble with the rest of us if we don’t act together.”

Za’tan’s gaze flicks to the Al’fa, who remains silent. Watching. Weighing.

“She plays you,” Za’tan says flatly. “You hesitate where once you would have crushed your enemies underfoot. Why?”

The question lands like a hammer. I expect the Al’fa to rise in anger, to deny it, to push back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he slowly stands, rising with a deliberate air. The weight of his presence shifts, filling the room, and my breath catches.

“I am hesitating,” he says. “Because the fire I once trusted to guard my people now devours everything it touches.” His eyes settle on me. “Because she sees things I do not. Because she challenges me.” A pause. A beat of breath. “And because I trust her. Right now I trust her more than I trust you , Za’tan.”

Za’tan’s jaw tightens. I expect him to protest, to argue, but he only exhales sharply through his nose and storms out. And just like that, it’s only the two of us again.

Silence folds in, pressing close. The chamber feels smaller without witnesses, the walls thicker with the weight of all the things we haven’t said. I don’t look at him.

I can’t . Because if I do, I’ll fall into that heat again. And I don’t know if I’ll be capable of climbing back out.

“You defend me,” I murmur, staring at my hands. “Even when it costs you.”

“You are not weak,” he says behind me. “But they see you as fragile. Soft. They mistake your restraint for frailty.”

“And you don’t?”

“I did.”

The honesty of it slices deep. I turn slowly, locking eyes with him.

“And now?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His voice is quiet—raw and scraped down to truth.

“Now I see steel beneath your calm. And I cannot stop myself from reaching for it.”

“You speak as if you want something from me,” I say, my throat tightening.

“I want everything from you.” I inhale sharply, but he’s closing the distance. “I want your voice in my ear when I make decisions. I want your presence beside me when I walk into battle. I want your rage, your fire, your stubborn refusal to bow.” His hand lifts but doesn’t touch me. Hovering close enough to feel and staying there. “And I want the part of you no one else has dared claim.”

“Careful,” I whisper, heart hammering.

He leans in, not touching, but close, so close I feel the warmth of his breath.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I don’t know if I’ll survive wanting you back.”

His gaze flickers to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

“I don’t want your survival,” he says. “I want your surrender.”

His words strike deeper than any blade. My breath catches. For one dangerous heartbeat, I almost step into him — into the fire I know will consume me.

I swallow hard and turn to leave. I need distance. A breath. A moment to remember who I am when I’m not pressed into his heat, caught in the snare of his eyes and the weight of his voice. My hand is on the door when he speaks, stopping me in my tracks.

“Running again, Queen?”

The title cuts sharper than any insult. I spin, fury snapping like a blade.

“I have never run.”

“You’re doing it now,” he says, stepping towards me, slow and deliberate.

“I am trying to not do something foolish,” I hiss.

“Like admit you want me?”

My heart pounds, ears ringing with the silence after his words.

I feel like I’ve been cracked open. My control is bleeding out between the lines of our shared history. He stands in the wreckage of all I knew without apology, lit by the dying torches and the rage coiled tight behind his eyes.

“Wanting you,” I say carefully, “has never been the problem.” His eyes flash, and in the next breath, he’s across the room. “I should hate you,” I whisper as he stops inches from me. “You burned my world. You call me Queen, but your people see me as a reminder of war.”

“You are a reminder,” he growls. “Of survival. Of power wrapped in silk. Of someone I cannot bend, no matter how I try.”

My hand trembles at my side. I don’t know if I want to slap him or grab him and never let go.

“And that infuriates you?” I say.

“It obsesses me.”

And then the moment breaks.

No warning.

No softening.

His mouth crashes against mine like a storm slamming into cliffs. Raw, desperate, and unforgiving. It isn’t a kiss, not in the gentle way lovers kiss. It’s a collision. Fire and fury. It’s the ghost of a battlefield, our lips tasting of war and ashes and something far older.

I gasp against him, fists curling in his chest plate, but he doesn’t pull back.

Neither do I.

I hate that it feels like a claim. I hate how my body arcs into him, how I want more even as my mind screams of danger. I’ve been alone so long. Cold. Calculating. Cloaked in strategy.

This is heat.

This is chaos.

This is being alive .

His hand tangles in my hair, not cruel but firm, grounding me to him as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. I feel his fingers tremble. Not dominance.

He’s desperate. This is desperation .

We break apart with a gasp. Mine or his, I don’t know.

I stagger back one step, lips swollen, heart ragged. He stares at me like he’s seen a god.

“Rani…” he breathes, hoarse, half-ruined.

I can’t look away.

“I should hate you,” I say again, softer this time. “But all I can feel is the way you look at me, like I’m the last light in a world of ash.”

He steps closer again, more carefully now, his hand brushing against mine.

“Because you are,” he whispers.

I look at his mouth, my pulse wild. I should stop this. I should say something wise. Strategic. Safe. But instead, I lean in and kiss him again.

This time, slower. Not less intense, but different. An acknowledgment. A beginning. We don’t speak after. Not right away. His forehead rests against mine, the fire between us smoldering.

I close my eyes and breathe him in. His heat, his scent, his grief, his longing. I know this changes everything. And I don’t care.