4. Rani
4
RANI
“N o,” Vapas reiterates.
The brothers, Khiara and Dilacs, cross their arms and growl their agreement with him. The three of them form a semi-circle behind me, daring the two Zmaj to make a move. Their tails rise arching like the stingers of a cavern scorpion, wings flaring half-open in warning. The tension burns as I take a small step forward.
“Please,” I say, keeping my hands clasped in front of myself, non-threatening. The word almost sticks in my throat. I am a Queen and saying please is not something I do, but then I am a Queen in Exile. I must do whatever it takes to keep my people safe. “This is not necessary. Surely the Al’fa will allow me an honor guard of my own people?”
“Orders,” the Zmaj on the left growls.
“Why not?” the other Zmaj asks, looking at his companion.
This one I know. His name is Chanka. He has a softer, more round face than most Zmaj, with a flat nose. His horns rise to sharp points that should make him seem more aggressive, but his face counteracts that. He has a half-smile on his face and shrugs, lowering his tail.
“We have orders,” the other Zmaj says, almost a hiss.
“Yes,” Chanka agrees. “To bring the Queen.”
I watch the two of them silent, waiting to see the outcome. Letting the situation play out and holding my tongue until I see how it ends.
“And no one else.”
“Really?” Chanka asks.
“You heard Za’tan,” the other says, harumphing, he makes a dismissive gesture at my warriors. “Why would we bring them near our Al’fa?”
“You think he worries about them? You’ve seen him in the tournaments. He’s Al’fa for a reason,” Chanka argues.
The other Zmaj’s wings rustle but he drops his tail which slaps loudly as it strikes the stone floor. He inhales sharply, glares at Chanka then shakes his head.
“If this goes wrong, it’s on you,” he says.
Chanka’s frown fades and he looks at me.
“You promise?” he asks.
“Promise?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.
“No trouble. You promise?”
“I do,” I say, carefully keeping the smile from my face, though I feel it in my heart.
Chanka may be a Zmaj but he is one of the most earnest and trusting people I have ever met. In his easy trust, I see the fragile seed of a future that might yet bloom, if only I am clever enough to protect it. Which causes a chill to trail down my spine. If I fail in this, if I fail to secure the help of the Zmaj, my people will die. Or, if the Shaman accomplishes his goal and awakens the Paluga, all of us will be doomed and this world will end.
Chanka nods and his easy grin spreads over his scaly face. He turns and looks at the other Zmaj.
“See Ak’tral? She promised,” he says.
“Harumph,” Ak’tral grunts.
I file his name away. One thing I have learned in my life is to know everyone’s name. In my position, if I know their name it makes them feel special. Such a tiny thing to do, but for the person it means a lot. Or it did amongst my people at least. They always brightened, no matter how hard their troubles, they would straighten, square their shoulders, and beam with pride. For me it always seemed the least I could do to remember the name of those who surrounded me.
“That is settled, the Al’fa is waiting,” Chanka says, motioning towards the door.
Ak’tral walks out first. Chanka waits, clearly planning to bring up the rear. I hesitate, only for a moment then look at the two brothers.
“You two should wait here,” I say. They both open their mouths to protest but I shake my head. “Chanka is allowing a guard and we know I will be safe. We do not need to make a show.”
They exchange a look, communicating in the way that only those of shared blood can. Disagreement, argument, then understanding happening in the briefest of moments and I watch it in their faces. Finally Dilacs nods.
“Yes, my Queen,” he says and Khiara nods his agreement.
The tension in their bodies doesn’t ease which makes their reluctance clear. I touch each of their shoulders, appreciating them.
“Thank you,” I say, turning and walking to the door.
Vapas rushes ahead and pulls the heavy leather aside. I duck under his arm and emerge onto the walkway. Ak’tral waits, tail swishing with agitation. I smile but he only frowns and takes off without a word. Vapas grunts, falling in at my side. Without a word, Vapas positions himself between me and the deadly drop—a silent wall of muscle and devotion.
We quickly reach the bottom of the concentric rings that go around the open space that they call the arena. The hard packed dirt floor with training dummies, many of which are decorated to look like Urr’ki. My people.
The acrid tang of warriors training and scorched stone stings my nose. Muted growls and the wet smack of fists on training dummies echo around us. They pause as we march through. Staring, grumbling, discontented that Vapas and I, their mortal enemy, freely walk amongst them. Vapas is tense and grumbles at my side. Even though we’re outnumbered he would fight them all without hesitation.
This is my inheritance—a legacy of blood and loss. One dying race facing another. But for what purpose? One dying race facing off against another and to what end? What purpose is there in hating the Zmaj? Because they are different than us? Because they ‘stole’ the surface from us?
I know the tales of my people as well as any, but what do I know of the truth of it? If I have learned anything it is that truth bends beneath the will of the victor. Only the vanquished remember differently.
Did the Zmaj steal from us or did we bring war to them? Are we the architects of our own demise? And even so, after we were driven from the surface, generations later, they wrought the event they call the Devastation. Does that not mean we are all the cause of our own doom?
My thoughts return to this over and over. Neither of our races are going to survive the awakening of the Paluga. I hope to forge a peace that will outlast the capture and demise of the Shaman, but at the very least I need them to save my people. Dare I hope of a future where our two peoples might live in some kind of unity?
The glares and angry mutterings as I pass the Zmaj warriors do not inspire hope. But minds can be changed. And the catalyst for change is in the Star People, the ones who call themselves humans. They are the best chance of survival that not only my people have, but for the Zmaj too. The Zmaj have no females. My people have no hope. There must be some middle ground between us that will stop the killing. There has to be and I will find it.
Ak’tral enters the tunnel at the back of the arena. As the walls close around us I’m grateful for the escape from the reproachful, hateful eyes of the warriors. Though I would not show such to them, it hurts my heart. It is yet another sign of my failings as a leader.
When we enter the office space that the Al’fa uses his second Drogor and former second Zat’an are at his sides. Between them, I see the future of the Zmaj balanced on a blade’s edge—one misstep and it will be my blood that oils the floor.
The three of them are looking over the table that holds a replica of their compound and the tunnels outside of it. The room is tense before I enter. When the Al’fa looks up and sees me he grunts, shaking his head, then returns his gaze to the model.
I step into the chamber, my every movement measured. I keep my chin high, my pulse steady, at least on the surface. Beneath my facade, the storm churns.
He does not rise. Does not acknowledge my presence with a proper greeting. Instead, Vapas and I stand, treated as nuisances, not dignitaries. I breathe deeply, willing the sting of insult to be my ally rather than my weakness.
I bow my head, slightly, not submission, but diplomacy then I lift my chin.
“Is this the courtesy with which the Al’fa greets those he would turn into allies?” I say, voice cool as a cavern spring. “Or are courtesy and decorum relics of the surface as well?”
The Al’fa raises his eyes of molten amber. Unblinking, calculating, and sharp as blades.
“You are not a guest. You are a problem.”
A ripple of anger runs beneath my skin, but I lace my fingers tighter in front of me, as though I can squeeze composure from my own bones.
“And yet,” I murmur, taking a step closer to the table, to him, “here you stand, discussing the fate of your people, while mine bleed and die beneath the Shaman’s heel.”
Zat’an stiffens at his side, his eyes narrowing. Drogor’s gaze flicks toward me, amused, intrigued but unreadable.
“You assume we care for Urr’ki blood,” the Al’fa growls.
I hold a hand up to silence him, never taking my gaze from his.
“You should,” I say softly. “Because when the Shaman finishes with us, he will turn his sights to you. You know this. That is why you watch your tunnels like frightened prey.”
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.
“I understood perfectly,” I reply calmly, though inside my temper flares. “You summon me without so much as a word of courtesy, then scowl and dismiss me as if I am the one who has disrupted your council. Am I mistaken, or am I your guest here, Al’fa?”
His amber eyes snap up to meet mine fully, and for a moment the cavern feels smaller, tighter, as though the weight of his presence alone could press the stone walls inward. He straightens, making the bone chest plate rattle, and crosses thick arms over his broad chest. His wings shift with the motion, sending a ripple through the air.
“You are a guest, and a prisoner,” he corrects smoothly. “Do not confuse the two.”
Vapas growls low beside me, but I place a hand on his forearm. The last thing I need is him lunging at the Al’fa in a room full of Zmaj.
“You’ll forgive me, then, for assuming the etiquette of your people wouldn’t be so... crude,” I say, stepping forward, chin high. “Or perhaps this is how the mighty Al’fa negotiates, with grunts and insults?”
Drogor snorts. Za’tan’s lips twitch as if he’s suppressing amusement. But the Al’fa? His eyes darken, stormy now, but beneath the irritation there’s something else. Curiosity, or perhaps grudging respect. Or maybe I imagine it. I hope not.
“Careful, Queen,” he says, voice a low warning. “You mistake hospitality for leniency.”
“If this is hospitality, then your leniency is already stretched thin. And so is my patience.” I laugh softly, arching a brow. “Your warriors sneer at me, your compound reeks of distrust, and now I stand here to be barked at like a servant. Forgive me if I fail to see the welcome in this.”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?” The words are hard but lack true heat. “And so are your warriors. I wouldn’t test the patience of my people further.”
I mirror his stance, folding my arms over my chest.
“And I wouldn’t test mine.”
The room is thick with tension, and for one pulse of a moment, it feels like a thread might snap. It’s too taut, too fragile. Yet there’s something undeniably electric about it, as if we’re both acutely aware of the power standing opposite us.
“Al’fa, perhaps we should—” Drogor says with a clearing of his throat, breaking the moment.
“No,” the Al’fa cuts him off, gaze never leaving mine. “She wants to speak? Let her.”
I hesitate, my mind warring with pride. But this is what I wanted. An audience, leverage.
“I am here because your people are as endangered as mine,” I say, voice steady but softening. “The Paluga will not distinguish between Urr’ki or Zmaj when it wakes. Your warriors, your people, they will all be consumed.”
“You assume we believe in old fables,” Za’tan says, folding his claws on the table. “The Paluga is nothing more than a bedtime story to frighten hatchlings.”
“And yet your own second disagrees,” I reply, nodding to Za’tan, who shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t argue.
The Al’fa leans forward, placing his claws on the table’s edge.
“This is my concern. You bring threats, prophecies, and yet it is your Shaman stirring ancient powers.”
“My Shaman,” I repeat, venom curling around the words, “betrayed me. He betrayed us all.”
The Al’fa studies me. I feel the weight of him again, the heat behind his stare.
“Convenient.”
“And yet true,” I fire back, the taste of betrayal sharp on my tongue.
We stand locked, neither willing to yield. His features are sharp, battle-worn, but it’s the focus in his eyes that rattles me. This is not just a brute with blunt instincts as he puts on, this is a warlord, a strategist. And now that he’s paying attention, I’m aware of every inch of space between us.
Footsteps echo from the corridor, hard and fast, scattering the brittle tension like pebbles across a still pond. The heavy curtain sways and Rosalind storms into the room, her human features drawn in fury.
“What is this?” she snaps, eyes darting between the Al’fa and me. “You convene without me now?”
The Al’fa does not turn.
“You were not summoned.”
“Summoned?” Rosalind bites out, stepping closer. “I’m not one of your underlings, Al’fa. You’ll not treat me like a servant.”
Her anger fills the room like smoke. I can’t help the faint smirk tugging at my lips, though I quickly mask it. She’s fiery, perhaps even more than me, but beneath her outrage is sharp intelligence.
“I would have thought,” she continues, voice colder now, “that with your dwindling resources and fragile alliances, you’d want my counsel.”
Drogor leans back, watching with amused detachment. Za’tan frowns.
“I want results,” the Al’fa says with finality, though his jaw ticks slightly. “You of all people should understand the stakes.”
Rosalind’s gaze flicks to me, and there’s instant calculation behind her glare. She sees me not just as another alien, but as a rival, a threat wrapped in silk and steel. For power, for influence, perhaps more.
“And what is the proposal that is before us?” Rosalind asks, voice like silk and steel. “I assume the Queen is not here for personal reasons.”
“Rosalind,” I greet with a nod. “My presence was requested. I did not know you would not be here. Nor did I know that I would also be treated with such disrespect.”
“I see,” Rosalind says, pursing her lips. She moves closer to the model and drums her fingers on the edge of the table. “What have I missed?
“Though I was summoned , no proposals have been made,” I say, looking from her to the Al’fa who glares at the both of us. “But I have asked for an alliance. The same as I have before, but we seem unable to come to an agreement.”
“And?” Rosalind asks, looking at the Al’fa. “Are you not ready to put aside your differences yet? Have we not seen the power of this Shaman. All the reports tell of how it grows worse and worse. We are running out of time.”
“We can carry the weight of our peoples together,” I say. “None of us need face the end alone. If we can set aside our pasts.”
The Al’fa studies me, silent, unmoving. The slow flick of his tail betrays his simmering thoughts. Drogor’s smile grows sharper, but he holds his tongue, eyes glinting with calculation. Zat’an’s nostrils flare, but it is the Al’fa I focus on. His call, his choice. At length, he exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate.
“Sit,” he commands.
It is not an invitation. It is a test. To show submission, to acknowledge his authority, even here, in a negotiation. But I do not hesitate. I glide forward and take the seat, back straight, head high, meeting his eyes as an equal. Vapas stiffens behind me but does not interfere. The Al’fa watches with suspicious eyes and grunts, turning back to the model on the table.
“Speak then, Queen of nothing,” he says, voice heavy with irony. “Tell me why your lost people are worth saving.”
I clench my fists beneath the table, unseen. His cruelty is deliberate, meant to provoke. But I have weathered worse storms than this. I lean forward, my voice steel-wrapped silk.
“Because together,” I say, “we are the only thing standing between your people’s survival and the end of everything you hold dear.”
For a heartbeat, the chamber holds its breath.
Drogor laughs again, the sound like broken glass, and in his eyes gleams a hunger that has nothing to do with food.
“Yes,” he says, “I definitely like her.”