15. Rani
15
RANI
I do not belong here.
Heat smothers me, thick and suffocating. The underground chamber is carved deep into the mountain’s stone, its smooth walls slick with moisture and lined with flickering torches. The smell of smoke, sweat, and raw fury fills my lungs with every breath.
Four Zmaj warriors cluster together, casting baleful glances at Khiara and me. Their twitching tails rasp against the stone, a grating sound that fills the chamber. Their eyes burn with hatred and their bodies are taut with barely restrained violence. They shout over one another, their voices crashing against the stone walls, reverberating with their fury as they demand the Al’fa act.
“They crept in like vermin!” one snarls, slamming his fist against the table. “They should be hunted down and flayed!”
“A season’s crops—gone! Four warriors lie with the healer, scarred by the explosives they left behind!”
The second warrior’s shout is so loud it makes my ears ring.
“They dared to strike at our home, our people!” another growls, his scaled hands curling into claws. “What more proof do we need? The Urr’ki understand only one language,” he says, glaring at Khiara and I, “blood.”
Murmurs of agreement rumble through the room. This is a rising storm ready to break. Somehow I must find a way to defuse this before it undoes all my work. The timing on this is so bad that I have to wonder if the Shaman somehow knows what I am attempting to do. One way or another it is a definite setback.
The Al’fa stands at the head of the table, rigid as stone. His scales gleam under the torchlight, his presence radiating control—just barely. Perhaps I am coming to know him better than others, but I see his anger and frustration. It’s in his stance, the stillness, which in him is more dangerous I’ve found than when he is raging.
Silence means he’s thinking. Calculating. He’s too angry to lash out—he’s hunting for weaknesses instead. He stands with his arms folded across his broad chest and allows his warriors to vent their rage. His eyes do not meet mine. Not yet.
I clasp my hands in front of myself to keep them steady. I must not fidget, must not reveal the turmoil churning inside or the way my pulse hammers in my throat.
I knew the attack would shake the fragile truce between the Al’fa and me. But seeing the depth of his peoples fury, feeling the raw hunger for vengeance filling the chamber… It’s worse than I imagined.
Hope slips from my grasp like sand through my fingers. Fool. I should have known better than to dream the Zmaj would ever consider an alliance. Their hate for my kind runs so deep, there is no reasoning with it. What do they care about the Shaman’s growing madness? They cannot see the threat that he represents, they see our green skin, our tusks, and that is it. To them we are little more than animals.
All my words, all my efforts, cannot alleviate generations of war and bloodshed so easily. And now, with an Urr’ki raiding party striking deep into their territory, I see the truth. They will never trust me. Yet, despite all this, I have to find a way through. Because if the Al’fa declares war, if he sends his warriors storming into Urr’ki territory with fire and steel… he will not only doom my people, he will doom his own.
Za’tan stands at the Al’fa’s left as usual, frowning, his one good eye glaring balefully at me as his tail lashes across the stone floor. My stomach tightens into a hard knot. I know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth.
“We must retaliate,” Za’tan says, his voice measured, but the rage behind it sharp as any blade. “These are no longer skirmishes. They are penetrating our compound with impunity. They use their hidden tunnels to attack when and where they please while we act in a defensive manner. We must go on the offense.”
A chorus of agreement follows from those gathered.
“We cannot let this stand!”
“Their treachery has no end!”
“Blood for blood!”
I clench my jaw. Fools.
Do they think war is so simple? That it will end in a single battle, a decisive strike? The Shaman rules the Urr’ki with iron and shadow. He has turned fear into a weapon. If the Zmaj march into his lands, he will not meet them in open battle. He will bleed them from the shadows, let them exhaust themselves against the labyrinthine tunnels surrounding my ruined city.
This is what they do not understand. A retaliatory strike will only strengthen his grip on my people. I want, with all my heart, to attack him, to see him begging for his life along with all of his corrupted Maulavi, but this will not result in that end.
Rosalind stares at me, her lips pursed, but she remains silent. Watching, waiting to see what I will do. She narrows her eyes then gives an almost imperceptible nod. I think it is meant to be encouraging, but I am still learning the humans and their ways. I hope that is what she intends.
I take a slow breath. The Zmaj I know much better. We have been enemies for generations, since before I was born. My people have studied them for lifetimes, learning everything we can about them even as they beat us back, one regretful step at a time.
If I make demands, they will dig into their position deeper. The lizards are hard-headed and stubborn as the roots of the mountain itself. Resistance will not work, I must make them see.
I lift my chin, stepping forward. A small movement, but it shifts the air in the chamber. A flicker of attention, unwilling but there. I wait for them to fall silent, which doesn’t happen until the Al’fa makes a gesture with his hand. Only then do they stop protesting and shouting in excitement at the idea of attacking.
“Retaliation would be a mistake.”
The silence that follows is deafening. The warriors turn toward me, their gazes burning with hostility. Some sneer outright. Others do not bother to hide their disdain. The Al’fa’s gaze is unreadable, but his fingers tighten against his arms.
“You dare lecture us on mistakes, Urr’ki?” Za’tan snarls. “What else should we expect from your kind?”
I meet his gaze, ignoring the way my stomach clenches. Unclasping my hands I place a calming touch on Khiara as he steps forward with a dangerous growl. Now is not the time for violence, that will get us no further than if they attack the Shaman without thinking through the entire strategy.
“Yes. Because I know the Shaman better than any of you.”
A hiss ripples through the warriors. Disgust, dismissal. But the Al’fa tilts his head slightly. He is listening and he is the one whom I must convince. I press forward, keeping my voice steady and at least sounding certain.
“You think marching into Urr’ki lands will end this? It will not. The Shaman expects you to strike in anger. He will be ready. You will be walking into a trap.”
“We know your Urr’ki tricks well enough,” Za’tan scoffs. “His traps will not stop us from extracting justice.”
“And yet, the Urr’ki raiders made it deep into your territory undetected. Did they not?” I say, hardening my expression and meeting his one burning eye.
The growl in his throat is low and warning, but he does not answer. Because he cannot. The truth stands between us, undeniable. A delicate edge of a blade that we both dance along. The Al’fa steps forward then, breaking his silence. The room stills at once. His presence is commanding, his authority absolute.
“Speak plainly,” he says.
It is not an invitation and I see that immediately. This is a test. He wants to see how I will handle his people. If he is to agree to an alliance, he will need his people to be on board with it too. The Zmaj rule by strength alone. He holds his position by virtue of martial skill as much as brilliance of mind.
I know he defends his position as Al’fa once a turning in their arena and he has remained undefeated, but that means he rules with clear cut challengers. What a strange way to lead that must be. Thinking all of this through I choose my words carefully.
“The Shaman is unhinged, yes. But he is not reckless. He does not waste lives. If he ordered this attack, it was calculated.”
“And what calculation is that? To taunt us into battle?” one of the warriors asks, then spits to the side.
“Perhaps.” I nod. “Or perhaps he wanted to see how you would react. Measure your strength. Gauge your movements.”
Doubt flickers through the gathered warriors, just a whisper. I exhale slowly. Now. Now is the moment.
“You believe war is the only answer.” I sweep my gaze across the room. “And I cannot disagree that it will come to that. But not like this. If you march now, blind with rage, you will be playing into his hands. You will be walking into a battlefield of his choosing.”
Silence. Then?—
“Enough.” The Al’fa’s voice cuts through the room.
I tense, watching as he steps closer to the table. His amber eyes meet mine at last, and for the first time, I see something more than distrust in them.
Calculation. He is weighing my words. Not outright rejecting them. He turns to his warriors.
“We will not rush to war. Not yet.”
Angry mutters ripple through the chamber, but none dare challenge him directly. I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I have bought time. But not much. The Al’fa turns back to me, his expression unreadable.
“You speak as if you know the mind of the Shaman. If you are so certain of his plans, tell me—what would you have us do?”
Another test and in this one there is a trap waiting to be sprung. I hold his gaze, my heart pounding. And I step forward.