35. Rani
35
RANI
“I s it just me or is it getting a lot hotter?” I ask, following the Al’fa through the tunnels.
“The temperature is increasing,” he says. “The arena’s damage. And the mountain’s blood, I assume.”
We walk side-by-side. Neither of us has mentioned the kiss. Almost as if it didn’t happen, but my lips tingle with the memory. My body yearns for more. So much more, but now is not the time. There may never be time for that. I might die as pure as the day I was born, but if that is what Tajss wills, then so be it. Before I will have time for such things, I need to save my people from extinction.
He leads and I follow. It’s been a long time since I’ve followed anyone, not counting being dragged to the cells by Maulavi, I haven’t followed a man like this since my father passed. I am, after all, the Queen. I do not follow, I lead. Yet I do not deny, at least to myself, that I am following him. Willingly. Or that I am enjoying it.
He leads us into a softly glowing chamber where bioluminescent moss climbs the domed ceiling, casting light over hundreds of raised stone beds bursting with plants.
I blink as my eyes adjust. The air is so thick with moisture it clings to my skin, heavy and sweet, almost stealing my breath. There is a mix of scents that is sweet, but tinged with earth and life. I stare at the greenery stretching out before us. Wide-leafed plants nestled into carved stone beds, a few low fruit trees bearing pale yellow globes, dozens of other plants.
A greenhouse. Underground.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, awestruck.
The Al’fa doesn’t speak. He watches, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes tracking my reaction as if it matters. I wonder if it does and if so, why? Why does he care? Is he feeling this too? This spark that is almost a pull between us?
“Who built this?” I ask, stepping near one of the beds filled with plump root vegetables. My people never came up with anything like this. A single, concentrated farm to grow food. It’s very clever. “This must’ve taken years.”
“It did,” he says finally. “This was my mother’s vision. Before the last surface war.”
That stuns me. I turn and face him fully.
“She wanted to grow food underground?”
“She said the surface would never be safe for us again. Not truly. I don’t think she was wrong.”
I nod slowly, letting my fingertips brush a delicate curling vine.
“So this… is survival.”
“No. This is hope,” he says, his face darkening.
The word hits me low, like a stone thrown into still water. Hope. Not just surviving. Not just hiding. Hope that there is something worth growing for, worth protecting. It’s overwhelming. The beauty. The quiet. The idea that deep under a dying world, something still dares to live. It’s not lost on me the faith he’s putting out showing me this.
“You brought me here to show me this?” I ask quietly. “You trust me with this?”
He nods once. “You deserve to know what we’re fighting to keep. If we’re to lead our peoples, they must see that there’s something more than bloodshed.”
I look at him, startled by the weight in his voice. “You believe we can?”
“ You already are,” he says, stepping closer.
My breath catches. His presence wraps around me—heat and iron and wildfire. I tilt my face up toward him, heart thudding. He smells of warm sand and something darker, like char. His gaze flickers to my mouth, just once.
I don’t know if it’s me who leans in, or him. But we’re closer. Close enough I see the pulse at his throat. His lips part. His voice is hushed and hoarse when he speaks.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you, Queen of Ashes?”
“What?” I whisper, barely trusting myself to speak.
“I see the end of the old world. And the beginning of a new one.”
I might kiss him. I want to.
Before I decide, footsteps pound down the corridor—fast, heavy, and urgent.
“Al’fa!” a warrior shouts from beyond the archway. “The patrol has returned!”
The moment snaps like an overtightened string.
Instantly, he steps back, and his entire demeanor changes. I swallow hard, turning away, forcing my breath into order. My hands have a slight tremble so I curl them into fists.
“The human female?” the Al’fa calls back, his voice already hardening.
“Yes. She lives.”
I lift my chin, heart leaping. Elara . She who was lost is now found. The Al’fa gestures for me to follow.
The moment slips through our fingers—fragile, unfinished—but the taste of it burns on my tongue. Wild and dangerous, like fire on my tongue.
His stride is longer than mine, forcing me to hurry to keep up, while trying to appear that I’m not. It’s awkward, but I manage to pull it off thanks to years of practice. When I was a child I had to do the same thing to keep up with my guards.
We reach the upper corridor and step into the arena as a wave of noise surges. Boots scuffing, voices raised in surprise and greeting. The crush of bodies hides her at first. But the scents hit me—ash, sweat, the metallic bite of blood, and the earth-heavy reek of someone who clawed their way back from the deep places of Tajss.
The Al’fa walks at my side, tension radiating from his every step. His warriors flank us, watchful, tight-lipped. A female voice carries through the din.
“I said I’m fine,” a woman snaps, breathless and raw with emotion. “Let me walk. I have to see her. Please.”
The crowd shifts. A path opens. And then I see her.
A human woman, covered in soot and grime. Her tunic is torn, exposing the pale skin of her midriff. Her hair is tangled and wild. There is a fresh slash across her cheek. Her eyes, though, blaze. Not with fear. Not even exhaustion, but something stronger and indomitable. This must be Elara.
Two hulking figures flank her. One a massive, dusky-scaled Zmaj carrying the second, an Urr’ki, over his shoulder. The Urr’ki groans, the first sign that he’s alive.
Looking at them they are a strange trio. Wrong on paper. Unbalanced, but when the Zmaj sets the wounded one down and Elara immediately crouches between them, cupping one face and then the other, I see it.
The way they lean their bodies together. The Zmaj shelters them with his wings automatically, protectively. I watch her eyes flick back and forth, frantic with care. They aren’t just allies. They’re hers .
Bound in ways no treaty could forge, tempered in fire and stone and survival. The kind of connection no Council could manufacture, no war could deny. And for a brief, irrational moment, I envy them.
My breath hitches as I watch her rest her forehead against the injured Urr’ki while the Zmaj presses his scaled hand to her spine as if he can’t not touch her.
The Al’fa makes a low sound beside me. I glance over and his gaze is locked on the three below. In his eyes I don’t see disapproval or confusion, but curiosity.
“What do you think of this?” I ask quietly.
His eyes flick to me. “I think it’s impossible.”
“Do you fear it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Neither do I. Because if this—if they—are a sign of what’s to come, then we stand on the edge of something far more radical than peace.
Not just peace. Integration .
It sounds like hope. And yet… my stomach knots. Hope is dangerous. It demands we imagine futures we may never reach. It makes you yearn. Risk. Dream. And I don’t know if my people are ready to dream again. I don’t know if I am.
The injured warrior shifts and the moment I see his face I recognize him. Z’leni. He wasn’t part of my personal guard, but he did work in the tower and I saw him many times. A good, loyal soldier. He’s gently lifted by two healers and carried away. Elara rises slowly, supported now by the Zmaj, Ryatuv they said his name was.
Za’tan approaches from the side entrance. His face unreadable, he murmurs something to the Al’fa. Then he turns to me.
“They asked for you,” he says. “Elara says she carries information you need to hear.”
I nod, though my heart is rattling from the sight of her with them. Thundering from what it implies.
I force myself to move. Elara’s safe return is a victory. Her information might save us. But as I walk toward her, I can’t stop thinking:
If she can have both… why not me?
Why can’t I lean into the fire burning between me and the Al’fa? Why am I still standing alone on the edge of the cliff, too afraid to leap?