36. Rani
36
RANI
I sit across from Elara.
She’s cleaned up, but it only makes the evidence of her ordeal starker. The hollowness in her cheeks, the rasp of her smoke-roughened voice. Yet her posture remains unbowed.
Behind her, Ryatuv stands like a dark, coiled shadow. I don’t miss the way his hand brushes her shoulder now and then. Reassurance for her, maybe, but also for himself. Z’leni remains in the healer’s wing, but the moment Elara saw me, the first thing she asked about was his welfare.
Rosalind stands in the doorway, watching. Rosalind remains as unreadable as ever, though fatigue has hollowed her features. Her eyes, though, are as bright and as sharp as ever. She takes in everything, watching and filing it all away.
There’s no mistaking now that Elara and the two warriors have bonded in some way. Even Za’tan, seated at the back, watches her in silence, his frown faint but steady. The Al’fa stands at my side, silent but alert.
“I’ll speak plainly,” she says. “We didn’t escape. We survived . Barely.”
“Tell me everything,” I say, nodding to encourage her.
Elara’s hands clench the table’s edge. When her eyes meet mine, there’s no shyness—only raw urgency.
“We were trapped when the tunnels collapsed,” she says. “But what you need to know is that the quakes aren’t natural. It’s the Paluga. It is real and it’s stirring.”
Her voice cracks a little on that word. Ryatuv’s jaw clenches.
“We had to go through one of the old magma channels. Ryatuv carried Z’leni most of the way, and I…” she swallows, “I thought we’d die in there. There were…” She closes her eyes. Her breath comes faster. “Creatures,” she whispers. “Twisted things. Some were burned down to bone; others had no skin at all. All of them are being driven upward, like they were running from something worse.”
I clasp my hands before me, cold to the bone despite the chamber’s heat.
“We were lucky that one of the patrols found us.”
Lucky.
But it doesn’t feel like luck. It feels like something ancient, clawing its way free from the bones of the planet.
“The Paluga is waking,” she says. “And the Shaman is desperate. I was arrested and thrown into a cell. He’s been sacrificing everyone he can reach. Anyone who questions him. It’s bad and it’s going to get worse.”
A cold settles in my gut. This woman, this human, clawed her way out of death and darkness with two males, one Urr’ki, one Zmaj, who clearly would follow her to the ends of the world.
“What of the Urr’ki?” I ask. “The ones who aren’t with the Shaman?”
“I don’t know. I hope some are hiding,” she continues, “but the city is drowning in blood and madness. The quakes have damaged so much of it and the Shaman is growing more insane. After what we saw escaping, I am certain that whatever he needs to fully wake the Paluga... he’s almost there.”
I rise to my feet slowly. My spine feels tight, my hands cold.
“And if the Paluga awakens?” the Al’fa asks.
“We all die,” I say flatly. “Urr’ki. Zmaj. Human.”
Elara’s eyes soften, but there’s iron beneath them.
“She’s right. We can’t let him finish,” Elara says.
“No,” I whisper. “We can’t.”
My heart pounds. This hasn’t been politics for some time — this is survival, raw and unforgiving. It’s no longer a question of whether we should act, that’s been decided. The question has been when, but now is the time. I feel it, deep in my bones, like a prophecy carved in fire.
The Al’fa grunts. The only sound that breaks the deep quiet of the chamber. Elara’s words hang in the air, heavy as iron. The Paluga is waking. I knew it. I’ve said it, but she affirms it by the things she saw on her journey.
I know it’s true. The stories were never only stories. They were warnings. And we who thought ourselves above them, we ignore them at our peril. Za’tan shifts. The Al’fa’s posture tightens, coiled and unreadable. Ryatuv hasn’t let go of Elara.
“I will speak to the Council,” I say, my voice quiet but clear. “But we have to act now. We can’t wait, this is it. This is survival.”
Before anyone can respond, the leather door of the chamber jerks aside. Two Zmaj warriors step inside holding a struggling, snarling figure between them. Uncertain I’m seeing what I think I am, I blink, but the sight doesn’t change.
Between them, they drag a soot-blackened Urr’ki child, his limbs thin and wild with desperate strength. He’s caked in soot and blood. His clothes are ragged and torn, but he’s fighting. Kicking and struggling to break free with wild eyes. I step forward and his eyes lock onto mine.
“Queen?” he gasps, his voice raw. He stops fighting, lowering his head. “Queen, he’s killing everyone. He’s sacrificing them on the machine.”
My stomach lurches but I keep my outward calm. The warriors holding him set him onto his feet and the child drops to his knees before me.
“The Shaman?” I ask.
He nods violently, tears streaking through the grime.
“General Janara sent me. He said to run. He said you were alive, you were with the lizards. I didn’t believe him, but I follow orders. He said it was now or never. If you’re idea is going to work, there’s no more time to waste.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. No one breathes. And then, as if the world wants to confirm it, the ground shudders. A deep, rolling tremor. Dust rains from the ceiling, the scent of crushed stone thickening the air.
A distant crack echoes through the stone corridors.
I kneel, placing my hands on the child’s shoulders.
“What is your name, young one?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine then widen as he realizes he’s looking at his Queen. He quickly drops them to the floor. He’s trembling, whether with fear or tension I’m not sure.
“Muda,” he says.
“Muda, you have done well,” I say, speaking softly. “So, very well.”
Za’tan mutters a curse.
“This is it,” the Al’fa says, iron in his voice.
I rise, pulling the boy up with me. I motion for him to go with a nearby healer.
“Take him. Feed him. Keep him safe.”
Then I turn. Not as a supplicant. Not as a strategist. As a Queen.
“I ask,” I say, my voice rising, “not as a guest of the Zmaj but as Queen of the Urr’ki – the last Queen of my people. I ask you to honor our alliance.”
The Al’fa’s eyes meet mine. He frowns deeply but doesn’t speak.
“There is no more time,” I say. “If the Shaman is not stopped now, we lose everything. Not just Urr’ki, but Zmaj and humans too.”
A moment. A breath. He meets my eyes with a steady, certain gaze then he steps forward, broad and imposing, but not threatening. His voice is deep, loud enough for all to hear.
“We will attack.”
The chamber bursts into motion. Warriors rise, voices call orders, and messengers are dispatched. I don’t move, not yet, because the Al’fa is watching. And there’s something in his gaze that I can’t put my finger on. Pride, perhaps, respect I am sure. Something else, too. Something that tightens my chest.
“We go together,” I say.
He nods.
“As it should be,” he says.
If we fall, we fall as one.
But if we rise — if we triumph — we will forge a new future from the broken bones of the past.