37. Rani
37
RANI
T he war chamber pulses with energy, Zmaj warriors braced in readiness, weapons gleaming under the torchlight. Beyond the door that leads to the balcony I catch whispers of battle formations being arranged, squads assigned and leaders named.
It’s happening fast, like a machine awakening after a long sleep.
I stand near the edge of the war table, tracing the etched lines of tunnels and routes carved into the stone map. My thoughts turn sharp and cold. The Shaman knows we’re coming. And if he doesn’t, he’ll realize it soon—but we have to pray it won’t be soon enough.
The problem is, we’re already too late. An army moves slowly. Too slowly.
A tremor rumbles underfoot, long and drawn out. The Paluga’s stirrings are becoming more violent. No one can write it off as a myth anymore. I feel it on the back of my neck, a pressure like it’s watching us.
We have to hurry.
I glance toward the Al’fa. He’s speaking to Drogor and Za’tan, his voice low and sharp. They have their heads bowed close together. Every line of his body speaks urgency.
Across the chamber, Elara waits, sitting on a stool flanked by her two. Ryatuv ready and protective, is the blade at her side, while Z’leni watches everything like a shadow. They aren’t just warriors anymore. They’re a unit—something new, something I never thought possible. Yet here they are, right before my eyes. I’m walking towards them before I realize I’m doing it.
Ryatuv’s eyes meet mine first. Z’leni shifts his weight and bows his head, but doesn’t stand. Elara looks up. Her gaze is clearer than I expect. Gone is the shell-shocked, haunted look, replaced by focus and determination.
“We have need of you,” I say without preamble.
“Of course, my Queen,” Z’leni says, arching an eyebrow.
I gesture to the table.
“There’s no time to bring the army to the Shaman before he finishes his rites. If he does... we lose everything.”
“What do you need?” Ryatuv asks, straightening.
“The Infernal Machine, the one he uses to drain his victims. We have to stop it,” I say. Elara flinches, her fists balling tight enough to tremble. “If you can destroy it before the final rites, we may stop the Paluga’s full awakening.”
I keep my voice steady despite the bile rising in my throat. Z’leni exchanges a look with Ryatuv.
“Sabotage,” Z’leni murmurs.
“It will be heavily guarded,” Ryatuv says, his jaw tightening.
“I know.” I step closer. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
There’s silence. Elara rises slowly to her feet.
“I want to go with them.”
“No.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “You’ve barely survived as is and I do not mean offense, but you’re not strong enough to face what they will encounter.”
“She is,” Ryatuv says quietly. “But, I agree we should go alone. We will move faster that way.”
“You’ll also need a distraction when the army comes. We’ll give it to you,” Z’leni agrees.
I study them. This strange, fragile, powerful thing they’ve built between the three of them. Z’leni, born in fire and taught to hate finding peace with a Zmaj? And Elara, human, yet more than human now. They are symbols of what we’re fighting for. Of what might be possible.
“I’ll have maps drawn,” I say softly. “And a guide to take you partway, then turn back.”
“I know the way,” Z’leni says without hesitation.
I look at his bold determination for a moment before nodding.
“May Tajss carry you,” I whisper.
Elara steps forward and catches my hand. Her fingers are cold, but her grip is firm.
“I saw what he’s doing,” she says, her voice hoarse. “It’s worse than you think. They’re not just dying. They’re being broken.”
Her eyes fill, but the tears don’t fall.
“We’ll stop him. Even if we die trying,” I vow, pressing my hand over hers, binding us both to it.
“Tell them goodbye. And you two… don’t die,” I say, shifting my attention to the warriors. “We will still need you after this.”
They nod once then the three of them stride from the chamber side-by-side with Elara between them. They don’t look back. Not even once.
I swallow hard and turn back to the war table, to finish what must be done.