40. Elara
40
ELARA
T he air is thick, heavy with heat and the stench of rot. Every step makes a sickening squelch. I gag quietly behind my hand, trying not to think about what I’m stepping in.
Z’leni moves ahead of me with eerie grace, almost gliding over the slick stone. Ryatuv follows close behind, his hand hovering protectively at the small of my back whenever the tunnel narrows. He’s like my shadow made flesh.
We’ve been underground so long, I’m not sure I remember what clean air even smells like.
“Are you sure no one patrols these?” I whisper, my voice strange and small against the wet stone.
Z’leni doesn’t turn. “No one dares. The tunnels reek of waste and death. The Shaman never bothered guarding what no one wanted.”
I swallow, hard. The sharp stink of rot is everywhere. The walls drip with wet, green slime. Somewhere ahead, water trickles in an unnatural rhythm. My imagination supplies eyes in the dark. Watching. Waiting.
“Comforting,” Ryatuv mutters, low and grim.
We walk in silence for a while, moving deeper and deeper into the bowels of the city. Z’leni doesn’t pause or falter, even as the path twists like intestines. We squeeze through tight stone passages and rusted grates.
How does he know the way so well? Was he ever sent down here? As punishment? Or did he come by choice?
Finally, the tunnels widen and Z’leni halts, raising one hand.
“We’re here,” he says, pointing at rusted, broken bars that nominally seal the opening.
I freeze beside him, staring through the broken bars.
Beyond them rise the struts of the stage—the one set against the base of the Black Tower, looming like a dark bone punched through rotting skin. The machine rests right above us. Massive. Cruel.
I remember the first time I was forced to bear witness to its horror. The grinding gears made a low mechanical scream that was bad enough, but it couldn’t drown out the sounds of the sacrifice.
Thousands of eyes attended the event. Every Urr’ki in the city and the handful of us humans there to bear witness to the Shaman’s twisted mind given shape.
I tried to look away.
The Urr’ki I was staying with at the time grabbed my jaw in a bruising grip, forcing me to watch.
I futilely struggled.
Every second of it burned itself into my mind. Into my soul.
And the Shaman?—
The look on his face was obscene. Like he was experiencing pure ecstasy, feeding on agony.
Z’leni’s fingers brush my face, jerking me back into the here and now. I shake my head and give him a half-smile, very much aware of Ryatuv’s hand pressing against the small of my back. Of how close they are, despite the god-awful stench desire manages to at least flicker.
I inhale a shaky breath, but choke on it. The scent is worse than the sewage alone. There are new scents, sulfur, copper, and burned flesh.
The large beams that are the struts of the stage are carved with ancient symbols. Some are smeared with ash or blood. I don’t know which. Throbbing tubes faintly glow, red and violet, snake through them and into the tower’s black stone hide.
“We must work fast,” Ryatuv says, dropping to one knee. He pulls out the charges, his voice low. “I’ll mark the joints and base supports. We don’t need to destroy it—only cripple it.”
Z’leni hesitates, his eyes locked on the machine. I don’t speak. Neither does Ryatuv. Something is unraveling behind Z’leni’s eyes. But, after a heartbeat, Z’leni moves. I follow and he hands me two charges.
“There. And there,” Z’leni says, pointing, but his voice is rough.
I set one charge beneath the thick metal brace he pointed at, then another at the edge of a rusted junction. Sweat trickles down my spine. My heart hammers like the machine’s grinding rhythm.
One more left. I crawl beneath a support pipe, forcing myself to not breathe deep. I place the last charge and slide back out.
“Done,” Ryatuv says with a sharp nod.
Then—
BONG.
I nearly jump out of my skin when the bell tolls—a low, thunderous boom that vibrates through my bones. Its booms like judgment. Then it tolls again, followed by another.
Three bells, Z’leni’s head snaps up and he stiffens.
“They’re calling the people,” he says.
Understanding hits like a punch right into my guts. It’s another sacrifice.
“No—” he moves toward the fuse, but Ryatuv grabs his shoulder, stopping him. He twists free, snarling. “We can’t. The square will be full. There’ll be children—elders—innocents.”
“We don’t have time,” Ryatuv snaps. “We have to move. If we wait, the Shaman starts again. More die.”
Z’leni shakes his head, fingers white-knuckled on the lit torch. “Not like this.”
“Z’leni.” I move closer, voice soft. “You said the machine takes them. And you know as well as I do that it doesn’t stop once it starts. If we leave it, he wins.”
His jaw tightens. He won’t look at me.
“Please,” I say, touching his arm. “I understand, but you know that machine is a worse death and if it does wake the Paluga…”
A heartbeat. Then he nods, stiff and clearly sick with the weight of it.
“We go,” Ryatuv says. “We need distance. Fast.”
We run.
Every step feels like borrowed time. We go to the tunnel that led us here. Overhead the machine’s groaning hum increases as it comes to life. We don’t speak—can’t. Every breath is saved for movement, every heartbeat a countdown.
Z’leni slips through the bars first then pauses, turning and reaching a hand for me. My thighs burn and I’m breathing heavily. Inhaling the disgusting air with every gasp. It’s so foul it makes my eyes burn. My fingers close on his then?—
Footsteps. Hard. Heavy.
Ryatuv skids to a stop, spinning around, lochaber already in his hands. Z’leni steps past me, hissing under his breath.
We’re too late.
Four Maulavi emerge from the shadows, cloaked and armed, their swords gleaming wetly. Worse than their weapons are their eyes—bright with fanatical devotion.
“Well, well,” one rasps, stepping forward. His voice is oily, sarcastically amused. “The Shaman said you were alive, traitor. But we didn’t believe him, until now.”
His gaze slides to me, and it feels like oil on my skin.
“And the prize he’s been hunting. Delivered.”
Ryatuv growls low in his throat, dropping into a fighting stance. Z’leni plants himself in front of me, shielding me with his body.
“No one touches her,” he says.
The Maulavi laughs. “Oh, but someone already did. Isn’t that why you fled, Z’leni? Because you loved her more than your people?”
They move fast. Swords clash and everything erupts in chaos.
Ryatuv and Z’leni meet them with fire and fury. Z’leni fluid and striking from strange angles. Ryatuv brutal and efficient. I try to back away and keep clear. I slip back into the tunnel but the footing is slick.
Suddenly, a hand grabs me. I scream—but too late.
I’m wrenched backwards and slammed into the wall. A blade is pressed to my throat. The Maulavi leans close, his breath stinking of sulfur and blood.
“One move,” he hisses, “and she dies.”
Everything stops.
Ryatuv freezes. Z’leni does too. One of the Maulavi is bleeding out on the ground, another is unconscious, but the remaining two stand firm, one holding me with the dagger to my throat, the other with his weapon ready. Z’leni’s face is a mask of ice.
“Elara,” he says softly. “Don’t move.”
I don’t. The blade is sharp and cold. He applies just enough pressure to break my skin. I feel blood trickling down. My chest heaves.
“Drop your weapons,” the Maulavi behind me snarls,
Ryatuv lowers his lochaber, eyes murderous. Z’leni doesn’t move.
“Do it,” I whisper.
Z’leni’s gaze flicks to mine.
“No,” he says, voice like gravel.
“She’ll die,” the Maulavi warns.
“And so will you,” Z’leni replies.
Seconds pass in impasse.
Z’leni extends a finger. Then another. My breath hitches.
Counting.
The fuse.
“No,” the Maulavi snarls. “Don’t?—”
His thumb drops?—
A heartbeat of silence?—
Then—BOOM.
The city shakes.
The air itself tears.
Flames roar from behind Z’leni and Ryatuv. A roiling ball of flame thrusting forward like the fist of an angry god. The Maulavi screams. The one behind me shoves me to the ground and tries to run, too slow. Z’leni grabs onto him, twists and throws him into the onrushing flames. He vanishes in a burst of flame and ash.
At the same time Ryatuv grabs me, pulling me into his arms and shielding me with his body as the shockwave hits. The world turns red and white.
Metal screams. Stone falls.
The platform creaks. Groans.
Then it partially collapses, but I’m only dimly aware of it. I’m tumbling through smoke and fire, and then the world is dark.
The heat is extreme. It clings to my skin, to my lungs, choking the air from me. My ears ring from the blast, a high, keening sound that turns everything else into muffled noise. I don’t know if I’m screaming or sobbing or both.
Hands. Arms.
Ryatuv.
His arms are around me. His body is curved over mine. A shield.
When Ryatuv finally moves, it’s slow. Painful. His voice rough.
“Elara. Are you?—?”
“I’m okay,” I rasp, though I’m not sure I mean it.
A nod. He grits his teeth as he moves, and that tells me more than anything, he’s hurt, but alive.
His skin is blistered where it wasn’t protected. Some of his scales look like they are flaking.
I sit up and look.
The world is burning.
Distantly, there are shouts and screams. Several of the struts have fallen. Parts of the machine protrude through the stage. Flames are licking skyward. The heat rolls out in waves, curling into the edges of the tunnel behind us. Ash coats everything. The walls. The ground. My face. And Z’leni is nowhere in sight.
“No,” I gasp, scrambling to my feet.
“Elara—”
I push past Ryatuv and stagger back the way we came, smoke stinging my eyes, lungs. I don’t make it far before I see him.
Z’leni!
He’s crawling through the wreckage, one arm wrapped around his middle. Blood streaks down his side. He’s dragging himself toward us. His face is smeared with soot, twisted in pain, but his eyes find mine.
“Elara,” he breathes.
“You’re hurt—” I say, dropping beside him.
“I’m alive,” he chokes out. “Are you okay?”
“I am now.” I press my hands to his chest, not knowing what else to do. I want to hold him, anchor him, keep him. “You fool, you should have run.”
“I had to...” his gaze flicks to Ryatuv, who kneels beside us, “protect her.”
I nod. I know, but knowing he did it for me doesn’t make the pain any less.
“Help me up,” Z’leni says, grimacing as he shifts.
Ryatuv and I lift him together, one on each side. His body trembles, every step a battle, but he doesn’t complain or even flinch. We move forward through the heat, toward the tunnel.
We retrace our steps but it takes time. The passage is choked with rubble, debris, and half-collapsed beams. Z’leni croaks for us to go down an alternate path. We squeeze through smoke and flame, climbing over cracked stone, and finally, finally?—
We break free.
The tunnel spills out into a ruined alley, the ceiling above barely visible through the thick smoke, but the flames haven’t reached this far yet. The air is cooler and stinks a whole lot less, making it easier to breathe at least.
Ash is falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in gray. We stop, the three of us looking around in silent wonder that we’re even alive.
None of us speak for a long moment. We stand, panting, hearts racing, trying to remember how it feels to be alive. I look at Z’leni first.
He’s leaning against the wall, one hand pressed to his ribs, blood oozing through his fingers. Z’leni’s eyes are on the falling ash, but they flick to mine the second I move.
I cross the space between us and take his face in my hands.
“Thank you.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but I don’t let him.
I kiss him. Slow. Trembling.
His lips are cracked and dry. His breath tastes like smoke, but the second our mouths touch, something in me breaks open. All the terror. All the fear. All the hope I’ve buried deep just to keep moving.
Z’leni doesn’t pull away. He leans in, hands curling around my waist. And for a heartbeat, nothing exists but the two of us. When I pull back, Ryatuv is watching. Quiet, unreadable.
I step toward him. He doesn’t move.
But I see the tension in his jaw juxtaposed against the softness in his eyes. He thinks I’m choosing. That what I did means something final. I don’t know how to explain what I feel—not just for Z’leni, but him, too.
So I don’t try to explain. I step closer, touch his chest, and kiss him too.
His body goes stiff for a breath.
Then he lets out a quiet sound. Half growl, half sigh, and gathers me against him.
His mouth is rougher. More urgent. But there’s tenderness, too. Restraint. His hands don’t roam. He just holds me. And this time when I step back, I don’t say anything.
Neither do they. There are no declarations. No arguments. Only acceptance.
Three hearts still beating. Three souls still standing. A single moment of peace in the firestorm we made.
And behind us the city burns.