41. Rani
41
RANI
T he world shudders as a thundering roar tears through the air—deep and bellowing, as if the earth itself cries out in pain and rage.
On the horizon, fire erupts, curling orange-red fingers clawing the cavern ceiling, shooting up from the base of Kala Tavara like a serpent uncoiling from sleep.
I halt mid-step, my breath caught in my throat.
For one suspended second, there is absolute silence. No one speaks. Even the Zmaj, creatures of war and fury, are silent and still, their eyes fixed on the rising flames.
The machine. They did it. They are alive. For now at least.
Z’leni, Elara, and Ryatuv were successful.
Words fail me, but something deep inside responds—an ache I cannot name, as if the marrow in my bones catches fire too. That monstrosity… the Infernal Machine… has been struck.
My hand convulses, tightening on my ceremonial staff. The surface of the staff is etched with old symbols. Symbols that once meant protection, justice, peace—once.
Now they feel like scars carved into old bones.
Vapas is silent, but tense, watching with his dark eyes narrowed. Khiara’s breath quickens, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. Dilacs stands behind us, silent and steady, but his thick shoulders tense beneath his leather armor. He’s the quietest of the three, but now there’s a glint in his eyes I recognize.
Hope. Pain. A glimmer of vengeance long denied.
Beside me, the Al’fa exhales a plume of smoke from his nostrils. His body vibrates with barely leashed energy. Flexing his wings, the nearest humans shuffle back to avoid being struck. I glance over and his gaze is locked on the distant flames.
He says nothing. Neither do I.
There’s no need for words. Not right now.
Behind us, the Zmaj army waits, their curved, brutal weapons gleaming under heat waves that make their numbers seem endless. Row upon row of cold-blooded, fiery eyed monsters who would like nothing more than to kill every Urr’ki they see. My stomach churns. I’ve rolled the dice. Done all I can to create this alliance. Now it is in the hands of fate.
Rosalind stands off to one side, leading the humans who came with us. She’s dressed in white leathers with a long, flowing cape. A narrow blade gleams in her hand. Our eyes briefly meet and she gives a slight nod, professional but tired.
The human hasn’t rested properly in days, but she shows no weakness. She never does. I understand her. She and I are alike. Symbols more than people. Our duties do not allow for the showing of weakness.
“Now?” the Al’fa asks, deferring to my judgment.
I close my eyes, holding onto this final moment of peace, reluctant to let go of this last illusion of control. What comes next is out of my hands.
Will my people accept my return? Will they fight? How many will die before this day ends?
“Yes,” I say, nodding sharply to keep the sigh out of my words.
I step forward into this new world. One that I only imagined until now and am still unsure if this is the right thing to do or if I am dooming my people to end in blood and ash. One way or another, I have done my best. All that remains is to play this out. Only then will I know the outcome.
Every step resounds in my chest.
The memory of being dragged to the cells deep beneath the tower presses in. My guards having betrayed me. I’d had no voice left to scream. The last time I was in my city I was an escaped prisoner. Slipping away like a thief.
Now I return. Surrounded not by Urr’ki nobles or priests—but three warriors, the humans, and our ancient enemy, the Zmaj.
A fitting procession.
Thick smoke lies over the city. The air has an acrid tang—sulfur and something worse. The outskirts have always been the city’s worst part, but now they are utterly ruined.
My heart breaks.
This isn’t the place I ruled. It’s a husk, a wounded beast bleeding in the dirt. The buildings sag inward, ash clings to every ledge. Broken stalls and shattered walkways litter the streets. The banners of the Shaman—tattered and faded—flap weakly above doorways that once opened to laughter and song. There is no laughter now.
Dirty faces peer out of half-collapsed homes and from shadows. Children. Half-starved, gaunt, with haunted eyes lurking in the shadows. Uncertain of what they are watching, but afraid all the same. A few older citizens, broken, barely able to lift their heads to care, watching in stony silence as we march past. There is terror in their eyes until they see me. Their terror doesn’t vanish, but it changes.
Some gasp. Others drop what they are carrying. A woman falls to her knees, tears streaking the dirt on her cheeks.
They remember me.
And I remember them—every face, every promise broken because I was too weak to stop what came. My throat tightens, but I force myself to keep walking. One foot in front of the next. Fixing my eyes on what lies ahead.
“They see you, my Queen,” Khiara whispers.
I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. My eyes burn from more than the smoke.
Ahead, the city center looms: Kala Tavara, once my home, once a sacred testament to the skill and abilities of the Urr’ki—now a twisted monument to the Shaman’s corruption. Grotesque, like a blade plunged into the heart of our world.
Ahead is our destination. The ceremonial plaza that surrounds the tower. Once a place of gathering, celebration, and camaraderie before the Shaman twisted it, turning it into a place of torture, sacrifice, and lies. Today I will reclaim it. Z’leni, Elara, and Ryatuv have stopped the sacrifices but the bells continue to ring. High and sonorous. Summoning the people like cattle to the butcher’s block. The Shaman calls.
Let him. I come now. That is where I will confront him. In the heart of my city, I will free my people.
A fresh pulse of fury races through and I quicken my pace. I strike my staff on the stone with purpose. The sound echoes off walls and the army flows behind me. There is no fear left. Only fire.
I am not the girl you dragged from the throne. I am iron, forged in the pyre of what was. And I am coming home.