42. Rani
42
RANI
W e turn the corner, smoke curling through the narrow avenue—and I hear a familiar sound.
Boots.
Not Zmaj. Not humans. Not Maulavi.
Urr’ki.
Vapas stiffens, his hand drifting to the blade at his hip. Khiara stops mid-step, tension radiating from him like heat from sun-scorched stone. The Al’fa’s wings twitch as his massive frame shifts forward, protective and wary.
They emerge from the smoke like ghosts—dust-covered, their skin smeared with ash, the stink of sweat and soot clinging to them. Some carry old ceremonial blades, others wield tools as weapons. Wood axes, spears with stone tips, and makeshift clubs. There are hundreds of them. And at their front walks a broad-shouldered warrior in cracked armor, the edges scorched and patched with scrap leather.
Janara.
The lines on his face are even deeper and his expression is grim. The beginnings of white thread through his dark hair, but his eyes haven’t changed. Sharp. Calculating. Fierce as ever. His gaze locks with mine and I stop walking.
The Zmaj army freezes. The Urr’ki resistance stalls behind Janara, weapons raised but uncertain. The moment stretches. Seconds ticking past. Then someone shouts—a younger fighter, barely more than a boy. He stares at the Zmaj, then draws his blade with shaking hands. Others follow.
A warning growl rolls through the Zmaj ranks. The wicked blades of their polearm weapons gleam and their wings rustle. A hiss cuts through the air. The humans falter, backing into one another. The air grows heavy, like the city itself holds its breath.
“ Hold! ”
The word cracks like thunder, echoing off stone. Every eye turns to me as I step forward, staff in hand, cloak trailing through the ash that covers the streets.
“None here are your enemy,” I say, loud and clear. “There is but one enemy we must face.”
No one moves.
I drift my gaze over the resistance fighters. Meeting their eyes one at a time, every inch the Queen. No one moves. Almost, it seems no one dares to breathe.
Lifetimes of hatred and fear are thicker than the smoke, blanketing all of us.
Janara steps forward and walks up to me.
He stares into my eyes for a moment. Long enough that my heart beats faster. Fear coils deep in my stomach.
Will he betray me too? Was I wrong to trust him?
A faint, almost broken smile tugs at the corners of his lips, as if he’s reading my thoughts. He bows his head and drops to one knee, offering me his blade.
“My Queen!” he says, projecting his rocky voice. “Our one and true Queen!”
He looks up and there’s something beneath the steel in his gaze. Loyalty, but more too. It takes me a moment to recognize it. He’s asking for forgiveness.
“My General,” I say, placing my hand over the flat of his blade, accepting his offer.
He bows his head. The tension between the two groups heightens then it breaks. The resistance fighters drop to one knee almost as one. Shouts rise—not just cries of loyalty, but of relief, of hope renewed.
“There is nothing to forgive,” I say softly, intending my words only for Janara, but the Al’fa is close enough to hear them too. “He fooled us both, but no longer.”
“We will bring justice to the Shaman and all who follow him,” Janara growls, loud enough it echoes off the nearby buildings.
The air shifts. A sound rises from the Urr’ki crowd, not fear, not hatred, but relief. As if something long held in their chests is finally allowed to exhale. Vapas breathes heavily beside me. Khiara relaxes and blinks back tears I pretend not to see.
The Al’fa stands like a mountain, unbending, but I catch the subtle shift in his posture. Not retreat. But… respect. He’s watching me. Learning me.
Janara rises, sliding his weapon back into its sheath.
“You brought the Zmaj,” he says under his breath.
“I brought hope, ” I counter.
Janara stares for a long moment.
“After all that’s happened… I wasn’t sure how you’d pull this off,” he says at last.
I had no choice. Fire and blood are the only currency left in this world.
“Because this world is not done yet. We are not done.”
His eyes search mine, looking for weakness, but he finds none. He nods, then turns to his fighters and raises his voice.
“This city belongs to us. Not the Shaman. Not the Maulavi. We take it back—tonight.”
They roar in answer. A ragged sound, but full of power. And it’s not just them.
Behind me, the Zmaj lift their voices in a call that echoes across the stone walls. Deep. Guttural. A sound of war, but also more. A promise. The humans join in—not as loud, not as fearsome, but every bit as determined.
I stand in the center. A Queen between three peoples. And for the first time in what feels like lifetimes… I am not alone.
We march. Not as a single army, but a tide.
Zmaj flank the edges, their scales shimmering in the smoke-lit haze, wings folded tight. The long shafts they carry with blades on one end gleam, ready to kill. They follow the Urr’ki resistance which surges forward in ragged columns. Their patchwork gear makes them look mismatched, but they move with unity. Purpose. Fire in their eyes.
The humans stay grouped together, quiet and alert. I catch sight of Rosalind near the center, guiding her people with quiet words and steady calm.
I walk in the heart of it all. A pulse of old memories vibrates in my bones with every step. Each footfall echoes down to the city’s molten core.
I know these streets as they were. Before the decay of the Shaman and the recent quakes left them broken. So many once familiar buildings are nothing but a pile of rubble.
I remember the curve of this old avenue, the arch of that window where banners once hung. Laughter used to echo here. Once, I drank kaphi with friends at a saravam here. Now there is only the crackle of falling ash.
That was long before the sacrificial bells tolled. The bells are ringing again as we approach the gathering square. We round the last bend and it comes into view. I inhale sharply and nearly choke.
Smoke curls in greasy spirals. Ash sifts through the air like dying snow. The platform at the square’s center, my platform, the one I used to stand on during festivals is broken. One side has crumpled from the explosion. The machine is twisted and tangled, hissing steam and glowing faintly. It pulses like a dying heart.
And there before it, looming like a shadow from a nightmare, stands the Shaman.
He’s thinner now, more bent, his eyes wild and hysterical. His ceremonial robes are torn and scorched, one sleeve is entirely missing. The paint on his face runs in streaks of soot and sweat. Still his voice is high and raw as it echoes through the square.
“This is the end of this world! You know it as well as I do. The lizards march on our city! We must awaken the Paluga now if we are to be welcomed into the next and resume our rightful place as the First Born! Only through sacrifice do we survive!”
Armed soldiers form a barrier around the square, their attention inward towards the Shaman and his display. The Shaman himself is surrounded by Maulavi who bristle with weapons drawn. They bark orders and force a group of shackled citizens into a line at the front of the stage. My people. Some of them drop to their knees, stunned into submission. Others try to flee, but are dragged back by their hair and slammed to the ground.
Among those to be sacrificed are children and elders. A woman shields a boy with one arm as she fights the Maulavi off with a ladle. My heart lurches. The assembled crowd looks like it doesn’t know whether to scream or pray.
I march ahead of the rag-tag assembly of resistance with the army of Zmaj at our backs. One of the guards hears our approach and turns. His eyes widen and his face pales. He rubs his eyes as if not believing what he sees then he shouts, his voice cracking with disbelief.
“The Queen!”
A ripple spreads through the crowd like heat across a sand dune. Heads turn. Gasps. Cries. One by one, citizens fall to their knees stunned and many weeping. The guards tense. Some raise weapons, but I don’t stop walking.
The Al’fa is at my side, a living weapon encased in Zmaj fury. His wings twitch with every shift in the crowd, amber eyes narrowed. Khiara and Vapas are on my other side. Vapas walks like he’s already tasted victory. Behind me, Janara lifts his blade not to attack, but to stand guard. His presence feels like stone at my back. Unmoving and loyal.
We stop at the edge of the square. Three guards block my path with drawn weapons but they don’t raise them. Their eyes dart between me and the Al’fa. Confusion is written across their visages. My voice carries, though I don’t raise it. I let sorrow do the lifting.
“Lay down your weapons.”
There’s a pause—a long, breathless hush.
One guard, young and wide-eyed, looks as if he’s seeing a ghost. Halrek. I remember his mother—she used to weave garlands for the mid-year flame ceremony.
“She lives,” he whispers, the words barely audible. “The Queen… she lives.”
He drops his sword. Another follows. Then another. Weapons clatter to the stone like rain.
“Traitors! Faithless worms! You bow to a corpse!” the Shaman shrieks.
But it’s too late. The crowd parts, a wave of awe and grief rolling before me. Some reach out me as I pass, their fingers brushing against me. Others weep. One old woman drops to her knees and presses her forehead against the stone.
“I never stopped believing,” she murmurs. “Never.”
My throat tightens. The Maulavi close tighter around the Shaman, their formation a wall of blades. The Al’fa inhales, preparing to give the order to attack, but I lift my hand and signal the Al’fa to wait.
“Not yet,” I whisper.
Let me end this my way. I fight not only for the Shaman’s demise, but for the heart and soul of my people. To reclaim what is by all rights mine.
We move together, Khiara, Vapas, Janara, the Al’fa, and me. The city watches with bated breath. The square is no longer his. It’s ours.
Mine. Once again, mine.
I ascend the ruined steps of the platform. The stone is cracked and coated in slick ash. My boots scrape over broken machine pieces. The air hums with residual heat and the acrid smell of molten lava.
The first time I stood here, I was barely more than a child. I wore a crown of woven metal and silk robes dyed in the hues of flames. The people had cheered. They threw flowers. Now the only sound is the hiss of the Shaman’s breath as I draw closer.
I face him behind his wavering wall of Maulavi. His eyes dart between me and the Al’fa. He tries to lift his staff, but his hand trembles.
“You,” he hisses. “You should have been ash.”
I lift my chin. My voice is clear. Quiet. Final.
“I was.” I take another step, the platform groans beneath my weight. “But I rose again. Not in darkness. In truth.”
He snarls, but I see his fear. He sees what he was afraid of all along. That I carry the weight and hearts of my people. The fire of their resistance, now backed by the fury of the Zmaj. He sees he’s already lost.
“You speak lies,” he chokes. “You abandoned your people!”
“No.” I stop in front of the line of Maulavi. “You did. The moment you chose fear over love. Power over peace.”
His mouth opens, then closes. The Maulavi shift uncertainly.
Behind me, Khiara whispers to someone—Vapas, maybe—soft, broken words I don’t quite catch. Janara’s footsteps scrape closer. The Al’fa doesn’t move, but I feel him, a pillar of heat and fury at my back.
“You took my home,” I say, voice low. “My people. My name. But not anymore.”
And just like that, the stage holds its breath. The square is silent. Even the bells are still. The Shaman’s hand drops to his side, the staff clinking weakly against the stone. He opens his mouth again—but I cut him off.
“This city is mine!”