44. Rani
44
RANI
T he world breaks.
The air groans with pressure. The ground heaves like a wounded beast. A fresh quake splits the stone. The scream of a collapsing spire echoes like thunder down the corridor.
“Move!” I shout, my voice vanishing into the chaos. “Keep moving!”
The narrow tunnel shudders, dust raining from the ceiling. Screams echo—Urr’ki, Zmaj, human—all of them trying to flee a city that’s no longer safe. The Paluga has awakened. The Old One beneath the world, the creature we called myth. No one doubts it any longer.
I dart a quick glance back. Khiara clutches a boy in his arms, blood smearing his shirt where he dragged the child from the rubble. His face is pale with dust, but his eyes burn with urgency.
“I have him!” he calls. “Go!”
Janara heaves a fallen beam aside, opening the path ahead. Vapas follows him, dragging a limping elder Urr’ki woman. His teeth are gritted, shoulders straining. The Al’fa comes last. His wings are curled tight to avoid the crumbling tunnel ceiling. His body bruised, burned, and smoking where the molten lava he shielded me from glanced off his scales. Our eyes meet, his eyes burning bright with drive. We are a parade of ash-covered warriors and bleeding survivors.
My people. Our people.
The tunnel heaves. I slam against the wall. Pain explodes in my shoulder as I fight to stay upright. Cracks race across the wall, the floor. Steam hisses from the depths. The lava is closer. Too close.
“Faster!” the Al’fa growls.
“We’re nearly there,” Janara pants. He points ahead. “That tunnel, it leads to your compound!”
A child screams as somewhere behind us another part of the tunnel collapses. A wall of rubble seals off the route we just passed through. I don’t know how many people were back there.
Grief bites, sharp and fast, but I shove it down. I can’t mourn, not yet.
We reach the tunnel. A dozen Zmaj warriors hold the passage, keeping it open by removing rubble and debris while injured civilians pour past. The heat is unbearable. My throat is raw from breathing smoke. I shove Khiara forward. He surges up two steps at a time, the child still cradled in his arms.
I follow, my legs burning. Every movement is painful, but I won’t stop. We burst through the last archway into the open air.
The Zmaj compound sprawls ahead of us, the great domed ceiling groaning and cracking. Dust and smoke hang in the air. People are running, shouting, but not in chaos. They’re organizing. Packing supplies, loading carts. Lifting children into arms. Medics are tending the wounded.
I slow for a breath, dragging my fingers along the wall. We’ve made it, but only barely, and the shaking ground makes it clear that this isn’t over. The Al’fa crashes up behind me, chest heaving, eyes scanning with suspicion. His dislike is palpable, it radiates off of him. I’m certain that the exodus we’re witnessing was not his plan.
He growls then barks something so fast in Zmaj that I don’t catch it, but the guards around him do. They jump and run. He strides off, but I catch his arm.
“What is wrong?” I ask.
He pauses, his gaze shifting to mine and softening if only for an instant. His tail slaps the rumbling ground, smacking loudly. He shakes his head then glances around. Surveying the humans leading the evacuation.
“This!” he yells, sweeping one arm to take it all in.
As if in answer, the ground shakes so hard I’m thrown forward. He catches me in his arms, his wings snapping open to keep us both upright. I look up, our eyes locking, our lips so close…
“Al’fa!” someone yells and he lets me go, but before his hands leave my arms he makes sure I’m steady on my feet.
“Report,” he barks, spinning to the voice.
“Did you order this?” a Zmaj I do not know asks.
Dust falls from the ceiling. The sound of a cave collapsing echoes from somewhere close. The Al’fa looks around and then back to me. I nod, both understanding and unspoken agreement.
“Keep it moving,” the Al’fa barks. “The mountain is rejecting us.”
The Zmaj blinks, stunned—then nods, spins, and bolts. The Al’fa looks at me again and I see the conflict in him clearly warring on his face. He growls something but it’s drowned out by another quake.
He strides off and I follow. Everywhere, people carry crates, load carts, and help others move in ragged but determined lines. When we reach the floor of the arena I see her.
Rosalind is on the balcony normally reserved for the Alfa. She’s surrounded by humans as she barks clipped orders. Her mate, Visidion, looms beside her, hooded, armored, and watching everything. Around them, a hive of activity swarms with quiet precision.
“Evacuation’s already begun,” Khiara murmurs, setting the child down carefully.
I nod, stunned. I saw it below, but I had no idea how far ahead she had planned. Rosalind was thinking much further ahead than either the Al’fa or I.
While we fought, bled, and marched, she set all this in motion. Packed supplies, mapped routes, gotten both medics and engineers positioned. Even Zmaj, albeit grudgingly, assist in carrying out her orders. It’s not a mad dash for survival. It’s a coordinated retreat.
“This wasn’t planned or agreed to,” the Al’fa growls, voice like grinding stone, as he comes to a stop below the balcony.
Rosalind turns. Her eyes meet his. Everything stills. The moment teeters like a blade on its edge. Rosalind squares her shoulders.
“We didn’t have time to wait for a vote.”
The Al’fa steps forward, his wings flaring slightly, eyes glowing with fury.
“You took command of my people.”
“I took responsibility when it was clear no one else had,” she snaps back. Her tone is iron wrapped in silk. “We didn’t know what would happen, but I thought it best to be prepared if we didn’t stop the awakening of the Paluga. The quakes were worsening. I had to make a call.”
“You had to ?” he growls. “Your people, your choices— your call ? We are not yours to command, human.”
Behind him, Zmaj warriors stiffen. Behind her , Visidion steps closer, one massive hand already drifting toward the weapon on his back.
“We should stop this,” Khiara whispers in my ear.
“No,” I correct him. “This is mine to stop.”
The Al’fa is breathing like a cornered beast. Rosalind’s hands are clenched at her sides. It’s clear that neither of them are going to back down.
“You may not like my methods,” she says evenly, “but I got your people moving. You’ll thank me when they’re not buried under tons of molten rock.”
Visidion growls, stepping forward, sliding the lochaber on his back free of its holster.
“Watch your tone, human . I am the Al’fa under the mountain. Only I speak for my people,” the Al’fa growls.
“And I speak for every human who followed me down here,” Rosalind snaps. “Every mother who carried her child through fire. Every man who gave his life to protect someone else’s.”
“You act like a queen,” the Al’fa snarls.
“I act like a survivor.”
The air crackles. I step between them.
“Enough.” My voice isn’t loud, but it rings out like a command. The weight of it silences even the quake that rumbles beneath our feet, for a brief moment. They shift their angry glares to me. The Al’fa’s chest heaves. His nostrils flare. Rosalind’s jaw is tight, chin lifted in challenge. But neither speaks.
“Look around you,” I say softly. “Look at them.”
I point to the compound—at the families fleeing with only what they can carry, the wounded being treated on stone benches, the Zmaj standing shoulder-to-shoulder with humans, lifting supplies. The Urr’ki mingling amongst them and being directed to how they can assist. All three species working side-by-side and together, all old grievances forgotten.
“None of our battles matter if we don’t survive.”
A fresh tremor rocks the ground. Part of the far ceiling cracks, stone falling like broken teeth. A human shouts. A Zmaj dives, catching a falling child and shielding her with his wings.
Rosalind’s expression shifts. Not softening, exactly, but something more vulnerable flashes through it. She glances around the arena at the destruction already begun and the quakes are growing stronger.
“We can’t stay here much longer. The tremors will continue and we’ll lose the northern passage entirely,” Rosalind says.
“I have scouts checking the lava tunnels,” Visidion says, his voice quieter. “We think the western corridor is stable enough to move the rest.”
The Al’fa still glares, but some of the fury is fading, dampened by the weight of exhaustion and grim reality.
“You should have told me,” he mutters. “I am the Al’fa.”
Rosalind meets his eyes again.
“And I respect that. But leadership isn’t waiting for orders. Sometimes it’s about seeing the fire coming and pulling people out before they burn.”
He doesn’t answer, but he snaps his wings closed and his tail drops onto the dirt and sand. Not much, but it’s enough. I breathe, slow and steady.
“We all want the same thing,” I say.
Rosalind nods. “Survival.”
“No.” I shake my head. “More than that. A future. A world where we don’t just survive—but live. Together.”
Another quake, and the floor groans. Rosalind studies the cracked ceiling, then turns to her people.
“Evacuation continues. Group B takes the northern tunnel. Group C, you’re with me. Move!”
The compound stirs again—orders called, people moving, life rising in the face of destruction. The Al’fa steps to my side.
“You calmed the storm,” he murmurs.
I glance at him. “No. I reminded it what it’s fighting for.”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. The tilt of his head says enough. We walk side by side, closer, in step.
Behind us, the last of the injured are being loaded onto makeshift sleds. Khiara, Vapas, Dilacs, and Janara move among the refugees, helping where they can. Visidion stands at Rosalind’s side, one clawed hand on her back as she gives final orders.
A low, thunderous crack echoes in the distance. The Paluga is rising. It will tear the underworld apart.
“Time to go,” Rosalind says, voice grim but steady. “Everyone move! We return to the surface.”
The words fall like a vow into the smoke-thick air. And for the first time in a long, long while… It feels like hope.