Chapter 27 Talia
TALIA
They don’t bind us.
That’s the first thing I notice once the decision is made and we’re moved forward—not shoved, not herded, not surrounded in the way captives are.
Two more leap from the roofs and the Zmaj reposition.
Two ahead. Two behind. Others above, silhouettes along broken ledges and half-roofs, wings folded tight, bodies still.
Watching without spectacle. Adran walks next to Korr and me. The children walk in front of us.
The city opens in layers as we move deeper. Not wide avenues anymore, but intentional paths clean of sand. Stone reinforced where it shouldn’t be. Beams shored up instead of stripped. Whoever lives here didn’t tear the city apart to survive. They learned how to live inside what remained.
Korr stays just behind my shoulder, close enough that I feel him when the ground shifts under my bad ankle.
He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t offer support unless I falter enough that it becomes unavoidable.
It’s restraint, not distance. The kind that says I’m here without announcing it.
I appreciate it even as I hate that I need it.
I don’t know if we’re in trouble or not. I do know that if we are, I’m not going to be of much help.
Other people come into view gradually. Not crowds. Small clusters tucked into shadowed doorways and recessed floors. Faces turn as we pass. Human faces. Zmaj faces. All of them older than I expect. There are no children darting between legs. No reckless movement. No laughter.
My stomach tightens.
Illadon notices too. His stride shortens. Rverre’s wings draw in tighter against her back, posture folding inward as if she’s bracing against something heavy in the air. They’re watching the kids. Not like threats. Like miracles.
We enter what looks like an open air market that’s been transformed into something communal.
Storage along the walls. Makeshift bedding stacked neatly.
Water containers sealed and labeled. Careful handwriting.
Planning. I catch snippets of murmured speech, low and restrained, as if sound itself is rationed here.
“These people are tired,” I murmur, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud.
“Yes,” Korr replies quietly. “But not chaotic.”
Chaos would mean desperation. Violence. Collapse. This is endurance. The kind that grinds things down slowly and pretends that’s the same as survival.
Rverre stumbles—not a fall, just a hitch in her step—and a nearby Zmaj moves instantly to steady her before stopping himself short, eyes flicking to Illadon. Illadon reacts just as fast, stepping in, hand firm and certain.
The Zmaj’s expression isn’t hard to read. It’s awe and hope.
Rverre leans closer to me as we walk, her voice barely more than breath.
“They’re… thinning.”
My throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes stay fixed ahead.
“They’re not growing. They’re holding. That’s all.”
Holding on until there’s nothing left to hold.
They lead us through the market and out another street. Leading us between taller structures that block the wind. The quiet presses in. I feel the weight of it in my chest, in the way every step seems to matter more here. Whatever this place is, it isn’t just a refuge.
And as the Zmaj guide us deeper into the heart of the city, I realize with a cold, sinking certainty that we didn’t stumble into their home. We walked into their last chance.
The place they bring us to isn’t a hall or a fortress. It’s a courtyard.
Once, it might have been open to the sky, framed by tall residential structures on three sides and a broader civic building on the fourth.
Now it’s been partially roofed with scavenged panels and reinforced beams, creating a layered canopy that lets light in without exposing what’s beneath. This is where they gather.
People are already there when we arrive. Humans sitting on overturned stone and stacked crates. Zmaj standing near the edges, wings folded, bodies angled outward like living walls. Every conversation stops as we step into view.
The silence isn’t hostile. It’s reverent.
It settles over us, heavy and strange. The weight of being seen after too long being alone.
Adran steps forward, guiding us into the center without touching.
His presence carries authority, but it’s worn thin at the edges.
Leadership shaped by loss rather than conquest.
“These are the scouts I told you about,” he says to the gathered group. “They are survivors too.”
A murmur ripples through the humans. Not fear. Recognition.
“We thought there were no others,” someone says quietly.
“There are,” I reply before I think better of it. “Enough.”
Enough to matter. Enough to change the math.
Korr shifts. I feel the heat of him, the steadiness. He’s watching the Zmaj more than the humans, reading posture and spacing, counting weapons. Illadon straightens unconsciously. Rverre steps closer to him, small hand curling into his sleeve. That’s when I see it clearly. The ages.
Most of the humans here are older than I am. Not elderly, but worn. Faces lined too early. Movements careful. I scan instinctively for children and find none. More, I don’t see any with wings. None with the subtle, impossible grace that marks Rverre as something new.
The Zmaj are every bit as bad. Scaled hides dulled. Wings scarred. Horns chipped or broken. Strong still, but tired in a way that doesn’t heal. Adran watches me notice.
“You see it,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I reply. “Where are your young?”
A pause stretches. No one looks away.
“We don’t have any,” a woman says from the edge of the circle. Her voice is steady, but her hands tremble where they rest on her knees. “Not anymore.”
Another human speaks. “The ones born after the crash didn’t survive long.”
A Zmaj adds, blunt and unsoftened. “Our bloodlines are failing.”
The words land like a hammer. I look at Illadon. At Rverre. At the way the Zmaj’s gazes keep drifting back to them as if drawn by gravity.
“You’ve never bonded across species,” I say slowly.
Adran nods. “We didn’t know it was possible.”
Silence again. Thicker now. Rverre shifts, discomfort rolling off her in waves.
“They’re hurting,” she whispers. “The city knows.”
Korr finally speaks, his voice low and measured.
“You’ve been surviving in a closed system.”
“Yes,” Adran says. “And systems like that always collapse.”
Illadon steps forward before I can stop him. He doesn’t brandish his weapon. Doesn’t puff himself up. He simply stands where everyone can see him.
“We’re not broken,” he says. “We’re still here.”
The words are simple. Unpolished. And they hit harder than any speech could. One of the Zmaj exhales sharply. Another turns away, shoulders shaking once before he stills. Hope is a dangerous thing. Adran looks at me again, eyes searching.
“You’ve done something different,” he says. “Haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer. “And it saved us.”
Korr’s hand brushes mine then. Brief. Grounding. I realize that whatever happens next, there’s no going back to the canyon unchanged.
Because this city isn’t just ruins. It’s a crossroads. And standing in its heart, surrounded by people who are running out of time, I understand with terrifying clarity that Illadon and Rverre aren’t just children here. They’re proof. And proof has a way of demanding action.