Chapter 28 Talia
TALIA
The crowd thins without ceremony.
One moment we’re surrounded by too many bodies, too many voices speaking at once, and the next the space opens in a way that feels deliberate. Controlled. Adran gives a few quiet instructions, gestures exchanged between the Zmaj and the humans, and suddenly we are no longer part of the whole.
“Just a short walk,” Adran says, already turning. “There are things better explained away from… curiosity.”
I don’t miss the way several eyes linger on us as we move. Assessing. Measuring how we fit into a place that has survived by deciding very carefully who belongs.
Korr shifts half a step closer as we follow. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t need to. The presence alone steadies something unhelpful in my chest.
The route Adran chooses avoids open spans.
We move along shaded corridors formed by leaning buildings and reinforced walkways that bridge gaps overhead.
Cloth screens are stretched between stone pillars where sunlight would otherwise spill through, turning bright gold into muted amber.
The air is cooler, but it smells… thin. Stale.
I notice the humans first.
They move differently than the ones in our camp.
Slower. More deliberate. When they cross open patches of light, they hurry, heads down, skin already flushed and tight with strain.
One man stumbles stepping from shadow into sun, knees buckling just enough that a Zmaj’s hand shoots out to steady him before he can fall.
No one comments on it. No one needs to.
Illadon notices too. I see it in the way his gaze lingers, the way his jaw tightens. Rverre drifts closer to him, wings tucked tight, posture drawn inward. She isn’t humming. She hasn’t since we entered the denser part of the city.
“How long have you been here?” I ask quietly.
Adran doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s without looking back.
“Long enough to learn what not to waste.”
My stomach knots as we pass a cluster of structures that might be living spaces. Windows are sealed from the inside. Doorways narrowed. Reflective panels placed to bounce light away rather than invite it in. Survival architecture. Nothing is built for comfort and not a sign of hope.
A woman sits just inside one of the shaded entries, back against stone, eyes closed. Her breathing is shallow. Her skin has a brittle look to it, stretched too tight over bone. She opens her eyes as we pass, tracking us with quiet curiosity and resignation.
“She needs epis,” I say before I can stop myself.
Adran’s stride falters. Just barely.
“The Zmaj have talked about it, but we don’t have it,” he replies.
“You never found any?” I ask.
“No.” He exhales. “We tried substitutes. Compounds. Altered rations. Nothing works the way it should.” A pause. “Your people have adapted better than ours.”
Korr makes a low sound in his chest.
“That’s why you stay in the shade,” I say.
“Yes,” Adran answers. “And why some of us don’t go out at all anymore.”
I think of our camp. Of children running between shade rigs. Of epis rations measured carefully but present. Of complaints I’ve heard that now feel obscene. Illadon’s hand curls into a fist at his side. Rverre’s gaze drifts outward, unfocused, as if she’s listening to something beneath the words.
“They’re burning out,” she murmurs.
Adran glances at her sharply. “We know.”
He leads us into a building.
Even in its dilapidated state, it is impressive.
The ground floor opens upward in a vast hollow, the ceiling lost somewhere far above.
Thirty stories at least, maybe more, though entire sections of the outer wall are gone, peeled away by time and catastrophe.
Twisted ironwork juts outward like exposed ribs, framing strips of sky that let light spill down in fractured columns.
The air inside is cooler, but also heavy with dust and old metal.
We pass beneath the broken canopy where doors once stood, our footsteps echoing faintly before the sound vanishes upward, swallowed by height. The scale of the place presses in on me. It’s not claustrophobic. The exact opposite. Too much space to watch. Too many angles.
A few Zmaj wait inside, perched along reinforced beams and collapsed ledges, wings folded tight, tails draped casually for balance. They watch us, heads tilted, eyes bright with interest that isn’t hostile—but isn’t friendly either. Curious predators.
Adran stops near the center of the open floor, where the stone has been cleared and smoothed into a gathering space. Old furniture has been repurposed into benches. Crates stacked neatly against one wall. Water containers arranged with obsessive care.
Everything here speaks of scarcity managed by discipline.
“This is where we talk,” Adran says. “And where we decide what you are to us.”
He’s straightforward at least. There is something about him that seems familiar. It’s one of those things that I can’t quite put my finger on, but it keeps nagging at me.
Korr is beside me, posture neutral but ready. Illadon’s attention is flicking upward, tracking the Zmaj above. Rverre edges closer to me, her small fingers brushing my sleeve before she stills herself.
One of the Zmaj drops lightly from a beam, landing a few paces away. He’s broader than the others, scales dark and matte, horns swept back close to his skull. His gaze fixes on Illadon first, then Rverre.
“You brought children,” he says. Not accusation. Assessment.
“They came with us,” I reply.
“Why?” Another Zmaj asks from above. “This city isn’t kind to the young.”
“No place is anymore,” I say quietly. “That doesn’t mean they stop belonging.”
The first Zmaj snorts softly, amused. “Spoken like a human.”
“They are more than that,” Korr says, voice low but carrying. “They are proof of the future.”
That earns attention. The Zmaj’s gaze sharpens, returning to Illadon and Rverre with something closer to hunger than curiosity.
“Hybrids,” he murmurs.
Illadon straightens instinctively, chin lifting. Rverre’s wings twitch once, then tuck tight.
“You haven’t bonded with the humans,” I say, not as a question.
A ripple of discomfort moves through the Zmaj. One looks away. Another bares his teeth briefly, irritation flashing.
“We protect them,” one says.
“We shelter them,” another adds.
“They are not our treasures,” the broad Zmaj finishes, his tone firm. “They are ours to protect and keep safe.”
Korr tenses. I can’t tell if it’s anger or something colder.
“Treasure,” he all but spits the word. “That is not a bond.”
A beat of silence. The Zmaj laughs, sharp and dismissive.
“Spoken like an alien. A creature who doesn’t understand Zmaj instinct.”
“Instinct is not devotion,” Korr replies evenly. “And possession is not connection.”
The humans nearby go very still.
“Enough,” Adran says, lifting a hand. He turns to Korr, studying him. “You speak as if you’ve known something different.”
“I am not Zmaj,” Korr says. Several of the Zmaj snort their agreement. “I am Urr’ki. We know dragoste. It is not chosen. It is recognized. It does not cage. It commits. It is the reforming of two halves into a whole.”
Murmurs ripple through the Zmaj.
“Sounds dangerous,” one mutters.
“It is,” Korr agrees. “That is why it endures.”
I swallow hard, pulse thudding. He isn’t looking at me when he says it, but the weight of the words press into my chest anyway.
“And what does this… dragoste demand?” Adran asks.
Korr doesn’t hesitate.
“Sacrifice,” he says. “Accountability. The willingness to stand even when standing costs everything.”
Silence stretches. One of the Zmaj looks at Illadon again. Then at Rverre. His nostrils flare.
The Zmaj’s gaze lingers on Illadon and Rverre, something unsettled flickering behind his eyes.
“We have never felt what you describe,” he says finally. Not defensive. Simply factual. “Not with them.”
He gestures toward the unseen humans beyond the walls. A hush falls over the space at his confession. Korr does not move, but I feel the shift in him anyway. A tightening.
“That does not mean it does not exist,” Korr says. “Only that Tajss has not answered.”
The Zmaj frowns, slow and thoughtful. “You speak as if it is selective.”
“It is,” Korr replies, but this time he looks at me. “I told you it is not earned or claimed. It is something that is recognized.”
His eyes bore into mine. A silent declaration.
“You’re saying our people were never… meant for us,” Adran says.
“No,” Korr says, pulling his attention away from me. “I am saying fate is crueler than choice.”
A murmur ripples through the Zmaj. I feel it then—the weight of years reframed in a single breath. Of bonds that never quite fit. Of humans protected, cherished, guarded… but never answered by something deeper.
Adran closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, the room feels altered.
“You bring possibility into a place that has survived by assuming there was none,” he says quietly. “That makes you dangerous.”
I nod. “I know.”
“And the children?” he asks, voice roughening despite himself.
Rverre lifts her chin, wings held tight but proud. Her eyes glow faintly in the dim light.
“We are not a mistake,” she says. “We are proof.”
Silence stretches—thick, reverent. Above us, wings adjust, not in threat but in unease.
Adran exchanges looks with one of the Zmaj. This one has remained quiet throughout, but there is an air about him. A quiet commanding of presence that doesn’t need to be stated. He nods, slowly and Adran exhales in response.
“Then you will stay,” Adran says. “For now. You will eat with us. Speak with us. And we will decide what this truth means for our city.”
Korr shifts closer without touching me. A presence like a wall at my back.
“Very well,” I say.
Somewhere deeper inside the building, a door opens. Footsteps echo across the stone. Measured. Familiar. My breath catches before my thoughts can catch up. I know that cadence.
And in that instant, I understand exactly how this city intends to test us next.