Chapter 32 Talia
TALIA
Korr steps aside then, allowing the Zmaj to lead. He doesn’t touch me as we fall into step, but he positions himself close enough that I feel the heat of him at my side. Close enough that if the ground shifts or the corridor narrows, he’s already accounted for it.
We move through the building and out into the light.
The city looks different in full morning.
Less ominous, perhaps, but no less watchful.
Zmaj line elevated walkways, no longer hiding their presence.
Humans cluster in shaded recesses and lower levels, skin drawn tight, movements slow.
I see the signs immediately. Dehydration.
Heat sickness. The long-term cost of living without protection from Tajss’s suns.
“They’ve been rationing water,” I murmur.
“Yes,” the Zmaj says. “And shade. And time.”
We pass a human woman slumped against a wall, eyes closed, breath shallow. Another sits nearby fanning her with a scrap of fabric, face drawn with exhaustion. They look up as we pass. Hope flickers, brief and dangerous. I bite off the words that come, forcing myself not to promise anything.
The chamber we’re led into is a wide, open space carved out of what must once have been a central lobby.
Broken columns rise toward a ceiling long gone, sunlight filtering through in fractured beams. Zmaj gather along the edges, wings folded tight.
Humans stand clustered near reinforced walls, wary and watchful.
Conversation dies as we enter. Korr stops beside me, not in front, with.
Adran stands near the center, expression unreadable. His gaze moves from Korr to me and stills there a fraction longer. Two Zmaj are on his flanks.
These Zmaj wear loose robe like clothes that must have slits cut for their wings which are still exposed. The only Zmaj I’ve seen wear a shirt is Rosalind’s mate who was a leader of some faction or another. Are shirts a sign of leadership among Zmaj?
“You’ve been moving through our city,” he says, voice carrying without effort. “As if it might take you in.”
“It might,” I reply. “If you let it.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered Zmaj.
“And if it doesn’t?” the Zmaj on the left asks.
“Then it will break us,” I say calmly. “Like it’s breaking your people now.”
That draws attention. Sharpens it. Korr shifts slightly closer, not shielding me, but anchoring the space we occupy. A quiet, unmistakable signal. Adran studies us both. Then he exhales slowly.
“Then speak,” the other Zmaj says. “Tell us what you’ve brought into our city.”
“First, I would know your name,” I say. “Negotiations should be done amongst friends and allies. That is what we seek, after all.”
The two Zmaj look at each other over Adran’s head. He keeps his eyes on me and Korr, but a slight smile plays over his lips. That sense of knowing him tugs at my thoughts again but before I can contemplate it the Zmaj speak.
“I am Virn,” the one on the left says. “This is Syin. We speak for the Zmaj and as the caretakers of the humans whom we have brought into our protection.”
“I am Talia, a human too,” I say. “This is Korr. He is an Urr’ki.”
“A what?” Syin asks, frowning. He has golden eyes that seem to swirl in the filtered light.
“I am Urr’ki,” Korr announces loudly. “The First People of Tajss. Driven under her mighty skin by your kind generations ago, where we learned to survive in the dark. My people have now allied with others of your kind and returned to our rightful place on the surface.”
He speaks with only the barest hints of anger, but boatloads of pride and absolute certainty. The murmurs that race around the room fill the space. Wings flutter, tails twitch, and voices rise in disagreement. Virn raises a fist and in a moment all is silent again.
“A bold pronouncement,” Virn says.
“A dangerous one,” Syin adds, eyes never leaving Korr. “If it’s true.”
Korr inclines his head a fraction. Not agreement. Acknowledgment.
“Truth does not become less so because it unsettles,” he says evenly.
A ripple moves through the gathered Zmaj, not outrage but unease. Stories rarely survive contact with someone who refuses to perform the role assigned to them. Virn studies him for a long moment. Then his gaze shifts back to me.
“And you?” he asks. “What do you bring, human Talia?”
The phrasing is deliberate. Not who. What. I recognize the tactic instantly. Reduce me to a function. A liability. A bargaining chip. I don’t rise to it.
“I bring information,” I say. “And a choice.”
A few humans lean forward despite themselves. Hunger sharpens attention faster than fear.
“You are dying here,” I continue calmly. “Not all at once. Not dramatically. But steadily. Your people are rationing shade like currency. Water like it’s already gone. Your Zmaj protect as best they can, but without epis, human bodies fail faster on Tajss than will.”
A low murmur spreads among the humans now. One man bows his head. Another presses his palm to his chest as if steadying his breath.
Virn’s jaw tightens. “We know our limits.”
“Knowing them doesn’t change them,” I reply. “It only tells you how close you are to the edge.”
Syin steps forward a pace, wings rustling. “And you think you can solve this?”
“No,” I say immediately. “I think we can.”
That word hangs there. We.
Korr doesn’t look at me, but I feel the shift in him. He stands as if he’s always been meant to be here, exactly where he is, even as the room subtly recalibrates around that certainty.
“You arrive unannounced. You walk our streets. You speak of alliances and salvation. And you expect trust?” Virn asks, folding his arms over his broad chest.
“I expect scrutiny,” I say. “That’s why I’m standing here.”
Silence follows. Heavy. Intentional. Then one of the humans speaks. An older man, voice thin but steady.
“You said epis.”
Every head turns. I nod.
“We have a supply. It’s the reason our camp can work in daylight. Why our human children aren’t burning from the inside out.”
A sharp intake of breath ripples through the humans. Hope flares again, brighter this time. More dangerous. Virn’s gaze snaps back to Korr.
“And you,” Virn says. “What do you bring, Urr’ki?”
The question is loaded. This is where a Zmaj would speak of strength. Of territory. Of protection offered in exchange for loyalty. Korr does none of that.
“I bring no claim,” he says. “No demand. No treasure taken.”
That word sparks immediate reaction. Several Zmaj shift, wings flexing.
“Every Zmaj claims,” Syin says flatly.
Korr meets his gaze without flinching. “That is where we differ.”
A murmur breaks loose. Louder as tails lash. One Zmaj laughs under his breath, sharp and disbelieving. Virn raises his fist again. Silence snaps back into place.
“You protect humans,” Virn says slowly. “Yet you do not claim them. You stand beside this one”—his eyes flick to me—“but do not name her yours. You speak of alliances without dominance. You expect us to believe this is strength?”
Korr turns his head, just enough to look at me. He does not touch me. He does not step in front of me. He does not speak for me.
He simply says, “Ask her.”
The room stills. Every gaze swings to me. Human. Zmaj. Curious. Suspicious. Measuring. My heart beats once. Hard. Steady. This is the moment the room expects me to shrink. Or to cling. Or to defer.
I don’t.
“He does not claim me,” I say clearly. “Because I am not something to be claimed. He stands with me because I choose to stand with him. Every day. Even when it costs.”
A sharp breath escapes somewhere behind me. Virn’s eyes narrow, not with anger, but calculation.
“Interesting,” he says. “And costly choices tend to leave marks.”
“Yes,” I agree. “They do.”
For a moment, I think that might be it. The fulcrum. The point where the room tips one way or another. Then a voice rises from the human cluster near the reinforced wall. Low. Familiar.
“Talia?”
The sound of my name in that voice is like a hand closing around my spine. The room fades. The light fractures. Memory surges so fast it steals my breath. I don’t turn yet. I don’t have to. I know exactly who has just stepped forward.