Chapter 34 Talia
TALIA
Korr and I are summoned back to another meeting. This time the children come along with us. Rverre is humming as we follow our escort, which I hope is a good sign. Her connection to this planet is mystical and strange, but wholly undeniable.
When we enter the chamber it feels different. It’s not hostile, but also not welcoming. There’s a measured air, an underlying tension. My shoulders knot in anticipation. We need this to go well. I can’t help but think about all the survivors, human, Zmaj, and Urr’ki, that are counting on us.
The Zmaj do not perch along the walls as they did before.
They stand. Wings folded, but not tight.
Humans cluster nearer the center than they had yesterday, though they still keep to the shade lines carved by the broken ceiling above.
The light slices the space into gold and shadow, and everyone has chosen their position carefully.
Korr stands beside me and that alone draws glances.
Virn steps forward first. Syin remains to his left. Adran stands among the humans, no longer acting as translator but as representative. The separation is deliberate.
“You have given us much to consider,” Virn begins. His voice carries easily through the fractured lobby. “Epis. Structural reinforcement. Fresh blood and an alliance with those who call themselves Urr’ki.”
A murmur moves through the room.
“You ask to bring more into our city,” Syin adds. “More humans. More mouths. More… history.”
He does not say more Urr’ki, but he doesn’t need to.
“We ask to survive,” I say, lifting my chin. “Separately, we will all fade. Together, we might not.”
One of the older Zmaj shifts, tail lashing once against stone.
“Might,” he repeats.
“Yes,” I say. “Nothing on Tajss is guaranteed.”
Virn studies me. “You speak as if this city is already yours.”
“It isn’t,” I answer evenly. “Not mine, but it could be ours.”
Syin’s golden eyes slide to Korr.
“And what of him?”
There it is. The room stills again.
“He claims to be First People,” Syin continues. “Driven beneath the skin of Tajss by our ancestors. Stories of such creatures exist in our oldest records.”
“Monsters,” another Zmaj mutters.
“Child-stealers,” someone else says.
Illadon stiffens. Korr does not. Virn lifts his hand for quiet but does not fully silence them. He wants the tension visible.
“In those stories,” Virn says slowly, “old enough to be myth, the First People did not negotiate. They took. They dragged Zmaj below and fed the stone with our bones.” His gaze locks on Korr. “You expect us to believe they are not true? That you are not the same?”
The words are out and now the room waits. Anticipating either submission or violence. Korr offers neither. He steps forward, one pace. He’s not aggressive, carefully neutral in his stance, holding Virn’s gaze without being challenging.
“I am not my ancestors,” he says. His voice is low, but it does not tremble.
“And neither are you.” A ripple of displeasure passes over the assembly.
He continues anyway. “You speak of stories. So will I. Your kind drove mine beneath the surface. We learned to survive without sun. Without sky. Without mercy.”
His gaze moves across the gathered Zmaj. Some meet his look with a challenge, others drop their eyes, unable to hold his.
“We could have remained below and waited for your decline. Instead, we rose.”
“To what?” Syin challenges.
“To stand,” Korr answers simply.
Silence again. Virn’s eyes narrow slightly.
“And these children?”
He gestures toward Illadon and Rverre.
“You arrived with hybrid offspring,” he continues. “Zmaj blood. Human blood. Urr’ki standing guard. You ask us to believe this is coincidence?”
The implication hangs heavy. Korr doesn’t look at the children or at me. He looks directly at Virn.
“If you wish to accuse me,” he says calmly, “do so plainly.”
The tension in the room spikes, tightening like a chokehold. A younger looking Zmaj steps forward, his hands clenched into fists, muscles trembling.
“You arrived with them,” he snaps. “Their parents are not here. You claim alliance. How do we know you did not kill and take?”
The accusation echoes. Illadon’s breath catches. Rverre’s wings flare once before she clamps them tight. The humans murmur uneasily.
Korr shifts his gaze to the accuser. He does not reach for his blade or bare his teeth. Instead he steps aside, motioning with one hand to Illadon and Rverre.
“Ask them.”
The entire chamber shifts as all eyes move to Illadon and Rverre. Korr doesn’t defend himself. He gives the truth room to stand on its own. Virn watches this closely. Syin frowns.
No Zmaj expects a possessive male to yield the floor like that. The accusation lingers in the air, but something fundamental has already cracked. Korr has not claimed or dominated. He has trusted and the room feels it. Virn speaks again, slower now.
“You would stake your standing on their word?”
“Yes,” Korr says without any hesitation.
The chamber falls into a silence thick enough to press against skin. The silence stretches.
I feel it building—the weight of it turning toward the children like a blade seeking the softest place to land. I step in to cut it off, to shield them from an accusation that has nothing to do with them.
“They were—” I say, but a sharp voice cuts across the chamber.
“Let them speak.” It isn’t Virn or Syin. It’s one of the elder Zmaj along the perimeter, his scales dulled with age but his gaze bright and unsparing. “You claim they are proof,” he continues, looking at me, not unkindly but firmly. “Then let proof answer.”
Heat rushes to my face as I curl my hands into fists. Every protective instinct I possess screams to intervene—to spare Illadon the weight of this room, to spare Rverre the scrutiny.
A small hand touches my arm and I look down.
Rverre stares with her wide emerald eyes overflowing with empathy, kindness, and a wisdom that is so far beyond her years. Her fingers are cool and steady against my skin. She shakes her head once.
She’s not defiant and there isn’t a hint of fear.
She is certain. She knows. I swallow hard and step back.
Illadon feels the shift in space. The way the room tilts toward him.
He inhales slowly, squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin just enough to claim height he hasn’t fully grown into yet and steps forward.
He stops between Korr and me.
“My parents are alive,” he says, voice rich and clear, carrying to every person present.
In this moment I see the leader he will be, not the child he is. A ripple moves through the chamber. Several Zmaj exchange glances.
“They lead our people,” Illadon continues, voice steady, shoulders squared. “If Korr had harmed them, I would not stand here.” The younger Zmaj who made the accusation shifts, unsettled. “Korr didn’t take us. He came to help us. This mission to find this city, to find you, is ours.”
He rests his hand on Rverre’s shoulder.
Rverre steps forward with him, standing at his side. Her wings remain folded, but her chin lifts, eyes bright in the fractured light.
“We were not carried here,” she says softly, though the chamber still hears her. “I was called.”
Illadon nods, backing her without hesitation. A ripple rushes through the chamber, background murmurs rising to almost shouts before fading as Syin raises a clenched fist.
“Called?” Syin repeats, the word edged with skepticism.
Rverre doesn’t flinch.
“The ground,” she says. “The city. Tajss herself.” Her gaze drifts briefly to the broken ceiling where light spills in, then returns to the gathered Zmaj. “This place is not finished. It is waiting.”
A few wings rustle uneasily, tails drag across the floor. Illadon’s voice cuts cleanly through the tension.
“We chose to come,” he says. “Not because he told us to.” He jerks his chin toward Korr. “Not because anyone forced us.” His hand remains steady on Rverre’s shoulder. “Korr stood with us. Followed us.”
The younger Zmaj who made the accusation shifts, jaw tight.
“You expect us to trust the word of children?” he challenges.
Illadon meets his gaze without hesitation.
“I expect you to recognize the truth when it stands in front of you,” he replies.
A low murmur moves through the humans. Rverre’s voice softens, but it does not weaken.
“If he meant harm,” she says, eyes sweeping the chamber, “the ground would recoil. It does not.”
Several Zmaj glance instinctively toward the floor, as if they might feel it for themselves. Syin folds his arms.
“You speak of the ground as if it favors you,” he says.
Rverre tilts her head slightly.
“It favors balance,” she answers.
Illadon steps half a pace forward now, no longer anchored by her but aligned.
“We are not trophies,” he says, the word deliberate. “We are not treasure to be claimed or displayed.”
A few Zmaj bristle at that, tails lashing once.
“We are human and Zmaj,” he continues. “We are the best of both and we stand here alive because people chose to protect us without owning us.”
His gaze flicks briefly to me, then to Korr.
“He did not steal us,” Illadon says. “He came when we asked for help. And he stayed when it was dangerous.”
Silence stretches but it no longer feels hostile. The people are considering. Virn studies the two of them for a long moment.
“You speak as if the future is already decided,” he says slowly.
Rverre’s emerald eyes glow faintly in the fractured light.
“It isn’t,” she replies. “That’s why you’re afraid.”
A sharp intake of breath moves through the chamber. Illadon doesn’t move away from her.
“We are the future of Tajss,” he says, voice steady and unyielding. “Whether you make room for it or not.”
The weight of that settles over the gathering.
Illadon doesn’t say it like a challenge. He doesn’t bare his teeth or puff himself larger than he is. He says it the way stone exists — solid, unarguable.
Whether they make room for it or not.
That is what steals my breath. This isn’t a rebellion, it’s a becoming.
A tremor moves through me, not fear or grief. This is something fuller. For years I held the mostly buried belief that my worth was measured by what I could not give. By the absence of a future that would never carry my blood.
But blood is not the only thing that builds a future.
I have taught them. I have held the line when they were small. I have shown them how to stand when the world tried to break them.
Illadon stands taller than he did yesterday. Rverre’s wings catch the fractured light and do not tremble. They do not look borrowed from anyone. They look earned.
Pride floods my thoughts, lifting my heart. I glance sideways and see Korr is watching them; then his eyes shift to me. There is no question in his gaze, only an absolute certainty.
“Dragoste,” he whispers, but he might as well shout it from the highest roofs of this new city.
He’s not claiming a future; he’s choosing it. Choosing us.
Something shifts and I see that I am not smaller for loving him. It doesn’t diminish me to stand beside him. Accepting him, choosing him, I am more.
Whatever storms Tajss sends, whatever wars or reckonings rise from this fragile alliance, these children will meet them standing. And we will stand with them, not as conquerors, but as something the world cannot break.
“Bold statements,” Syin says.
“True statements,” Illadon counters. “You are Zmaj. My father is a mighty warrior and has taught me. I know the pride of being a male. Of forcing the world to bend to your will. But I also know that Zmaj exist in tune with Tajss herself.”
“All of us are, to one degree or another,” Rverre says softly. “If you listen.”
“Right!” Illadon says, his voice cracking. He coughs, clearing his throat, his face flushing with embarrassment. Syin and Virn smile, but do not comment showing restraint and understanding.
“The choice is yours,” I say, stepping up again. “We do not wish conflict, but we need help. You clearly need help too. We will bring many warriors who will not only provide for our own, but for all.”
“Our people will not be forgotten? Overriden?” Virn asks.
“My dad would never allow that,” Illadon says.
“Or mine. Or our mothers,” Rverre says.
“We have a ruling Council,” I say. “Humans, Zmaj, and Urr’ki are all represented.
I am certain that your leaders would be welcomed.
I do not serve on it, but I can imagine how hard it has been to find balance with all the different factions and species they oversee.
It cannot be impossible to integrate your people. ”
Virn looks at Syin. Something passes between them without words, but an understanding is reached.
“We will welcome your people,” they say in unison. “There will be debates and discussions, but that is for later. For now, let us celebrate a finding of lost brethren and a renewal of hope for a brighter tomorrow. Tonight, let us give thanks to Tajss.”
Korr takes a step closer and offers his hand. Surprised I stare at it for a heartbeat for clasping it in mine.
“Tajss provides,” Rverre says and the words echo around the chamber, being picked up and repeated by many of those assembled.