He pauses. “Why?”
“Because I’m a diplomat. Because understanding is the first step toward peace.” I pause. “And because I want to understand you.”
The last part is more honest than I intended. But it’s true. I want to know what made him. What shaped the man who saved an enemy’s life despite every reason not to.
He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. Then: “We’re dying.”
The bluntness of it catches me off guard. “What?”
“The Deep Runners. Every generation, we grow smaller. Weaker. Genetic bottlenecks, declining birth rates, old sicknesses returning because our healers have forgotten how to treat them.” His jaw tightens. “Caspian isn’t wrong about everything. We are dying. He’s just wrong about the solution.”
“He thinks isolating further will protect you.”
“He thinks drowning the surface world will give us room to expand. Space to survive.” Torin looks at me, and I see the conflict written in every line of his face. “And part of me understands it. When you’re watching your people fade away, when every choice seems to lead to death—violence starts to look like the only option.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” The admission sounds like it costs him. “I believed isolation would protect us. That the surface world was poison. That keeping our borders closed was the only way to preserve what makes us Deep Runners.” He gestures between us. “And then you fell from the sky, and everything I thought I knew became—complicated.”
I understand that feeling. The ground shifting beneath your feet, certainty crumbling into questions. I’ve built my whole identity around being controlled, diplomatic, careful. And now there’s this bond pulling me toward chaos and connection and a future I never planned for.
“Tell me about your traditions,” I say. “What do the Deep Runners value? What would you want to preserve if the borders opened?”
He looks surprised by the question. Like no one’s ever asked him that before. “Water rituals,” he says slowly. “When a child is born, we release bubbles into the current—one for each year we hope they’ll live. When someone dies, we weight their body with river stones so they become part of the riverbed.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“We trade in pearls and aquatic plants. Our healers know medicines the surface has forgotten. We can read currents like you read the wind—sensing weather patterns days before they arrive, finding safe passage through floods and rapids.” His voice has warmed, animated by pride. “We have songs that carry through water for miles. Stories passed down for generations about the first Deep Runners who chose the river over the land.”
I listen, and I hear what he’s really saying: we are more than isolation and fear. We are a people with beauty and wisdom and value. Don’t erase us in the name of integration.
“The Alliance doesn’t want to erase you,” I say gently. “It wants to learn from you. To share what you have and offer what it can in return.”
“And what happens when what we offer isn’t enough? When the surface decides our traditions are primitive, our ways outdated?” His eyes meet mine. “Integration is a pretty word for assimilation, Zara. You take a little from us, we take a little from you, and eventually there’s nothing left that makes us different.”
“Or,” I counter, “we share what makes us unique and become richer for it. The Alliance isn’t about creating sameness. It’s about creating space where difference can thrive without conflict.”
“Pretty words.” But there’s less bite in it than before.
“True words.” I lean forward as much as my bound hands allow. “I’ve seen it work, Torin. Storm Eagles and earth-bound clans. Fire-wielders and ice-shapers. Species that should have destroyed each other finding ways to coexist. It’s messy and imperfect and requires constant negotiation—but it works.”
He’s quiet, considering. Then: “You really believe that.”
“I do.”
“Even now? Even after we shot you down and I tied you up and dragged you through tunnels that nearly broke you?”
“Especially now.” I hold his gaze. “Because despite all of that, you’re still taking me to someone who can judge fairly. Because you saved my life when you could have let me die. Because you’re questioning orders you were raised to follow without hesitation.” The bond pulses, urging truth. “And because I think you want the same thing I do—a future where your people don’t have to choose between survival and isolation.”
Something in his expression cracks. Not breaking. Opening. Like I’ve said something he’s been thinking but couldn’t admit.
“My sister,” he says quietly, “she used to ask me about the surface. About the sky. She wanted to see it so badly it consumed her.” He swallows hard. “I told her it was dangerous. That curiosity would kill her. And then it did.”
“You didn’t kill her, Torin.”
“I didn’t save her either.”
“Could you have? Really?” I keep my voice gentle. “If your healers didn’t know how to treat surface sickness, if isolation meant you had no one to ask for help—what could you have done differently?”
