“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, hornsswept 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.
