“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 knowdragoste. 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.
