“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 thinkwecan.”
That word hangs there.We.
