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.
