I lie back slowly, carefully, staring up at the broken ceiling where stars blink through jagged gaps. The city looms around us, vast and watchful, a graveyard of lives and choices and unfinished endings.
Somewhere between one breath and the next, I realize the truth I’ve been circling all night. This place was waiting for him. And for me. For us. And whatever we’re about to become together, whether I’m ready for it or not.
25
KORR
The temperature shifts as we step outside. I stand still, letting my eyes and instincts recalibrate.
The suns are still low, first light slanting across broken stone and metal. There are remnants of an old street beneath the sand, compacted and uneven. The wind behaves strangely here, funneling between structures and carrying sound farther than it should before swallowing it whole. I mark that. Sound discipline will matter.
Behind me, Talia adjusts her stance carefully, favoring her damaged ankle, but she’s upright on her own. She doesn’t comment on the pain and I give her the respect of not asking. Illadon and Rverre flank her. We fan out just enough to see without breaking cohesion.
“It’s different than Draconov,” Illadon says.
“What is that word?” I ask.
Illadon gives me a look of confusion, but Talia intervenes.
“The last city here on Tajss we lived in,” she says. “Illadon and Rverre were born there, before we had to set off the bomb to repel the Invaders. Before the bunker. Before… we met your kind.”
I nod, unsure what to say. She has had much life before I met her. Falling from the stars, crashing onto Tajss, and all that happened to her and her kind. The humans have been a catalyst for change on the planet. Without them, we Urr’ki would still be under the ground, under the thumb of the Shaman. Our Queen would not be returned. Odds are great I would be dead by now.
“You’ve never seen a city?” Illadon asks.
“Not like this,” I say.
He nods thoughtfully.
“Draconov was my dad’s city. He owned it. Ruled it,” he stand straighter, shoulders squared, head tilted back with pride.
“He is a good warrior,” I agree, not willing to argue with a son who is proud of his father.
“The best,” Illadon says with a sharp nod.
I grunt, feeling no need for further response.
“This is a lot different,” Talia says quietly, scanning the skyline. “It’s spread out in what looks like districts.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Which means routes. And choke points.”
Illadon nods, eyes tracking upward. “And places to get trapped.”
“Or protected,” Talia counters.
Both are true. That’s the problem.
I move another few steps forward, stopping where a collapsed roadway slopes down into shadow. I don’t descend. I study the angles, the way debris has settled. Nothing fresh. No signs of recent disturbance. Time has done its work here slowly, not violently.
Rverre crouches, pressing her palm to exposed stone. She doesn’t hum. That absence tells me more than sound would.
“It remembers,” she says after a moment. “People. It’s calling.”
“Meaning?” Illadon asks.
Rverre doesn’t answer right away. That alone raises my alertness. I strain every sense out, trying to see everything at once, while also maintaining a calm exterior. I do not want to alarm them, no matter the way the back of my neck itches and it feels as if we’re being watched.
Rverre remains crouched, palm pressed flat to the exposed stone, eyes unfocused. Her wings twitch once, then still. Illadon watches her closely, posture coiled, ready.
