Korr steps forward, placing himself half a pace ahead of us. His blade remains low, visible but not aggressive. A deliberate choice.
“We didn’t know this place was occupied,” he says, projecting calm without submission. “We’re scouts. Nothing more.”
One of the Zmaj tilts his head, studying him with open curiosity. His gaze flicks to Illadon. To Rverre. Then to me where it lingers. The second Zmaj speaks, his voice rough but controlled.
“You walked like you belonged.”
“That’s survival,” I say before I can stop myself.
Korr’s hand twitches, a silent warning, but it’s too late. The Zmaj’s eyes shift back to me, narrowing.
“Human,” he says, not an accusation, an assessment.
Above us, more shapes shift, wings flexing. Ready to respond. A test.
“We’re not here to take anything,” I add, forcing my voice steady. “We’re looking for shelter. For people who need it.”
A pause stretches. The Zmaj exchange a glance I can’t read. Then, from somewhere higher up, a different voice cuts through the tension.
“Enough.”
The word is spoken in Common. I stop, blinking and shaking my head. Korr growls, raising his blade, but I step forward, putting a hand on his arm.
The voice is human. Male. Older. Carried with authority that doesn’t need volume.
A hooded figure emerges from behind the hulking Zmaj blocking the alley, stepping around him and coming to a stop three paces in front of him. My heart is in my throat; my hand trembles, but I take a deep breath trying to calm my anxiety.
“Who are you?” I ask, voice trembling.
The figure takes hold of the hood hiding his face and lifts it, slowly pulling it back to reveal once coal black hair now streaked with gray. His face is gaunt, but his eyes are dark and piercing and locked onto me.
“I am Adran,” he says, his voice a rich baritone that seems to echo off the walls around us.
I blink, struggling with that sense of something I know I’m not remembering, but should. Something more than a humansurvivor who isn’t part of the survivors we know of. Other humans survived the crash of the generation ship, which is revelation enough.
“I’m… uhm… I… sorry, Talia. I’m Talia,” I say, struggling to form cohesive thoughts.
Korr places his hand on the small of my back. An intimate touch in most circumstances, but in this moment it’s supportive. Supportive and very much needed.
“I apologize for the display,” Adran says. “We cannot be too cautious.”
“You’re… human,” Illadon says, stepping forward.
“I am,” Adran says, crouching so he’s eye level with Illadon. His dark eyes move up and down, looking Illadon carefully over. There is curiosity in his look that I cannot miss. He seems to recognize Illadon’s half-breed nature. “And you are?”
“I am Illadon,” he says, pride ringing in his words.
“My pleasure, Illadon,” Adran says, offering a hand in the human style.
Illadon, being half-human, stretches out his own hand and takes it.
“We did not mean to trespass,” Korr says, calling all of our attention back to him. “But we have survivors who need shelter.”
“What are you?” one of the Zmaj asks.
“I am of the First People,” Korr says, his voice dropping half an octave, so low it feels as if it rumbles in my chest. “I am an Urr’ki. First Born of Tajss.”
The Zmaj arches an eyebrow then snorts as he bursts out laughing.
