“Never heard of your kind,” he says, laughing so hard that he seems to struggle to remain upright.
“First born?” the Zmaj behind us says, laughing too.
Adran stands, not taking his eyes off of mine. He frowns, slight, but distinct.
“It seems we have much to discuss,” Adran says. “Perhaps you would join us in a more conducive location?”
I look from him to the Zmaj. No matter how nicely he’s couching his words, the intent is clear. This isn’t a request.
“Yes, we will,” I say, stepping in before Korr can protest.
He stiffens at my acceptance. He hesitates, then slides his sword away and nods his agreement.
27
TALIA
They don’t bind us.
That’s the first thing I notice once the decision is made and we’re moved forward—not shoved, not herded, not surrounded in the way captives are. Two more leap from the roofs and the Zmaj reposition. Two ahead. Two behind. Others above, silhouettes along broken ledges and half-roofs, wings folded tight, bodies still. Watching without spectacle. Adran walks next to Korr and me. The children walk in front of us.
The city opens in layers as we move deeper. Not wide avenues anymore, but intentional paths clean of sand. Stone reinforced where it shouldn’t be. Beams shored up instead of stripped. Whoever lives here didn’t tear the city apart to survive. They learned how to live inside what remained.
Korr stays just behind my shoulder, close enough that I feel him when the ground shifts under my bad ankle. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t offer support unless I falter enough that it becomes unavoidable. It’s restraint, not distance. The kind that says I’m here without announcing it. I appreciate it even as I hate that I need it.
I don’t know if we’re in trouble or not. I do know that if we are, I’m not going to be of much help.
Other people come into view gradually. Not crowds. Small clusters tucked into shadowed doorways and recessed floors. Faces turn as we pass. Human faces. Zmaj faces. All of them older than I expect. There are no children darting between legs. No reckless movement. No laughter.
My stomach tightens.
Illadon notices too. His stride shortens. Rverre’s wings draw in tighter against her back, posture folding inward as if she’s bracing against something heavy in the air. They’re watching the kids. Not like threats. Like miracles.
We enter what looks like an open air market that’s been transformed into something communal. Storage along the walls. Makeshift bedding stacked neatly. Water containers sealed and labeled. Careful handwriting. Planning. I catch snippets of murmured speech, low and restrained, as if sound itself is rationed here.
“These people are tired,” I murmur, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud.
“Yes,” Korr replies quietly. “But not chaotic.”
Chaos would mean desperation. Violence. Collapse. This is endurance. The kind that grinds things down slowly and pretends that’s the same as survival.
Rverre stumbles—not a fall, just a hitch in her step—and a nearby Zmaj moves instantly to steady her before stopping himself short, eyes flicking to Illadon. Illadon reacts just as fast, stepping in, hand firm and certain.
The Zmaj’s expression isn’t hard to read. It’s awe and hope.
Rverre leans closer to me as we walk, her voice barely more than breath.
“They’re… thinning.”
My throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes stay fixed ahead.
“They’re not growing. They’re holding. That’s all.”
Holding on until there’s nothing left to hold.
They lead us through the market and out another street. Leading us between taller structures that block the wind. The quiet presses in. I feel the weight of it in my chest, in the way every step seems to matter more here. Whatever this place is, it isn’t just a refuge.
