And as the Zmaj guide us deeper into the heart of the city, I realize with a cold, sinking certainty that we didn’t stumble into their home. We walked into their last chance.
The place they bring us to isn’t a hall or a fortress. It’s a courtyard.
Once, it might have been open to the sky, framed by tall residential structures on three sides and a broader civic building on the fourth. Now it’s been partially roofed with scavenged panels and reinforced beams, creating a layered canopy that lets light in without exposing what’s beneath. This is where they gather.
People are already there when we arrive. Humans sitting on overturned stone and stacked crates. Zmaj standing near theedges, wings folded, bodies angled outward like living walls. Every conversation stops as we step into view.
The silence isn’t hostile. It’s reverent. It settles over us, heavy and strange. The weight of being seen after too long being alone. Adran steps forward, guiding us into the center without touching. His presence carries authority, but it’s worn thin at the edges. Leadership shaped by loss rather than conquest.
“These are the scouts I told you about,” he says to the gathered group. “They are survivors too.”
A murmur ripples through the humans. Not fear. Recognition.
“We thought there were no others,” someone says quietly.
“There are,” I reply before I think better of it. “Enough.”
Enough to matter. Enough to change the math.
Korr shifts. I feel the heat of him, the steadiness. He’s watching the Zmaj more than the humans, reading posture and spacing, counting weapons. Illadon straightens unconsciously. Rverre steps closer to him, small hand curling into his sleeve. That’s when I see it clearly. The ages.
Most of the humans here are older than I am. Not elderly, but worn. Faces lined too early. Movements careful. I scan instinctively for children and find none. More, I don’t see any with wings. None with the subtle, impossible grace that marks Rverre as something new.
The Zmaj are every bit as bad. Scaled hides dulled. Wings scarred. Horns chipped or broken. Strong still, but tired in a way that doesn’t heal. Adran watches me notice.
“You see it,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I reply. “Where are your young?”
A pause stretches. No one looks away.
“We don’t have any,” a woman says from the edge of the circle. Her voice is steady, but her hands tremble where they rest on her knees. “Not anymore.”
Another human speaks. “The ones born after the crash didn’t survive long.”
A Zmaj adds, blunt and unsoftened. “Our bloodlines are failing.”
The words land like a hammer. I look at Illadon. At Rverre. At the way the Zmaj’s gazes keep drifting back to them as if drawn by gravity.
“You’ve never bonded across species,” I say slowly.
Adran nods. “We didn’t know it was possible.”
Silence again. Thicker now. Rverre shifts, discomfort rolling off her in waves.
“They’re hurting,” she whispers. “The city knows.”
Korr finally speaks, his voice low and measured.
“You’ve been surviving in a closed system.”
“Yes,” Adran says. “And systems like that always collapse.”
Illadon steps forward before I can stop him. He doesn’t brandish his weapon. Doesn’t puff himself up. He simply stands where everyone can see him.
“We’re not broken,” he says. “We’re still here.”
The words are simple. Unpolished. And they hit harder than any speech could. One of the Zmaj exhales sharply. Another turns away, shoulders shaking once before he stills. Hope is a dangerous thing. Adran looks at me again, eyes searching.
