“You’ve done something different,” he says. “Haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer. “And it saved us.”
Korr’s hand brushes mine then. Brief. Grounding. I realize that whatever happens next, there’s no going back to the canyon unchanged.
Because this city isn’t just ruins. It’s a crossroads. And standing in its heart, surrounded by people who are running out of time, I understand with terrifying clarity that Illadon and Rverre aren’t just children here. They’re proof. And proof has a way of demanding action.
28
TALIA
The crowd thins without ceremony.
One moment we’re surrounded by too many bodies, too many voices speaking at once, and the next the space opens in a way that feels deliberate. Controlled. Adran gives a few quiet instructions, gestures exchanged between the Zmaj and the humans, and suddenly we are no longer part of the whole.
“Just a short walk,” Adran says, already turning. “There are things better explained away from… curiosity.”
I don’t miss the way several eyes linger on us as we move. Assessing. Measuring how we fit into a place that has survived by deciding very carefully who belongs.
Korr shifts half a step closer as we follow. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t need to. The presence alone steadies something unhelpful in my chest.
The route Adran chooses avoids open spans. We move along shaded corridors formed by leaning buildings and reinforced walkways that bridge gaps overhead. Cloth screens are stretched between stone pillars where sunlight would otherwise spillthrough, turning bright gold into muted amber. The air is cooler, but it smells… thin. Stale.
I notice the humans first.
They move differently than the ones in our camp. Slower. More deliberate. When they cross open patches of light, they hurry, heads down, skin already flushed and tight with strain. One man stumbles stepping from shadow into sun, knees buckling just enough that a Zmaj’s hand shoots out to steady him before he can fall.
No one comments on it. No one needs to.
Illadon notices too. I see it in the way his gaze lingers, the way his jaw tightens. Rverre drifts closer to him, wings tucked tight, posture drawn inward. She isn’t humming. She hasn’t since we entered the denser part of the city.
“How long have you been here?” I ask quietly.
Adran doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s without looking back.
“Long enough to learn what not to waste.”
My stomach knots as we pass a cluster of structures that might be living spaces. Windows are sealed from the inside. Doorways narrowed. Reflective panels placed to bounce light away rather than invite it in. Survival architecture. Nothing is built for comfort and not a sign of hope.
A woman sits just inside one of the shaded entries, back against stone, eyes closed. Her breathing is shallow. Her skin has a brittle look to it, stretched too tight over bone. She opens her eyes as we pass, tracking us with quiet curiosity and resignation.
“She needs epis,” I say before I can stop myself.
Adran’s stride falters. Just barely.
“The Zmaj have talked about it, but we don’t have it,” he replies.
“You never found any?” I ask.
“No.” He exhales. “We tried substitutes. Compounds. Altered rations. Nothing works the way it should.” A pause. “Your people have adapted better than ours.”
Korr makes a low sound in his chest.
“That’s why you stay in the shade,” I say.
“Yes,” Adran answers. “And why some of us don’t go out at all anymore.”
I think of our camp. Of children running between shade rigs. Of epis rations measured carefully but present. Of complaints I’ve heard that now feel obscene. Illadon’s hand curls into a fist at his side. Rverre’s gaze drifts outward, unfocused, as if she’s listening to something beneath the words.
