Rosalind’s fingers curl against the stone table.
“There may be something,” Rosalind says.
The chamber shifts around the words. Hunger leaning toward hope. I hate it immediately. Hope makes people careless.
Ila’s voice is low. “You withheld this?”
“No,” Rosalind says. “We protected it.”
“From us?”
“From everyone who will come for it.”
The old stone chamber seems to grow smaller. Even the air feels hungrier.
Marut’s voice turns cold. “What are you talking about?”
Rosalind looks at the Zmaj warrior. He gives one small nod. Then she looks back at us.
“Epis,” she says.
3
SERA
No one speaks for several breaths after Rosalind says the word.
Epis.
The chamber stills around it. The Zmaj go motionless in that unnerving way they have when every instinct narrows toward a single point. Virn’s wings shift once before settling tight again. Syin’s gold eyes sharpen.
Marut looks openly suspicious. I understand the reaction, if not the meaning. I don’t know the word, but the room reacts to it like someone opened a sealed chamber full of water in the middle of a drought. Rosalind braces both palms against the stone table.
No one explains the word. That’s how I know the word matters.
The people who understand it go still. The people who don’t look around, waiting for someone important to decide whether we’re allowed to ask.
“You had no right to say that here,” Syin says.
“Your people are starving in the same room as mine. Secrets don’t feed them,” Rosalind says.
“Some secrets keep armies away,” Syin says.
The words move through the chamber like a blade drawn slowly enough for everyone to see the edge. Virn doesn’t contradict him, which matters. Adran doesn’t either. That matters more.
The City Zmaj behind them lower their eyes. Not in submission. In discipline. Their wings stay close, claws still, every line of them held tight as carved stone. Whatever this is, it isn’t only information. It’s a rule. A silence they’ve all stood behind for so long they’ve mistaken it for shelter.
I curl my fingers against the edge of the table.
I’m tired of rooms where knowledge is treated like water. Measured. Hoarded. Handed out only when someone important decides thirst has become useful.
“Armies are already moving,” Rosalind says, lifting her chin.
The chamber tightens, but not with surprise. With recognition.
What? Armies? Who is moving?
Fear flutters in my stomach, sending cold chills over my skin. Syin’s wings flare, just a fraction, before he snaps them back tight against his body.
