His mouth tightens. He almost says something. Then a voice from inside the chamber cuts through the thick air.
“This is not integration. This is managed starvation.”
Rosalind. I know her voice, though I have only spoken to her twice. She sounds like someone used to having exhaustion obey her. Firm. Controlled. Frayed at the edges, but refusing to split.
Marut steps into the chamber and I follow.
The council chamber was once something else. A receiving hall, maybe, or a place of record. Old grooves line the walls in patterns no human understands and the Zmaj haven’t botheredexplaining. A long stone table dominates the center, worn smooth by generations of hands, maps, blades, bowls, and grief.
Today it’s crowded. Too crowded.
City authority gathers on one side of the table. Adran stands at the center, gaunt as any of us, his black hair gone mostly salt at the temples. He has the worn-down look of a man hunger has not managed to make small. When people argue, their eyes still cut to him before they decide how loud to become. Near him are Marut, Dannel, and Ila, the people who keep the ledgers, the water counts, and the ration routes from collapsing.
Behind them, separate but not subordinate, stand the two Zmaj co-leaders: Virn and Syin. Virn watches the room with measured patience, his expression unreadable but not hostile. Syin stands half a step back from him, wings held tighter, gaze cutting often toward the newcomers, the Urr’ki column on the slate, and the Cavern Zmaj behind Rosalind.
Across from them stand the newcomers’ Council.
Rosalind stands at the center. Human. Older than some of the others, younger than the weight in her eyes. Beside her, a tall Zmaj warrior with folded wings and a face carved into controlled patience. Another human woman with one arm wrapped in bandages. And the man from the lower chamber, the scar through his eyebrow. Of course he’s here.
Behind their group stands another Zmaj. Different from the City Zmaj entirely. Duskier scales. Heavier claws, dark and thick enough to score stone. A Cavern Zmaj, if the whispers are true. One of the underground ones. The ones who lived beneath Tajss so long the dark remade them.
The room smells of hot stone, old dust, bodies, and argument.
Rosalind turns when I enter. So does everyone else. I hate that more than hunger. Marut gestures toward me.
“Sera keeps lower distribution routes and auxiliary ration counts.”
Not, Sera knows the people. Not, Sera has carried half your sick to shade chambers. Not, Sera has not eaten today. A function. A use. A number with legs.
Fine. Functions persist longer than feelings.
Rosalind’s gaze softens when it lands on the empty basket in my hand, so I shift it behind my hip, but too late to avoid her notice.
“We’re not here to accuse your people,” she says.
I don’t answer since there’s no question. That is a Council sentence if I have ever heard one. Smooth on the surface. Built to cross dangerous ground without stepping on obvious bones.
“You are doing exactly that,” Ila says, making a small scoffing sound.
“I am saying the current distribution cannot hold,” Rosalind says, turning to her.
“We are aware,” Dannel says.
“Then change it,” Rosalind says.
A silence follows. Not shocked. Hungry.
Ila places her palms on the stone table. Her fingers are thin, knotted, and steady.
“Outsiders say that as if change is a sealed chamber we have refused to open.”
“We’re not outsiders. We’re survivors,” the scarred man says through gritted teeth.
“So are we,” Ila says.
The Zmaj warrior beside Rosalind shifts, one clawed hand flexing once before stilling. Every City guard in the room pretends not to notice. I notice. Zmaj make stillness look dangerous. Humans make it look like dying.
Rosalind draws in a breath.
