Page 39 of Orc's Redemption

Do they think war is so simple? That it will end in a single battle, a decisive strike? The Shaman rules the Urr’ki with iron and shadow. He has turned fear into a weapon. If the Zmaj march into his lands, he will not meet them in open battle. He will bleed them from the shadows, let them exhaust themselves against the labyrinthine tunnels surrounding my ruined city.

This is what they do not understand. A retaliatory strike will only strengthen his grip on my people. I want, with all my heart, to attack him, to see him begging for his life along with all of his corrupted Maulavi, but this will not result in that end.

Rosalind stares at me, her lips pursed, but she remains silent. Watching, waiting to see what I will do. She narrows her eyes then gives an almost imperceptible nod. I think it is meant to be encouraging, but I am still learning the humans and their ways. I hope that is what she intends.

I take a slow breath. The Zmaj I know much better. We have been enemies for generations, since before I was born. My people have studied them for lifetimes, learning everything we can about them even as they beat us back, one regretful step at a time.

If I make demands, they will dig into their position deeper. The lizards are hard-headed and stubborn as the roots of the mountain itself. Resistance will not work, I must make them see.

I lift my chin, stepping forward. A small movement, but it shifts the air in the chamber. A flicker of attention, unwilling but there. I wait for them to fall silent, which doesn’t happen until the Al’fa makes a gesture with his hand. Only then do they stop protesting and shouting in excitement at the idea of attacking.

“Retaliation would be a mistake.”

The silence that follows is deafening. The warriors turn toward me, their gazes burning with hostility. Some sneer outright. Others do not bother to hide their disdain. The Al’fa’s gaze is unreadable, but his fingers tighten against his arms.

“You dare lecture us on mistakes, Urr’ki?” Za’tan snarls. “What else should we expect from your kind?”

I meet his gaze, ignoring the way my stomach clenches. Unclasping my hands I place a calming touch on Khiara as he steps forward with a dangerous growl. Now is not the time for violence, that will get us no further than if they attack the Shaman without thinking through the entire strategy.

“Yes. Because I know the Shaman better than any of you.”

A hiss ripples through the warriors. Disgust, dismissal. But the Al’fa tilts his head slightly. He is listening and he is the one whom I must convince. I press forward, keeping my voice steady and at least sounding certain.

“You think marching into Urr’ki lands will end this? It will not. The Shaman expects you to strike in anger. He will be ready. You will be walking into a trap.”

“We know your Urr’ki tricks well enough,” Za’tan scoffs. “His traps will not stop us from extracting justice.”

“And yet, the Urr’ki raiders made it deep into your territory undetected. Did they not?” I say, hardening my expression and meeting his one burning eye.

The growl in his throat is low and warning, but he does not answer. Because he cannot. The truth stands between us, undeniable. A delicate edge of a blade that we both dance along. The Al’fa steps forward then, breaking his silence. The room stills at once. His presence is commanding, his authority absolute.

“Speak plainly,” he says.

It is not an invitation and I see that immediately. This is a test. He wants to see how I will handle his people. If he is to agree to an alliance, he will need his people to be on board with it too. The Zmaj rule by strength alone. He holds his position by virtue of martial skill as much as brilliance of mind.

I know he defends his position as Al’fa once a turning in their arena and he has remained undefeated, but that means he rules with clear cut challengers. What a strange way to lead that must be. Thinking all of this through I choose my words carefully.

“The Shaman is unhinged, yes. But he is not reckless. He does not waste lives. If he ordered this attack, it was calculated.”

“And what calculation is that? To taunt us into battle?” one of the warriors asks, then spits to the side.

“Perhaps.” I nod. “Or perhaps he wanted to see how you would react. Measure your strength. Gauge your movements.”

Doubt flickers through the gathered warriors, just a whisper. I exhale slowly. Now. Now is the moment.

“You believe war is the only answer.” I sweep my gaze across the room. “And I cannot disagree that it will come to that. But not like this. If you march now, blind with rage, you will be playing into his hands. You will be walking into a battlefield of his choosing.”

Silence. Then?—

“Enough.” The Al’fa’s voice cuts through the room.

I tense, watching as he steps closer to the table. His amber eyes meet mine at last, and for the first time, I see something more than distrust in them.

Calculation. He is weighing my words. Not outright rejecting them. He turns to his warriors.

“We will not rush to war. Not yet.”

Angry mutters ripple through the chamber, but none dare challenge him directly. I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I have bought time. But not much. The Al’fa turns back to me, his expression unreadable.

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