Page 19

I adjust the straps on my pack, the familiar weight a small comfort in this profoundly alien landscape.

The mission to Kul-Vasha, the Sacred Mountain, is a fiction we have both agreed to believe in.

It is not about botany. Not really. It is about creating a neutral space, a collaborative framework where we can exist as something other than captor and captive, or a warrior-prince and his problematic, bonded alien.

It is a fragile alliance, built on the wreckage of my fever and his guilt.

“Are your instruments calibrated for this altitude?” Jaro's voice is a low rumble from beside me.

He moves with an easy, predatory grace that a week ago would have sent a spike of terror through my nervous system.

Now, it is simply a fact of his existence, like the twin suns in the sky or the persistent thrumming in my own chest.

“I've run atmospheric compensations, but the magnetic field here is.

.. erratic. I'll have to recalibrate at every major elevation change.” I tap the side of my datapad, the cool metal a familiar anchor.

“My primary objective is specimen collection. I need samples of the flora that only grows on the upper slopes. The initial scans suggested compounds with unprecedented regenerative properties.”

And my secondary objective, my own mind supplies, is to figure out what in the hell is happening to me, to us, and whether this bond is a life sentence or a lifeline.

“The mountain provides for those it deems worthy,” Jaro says, his gaze sweeping the jagged peaks ahead. “It also consumes the unprepared.”

“A scientifically sound observation,” I murmur, focusing on the path. “Unprepared organisms are more susceptible to environmental termination.”

He grunts, a sound I am learning to interpret as a complex mixture of annoyance and grudging amusement. “Your words are... sharp. Pointed. Like a hunter's spear.”

“I'm a scientist, Jaro. Precision is the foundation of my work.” It's also my shield. If I can define it, I can control it. Or so the theory goes.

We walk in silence for a time, the only sounds the crunch of our boots on the rocky ground and the strange, fluting calls of unseen avians.

The journey is a constant negotiation of expertise.

My long-range scanner, though its power cell is draining at an alarming rate, picks up a pocket of methane gas seeping from a fissure in the rock face, a hazard his senses would have missed until it was too late.

He, in turn, identifies the tracks of a Stryx, a six-legged feline predator, and leads us on a wide, circuitous route around its known territory, a path my topographical maps showed as impassable.

We are a hybrid system, my analytical methodology and his primal intuition. It is surprisingly effective.

“This plant,” I say, stopping to examine a low-lying shrub with waxy, indigo leaves.

I run a preliminary scan with my handheld analyzer.

“The cellular structure is crystalline. It seems to have incorporated the high mineral content of the soil directly into its biology.

Fascinating. It's also secreting a neurotoxin from its thorns. Highly potent.”

“The Vyl-na ,” Jaro says, his voice holding a note of reverence. “Our legends say it was a gift from the Sky-Beast, to protect the mountain's heart. The thorns are used in the third trial of the warrior's path. To test one's focus against the lure of death's sleep.”

I look from my datapad's complex chemical analysis to his face. “Your people use a deadly neurotoxin in a coming-of-age ritual?”

“It is not the death that is the point,” he corrects, his amber eyes serious. “It is the resistance to it. The will to live. It teaches a warrior that his mind can be stronger than his body's pain.”

“An interesting, if unnecessarily brutal, pedagogical approach.” I carefully take a sample of a leaf, avoiding the thorns, and seal it in a containment vial.

Traditional knowledge. He calls it a legend; I call it anecdotal data on bio-reactivity.

Two different languages for the same truth.

I find myself making a new section in my logs, cross-referencing his lore with my scientific findings.

The correlations are too consistent to be coincidence.

As we climb higher, the landscape grows more treacherous.

The path narrows, winding along the edge of a steep drop.

The wind picks up, a low, mournful howl that seems to carry whispers.

I focus on my footing, my analytical mind cataloging the changing geology, the shift from sedimentary rock to something harder, more igneous.

“The air grows thin here,” Jaro states, his breathing even while mine is becoming more labored. “The Sky-Beast tests all who approach.”

“The partial pressure of oxygen is decreasing due to the altitude change,” I correct, panting slightly. “It's simple physics.”

He glances back at me, a smirk playing on his lips. “Your science has a name for everything. Does it also have a name for the feeling that the mountain is watching you?”

I pause, my hand on the cold rock face beside me. The feeling is undeniable. A sense of ancient, sleeping power that permeates the very air. It's the low-frequency vibrations from geothermal activity, combined with the mild hypoxia affecting my temporal lobe. A perfectly rational explanation.

“I'd call it an environmental-induced psychological projection,” I say, but my voice lacks its usual conviction.

He just grunts again, the sound carrying that same infuriating amusement. We continue our climb, the silence stretching between us, but it's a different kind of silence now. It's filled not with tension, but with unspoken observations, a shared experience of this strange and sacred place.

Suddenly, a wave of static washes through my datapad. The screen flickers, then goes dark. My scanner whines and dies.

“What is it?” Jaro asks, turning at my sharp, frustrated hiss.

“A magnetic anomaly. A strong one. It's fried the primary circuits on anything not shielded.” I tap the useless screen of my datapad. “My navigation, my scanners... they're all offline.” My security blanket. Gone. A familiar spike of panic, cold and sharp, pierces my carefully constructed calm.

“Your tools are weak, then,” Jaro observes, his tone flat. He seems completely unconcerned.

“They're not weak, they're sensitive. This level of magnetic interference is... it's off the charts. It shouldn't even be possible.”

“The mountain does not care what should be possible,” he says, his gaze fixed on the peaks above. “It cares only for what is. Now, you must use my tools.”

He points to his eyes, his nose, his ears. “These do not fail.” He turns and continues up the path without a backward glance, expecting me to follow. The arrogance of it is galling. The necessity of it is even more so.

“Wait,” I call out, my voice tight. “How will we navigate? My topographical maps are gone.”

He stops and looks back at me, his expression one of faint surprise, as if the answer should be obvious. “We follow the suns. We read the winds. We listen to the mountain. We walk.”

And so we walk. For hours, I am blind, stripped of my data, my technology, my scientific certainty.

I am forced to rely on him, on his senses, on his innate understanding of this world.

He points out game trails I would have missed, identifies the subtle shift in the wind that signals an approaching weather front, reads the story of the land in a way my instruments never could.

He is not just a warrior, I realize, watching him test the stability of a rock outcropping with a single, knowing touch.

He is an ecosystem unto himself. A walking, breathing sensor array.

The thought is both humbling and, to my surprise, deeply compelling.

My respect for his expertise, an expertise I cannot quantify or replicate, grows with every step.

We reach a sheer rock face that seems to block our path completely. A recent rockslide has obliterated the trail. A mess of fractured stone and loose scree makes the way forward look impossible.

“There is no way through,” I state, my own frustration making my voice sharp. “We'll have to go back, find another route.”

“There is no other route on this side of the mountain, unless you wish to face the Stryx nesting grounds,” Jaro says, his eyes scanning the wall of rock. “There is always a way. You must only be strong enough to find it.”

He places a hand on a massive boulder, its surface as large as my entire body.

He braces his feet, his muscles bunching under his navy-blue skin, and pushes.

The boulder doesn't budge. He growls, a low, frustrated sound, and pushes again, his whole body straining.

The rock groans, shifts a fraction of an inch, and then settles.

“It is too large,” he says, breathing heavily. He looks at me, and for the first time, I see a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He is used to his strength being the answer to every physical problem.

“Strength isn't the issue here, Jaro. It's physics.” I step forward, running my hand over the rock face, my geologist's training kicking in. “This is a problem of leverage and structural integrity.”

I start tapping on the rocks, listening to the sound, analyzing the fracture lines. I point to a series of smaller, wedged stones at the base of the main boulder.

“Here,” I say, my voice filled with a renewed sense of purpose. “This is the keystone. If we can dislodge these smaller rocks, the main boulder should shift. But we have to be careful. The entire rockslide is unstable. We could bring the whole thing down on us.”

He looks from the rocks to me, his expression unreadable. I expect him to dismiss my analysis, to rely on his own brute force. Instead, he nods. “Tell me where to push.”

We work together, a strange and silent ballet of my intellect and his power.

I direct him, pointing out the precise points of pressure, the exact angles of force.

He responds without question, his phenomenal strength now guided by my understanding of engineering principles.

It's a slow, grueling process. We dislodge one rock, then another, the entire wall groaning in protest. Sweat beads on his brow, his muscles tremble with the sustained effort.

I find myself holding my breath with every move, my heart pounding in a rhythm that feels strangely in sync with his.

At one point, as he braces his shoulder against a particularly stubborn slab, his hand brushes against mine.

A jolt, like a low-voltage electrical current, passes between us.

I look down at my chest, and through the fabric of my shirt, I can see the faint, warm glow of the bond-mark.

I look at him, and I see the same soft light pulsing on his chest. His amber eyes meet mine, and in that moment, in the midst of this shared, dangerous task, the chasm between us feels a little less wide.

With a final, concerted effort, the keystone gives way. The massive boulder shifts, sliding down a few feet and opening a narrow, treacherous path through the rockslide. We did it. Together.

A rare, genuine smile breaks across Jaro's face, a flash of white teeth that transforms his harsh features into something breathtakingly handsome. “Your mind is also a weapon, Kendra Miles.”

“And your strength is a useful application of force,” I reply, my own lips twitching into a smile. The compliment, coming from him, feels more rewarding than any academic citation.

We make our way carefully through the newly opened path, the rocks still shifting uneasily around us. On the other side, we stop to rest, our backs against the sun-warmed stone. The shared victory, the successful integration of our skills, has left a palpable energy in the air between us.

“I have been... unfair to you,” Jaro says, his voice a low rumble. He does not look at me, his gaze fixed on the valley below.

I wait, not wanting to break the fragile thread of his confession.

“I saw your knowledge as a weakness,” he continues. “Words and numbers. The tools of those who cannot fight. I did not understand that a different kind of strength could be as valuable as a warrior's blade.”

“And I saw your strength as a threat,” I admit softly. “Brute force. The tool of those who cannot think. I didn't understand that instinct could be as valuable as data.”

He finally turns to look at me, and the respect in his eyes is real, earned. “We are... a strange pair.”

“The strangest,” I agree.

The bond-mark on my chest emits another gentle pulse of warmth, a silent affirmation.

My journal entries tonight will be... different.

My fascination is no longer purely clinical.

The subject is no longer just "the Xylosian.

" The subject is Jaro. And the data is becoming increasingly, dangerously, compelling.

We press on, reaching the lower slopes of Kul-Vasha as the twin suns begin their slow descent, painting the sky in fiery strokes of orange and violet.

The air here is thinner, colder. The vegetation is unlike anything I have ever documented.

Plants with metallic, iridescent leaves.

Fungi that hum with a low, resonant energy.

Trees whose bark seems to be woven from pure light.

We make camp in a sheltered overhang, the majestic, horned peaks of the Sacred Mountain looming over us like ancient gods. The sense of power here is no longer a subtle vibration; it is a palpable presence that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

“This place feels... alive,” I whisper, my scientific vocabulary failing me.

“It is,” Jaro says, his voice hushed with a reverence I have never heard from him before. “This is the heart of Xylos. The place where the first beasts were born. From here on, we do not just walk on the mountain. We walk with it. It will test us.”

I look from the alien, glowing landscape to the face of the alien man beside me.

He is right. This expedition is more than just a scientific mission.

It is a trial. A test of our fragile alliance, our growing respect, and the inexplicable, undeniable bond that ties our two, vastly different hearts together.

And I have a sinking, thrilling feeling that the mountain is just the beginning.