Page 19 of The Monster's Daughter

She doesn’t answer right away. Her mouth presses thin, and for a second I see something in her expression—longing, grief, recognition.

She nods. “Yeah.”

We step outside. The ruins yawn before us, but beyond them rise the jagged teeth of the mountains. Somewhere in those cliffs, my parents wait.

I adjust the pack on my shoulders, turn to her. “We’ll find them.”

She glances at me, green eyes sharp but uncertain. Then she nods again. Not because she believes me.

Because she wants to.

CHAPTER 13

BELLA

If I had credit for every time I nearly broke my damn neck on this climb, I could buy myself a whole new spine.

The mountain is vicious—every step either crumbles under my boot or stabs sharp shale straight through the thin soles. The air thins fast, burning cold in my lungs, while the wind cuts so sharp it feels like knives pressing through the seams of my jacket.

“Tell me again why we couldn’t just teleport, beam, or miracle our way up here?” I mutter, teeth chattering despite my best attempt at bravado.

Kage doesn’t answer. He’s a mountain himself, moving solid and steady beside me like gravity bends to him instead of the other way around. No stumble, no complaint, not even a twitch of irritation. Just… relentless.

“Sadist,” I grumble under my breath. “Mountain fetish, confirmed.”

His head tips slightly, frills twitching. “I heard that.”

I grin through chapped lips, even though my thighs are screaming. “Good. Just make sure your hearing hasn’t gone with your sense of humor.”

No response. Just the crunch of his claws in the scree.

Still, every time I think about sitting down and refusing to move, I glance sideways at him. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t encourage me, doesn’t offer a hand. But there’s something about his steadiness, the way his silhouette cuts against the jagged skyline, that drags me forward. Like if he can keep going, then so can I.

So I do.

We make camp that night in a crevice beneath what’s left of a solar array. The panels hang cracked and rusted, glass glittering in the moonlight. Kage builds a shield wall of broken plating against the wind, while I huddle closer to the makeshift heater we jury-rig out of salvaged batteries. The glow is weak, but the warmth seeps into my frozen fingers all the same.

I surprise myself when I talk first. “I lost a man, once. Early on.”

Kage glances at me, silver eyes gleaming in the dim light. He doesn’t interrupt, just waits.

I pick at the corner of my ration bar, chewing slow. “He was Alliance. Prisoner. They dumped him on us, told us to patch him up before interrogation. I was green, stupid. I misread the vitals. Gave him the wrong compound.”

The memory scrapes raw. The screaming, the seizures, the look in his eyes right before they went glassy.

“He died,” I say, flat. “On my table. Because I screwed up.”

Kage doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He just stares at me, heavy and unblinking.

“You learned.”

I blink. “That’s it?”

“You learned,” he repeats. “Most do not. They fail, and they keep failing. You did not.”

It’s not comfort. Not forgiveness. Just truth. And somehow, it feels heavier. Realer. My chest loosens a fraction.

“Thanks, I guess,” I mutter, pulling my jacket tighter.