Page 28 of The Monster's Daughter
And this is how I want to face it.
CHAPTER 18
KAGE
She’s curled against me, breath warm against my throat, hair smelling of smoke and salt and something faintly sweet—like the herbs she boiled in the bunker. Her hand is still tangled in my frill as if she fell asleep mid-grip, unwilling to let go.
It should make me uneasy. It doesn’t.
It makes me hopeful.
And hope is more dangerous than any blade.
I watch her, every rise and fall of her chest. I think about how easily she could have let me go. How easily she could still turn on me. One call on a secure channel, one flare to the sky, and the Alliance would rain down on me before I could blink.
But she didn’t. She ran. She lied. She chose.
And every time she looks at me now, I feel it clearer—the bond isn’t just biology. It’s choice. Hers. Mine. That terrifies me more than any enemy.
Her lashes flutter. She murmurs something incoherent and shifts, pressing closer. The heat of her seeps through the thin fabric between us, grounding me, pinning me to this moment like a blade through my palm.
I whisper to myself, in the old tongue:jalshagar.A word older than cities. It feels like a prayer and a curse at once.
By dawn we’re moving again, packs strapped tight. She walks ahead of me this time, scanning the ridges with her console. The canyon winds upward, cliffs rising like black teeth. Her voice comes over her shoulder, steady but soft.
“There’s an old listening post up ahead. Alliance left it years ago when the front shifted. If it still has power, I might be able to use it to send a private ping to an IHC vessel—no official channels, no tribunal.”
I grunt. “Hidden?”
“Deep in the cliffside. Masked signals. Perfect for ghosts like us.”
She doesn’t look back, but her hand brushes the hilt of the knife my father gave her. Like she’s remembering she’s wearing my family’s runes on her belt.
The wind picks up, whipping grit across our faces. I taste iron and ash.
Something’s wrong.
The listening post is half-buried in stone, its camo plating flaking off like old paint. Antennas jut from the cliff, bent but still humming faintly.
Bella slows, frowning at her scanner. “It’s active.”
I stop. “Active?”
“Yeah. Look—power readings. Fresh ones. This isn’t a dead node.”
Voices drift from the tunnel entrance. Not birds. Not echoes. Real voices—low, tense, muttering. And beneath them, a faint synthetic hiss like bad speakers.
I draw my blade, its edge glinting dull silver in the weak light. “Stay behind me.”
She snorts softly. “Not my style.”
“Do it anyway,” I growl.
We move inside. The air shifts instantly, colder, stale with old electronics and unwashed bodies. The walls sweat condensation, cables snaking across them like veins.
At the end of the hall, the source.
Not scavenger drones. Not soldiers.
