Chapter 6
MAUG
The girl speaks to me.
Not with bravado. Not with the shrieking bluster her kind so often employ when they’re afraid and trying not to look it. No, she whispers into the night, voice barely raised above the hush of shifting sands. Like she believes the wind is her ally. Like she believes it will carry her words to me.
It does.
She doesn't know it, but I hear every syllable, clear as if she were standing at my shoulder. Enhanced hearing has its uses. A curse most days, but now… now I find myself holding still, straining toward that fragile voice with a hunger I haven't felt in cycles.
“I know you’re there,” she says.
I crouch along the high cliff edge, my weight balanced in the crook of an eroded basalt arch.
Below, the human camp pulses with shield light, humming like a wounded creature caught in a trap.
The storm has half-buried their outer beacon in ash already, and still, she stands near it like some red-haired sentinel, her back straight, her helmet off.
Fool.
Brave.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just… watch.
She stares into the dark like it owes her answers. “I saw you,” she adds, softer now. “I’m not stupid.”
I tense. My claws dig into the stone. She did see me, then. Even in the chaos, even with her species’ pathetic night vision and their reliance on augmented optics, she still saw me.
And she’s not scared.
What is she, then?
When she finally leaves—reluctant steps, shoulders squared against the shriek of the wind—I stay where I am. Long after her shadow vanishes into the dome’s flickering light, I remain in the cold, waiting for the spell to break.
It doesn’t.
Instead, it intensifies.
Something gleams near the beacon.
I narrow my eyes. A small object, half-buried in the dust, nestled against the stone like an offering. It wasn't there before.
I drop soundlessly from the ledge. Gravel doesn’t even have time to scatter. My body lands heavy and silent in the lee of a thermal outcrop, where the sensors won’t see.
The item is wrapped in soft foil. A seal I don’t recognize. Human writing across it in their odd block script. I crouch, sniff. The scent that hits me is… absurd.
Sweet. Yeasty. Rich.
My mouth waters before I can stop it.
I slice the wrapper open with a claw, half expecting a trap. It isn’t. Just a disk, browned around the edges, studded with—what are those? Bits of something darker, soft, melted from heat.
I bring it to my nose. Breathe in again.
This is food.
But not the kind meant for survival. This was crafted. For pleasure. For warmth.
I don’t think.
I bite.
The taste detonates behind my tusks. It’s like a memory of warmth I’ve never had.
Salt and sweet tangled up together. Butter—yes, I remember that from human rations during the war—and something floral and bitter and rich all at once.
The texture is soft in the center and crisp on the edges.
Each chew releases a new wave of flavors.
It doesn’t fill my belly.
But it does something far worse.
It lingers.
I crouch there for long moments, head bowed, letting the final crumbs dissolve on my tongue. The wrapper flutters in my hand. Fragile. Human. Like her.
What is this red-haired girl doing?
Why would she leave something like this… for me?
I stand and take the wrapper with me.
Back in my lair, the fire’s low but still warm. I stoke it absently, knuckles tight, mind elsewhere. The walls are lined with pelt and bone, but none of it feels like armor tonight.
I feed the wrapper to the flames.
It curls and blackens, vanishes into cinders.
The taste remains.
The warmth behind my ribs refuses to burn away.
She is a contradiction.
And now I cannot forget her.
And maybe she can’t forget me, because the next day, there’s something new.
She leaves another one.
Another cookie, wrapped in that same crinkly foil, tucked just beneath the outer sensor post. Right where the ash drifts pile up in neat little dunes. As if she knows I come here. As if she knows I am the one watching.
She’s right.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t care. The humans brought their own protection. Their own supplies. Their own arrogance. And yet, I’m here every night now. In the shadows. In the stone. Tracking one small life as if it holds the gravity of a sun.
Her name, I’ve learned, is Jillian. I’ve heard it muttered with exasperation, snapped across coms, sighed in fondness by the boy Carson. I have not spoken it aloud. Not yet.
But I whisper it in my mind sometimes.
Jillian.
She is not like the others. I don’t mean in the lazy, superficial way humans often speak of uniqueness.
I mean her core is carved from something different.
She moves through Purgonis with the wonder of a child and the defiance of a soldier.
I’ve seen her kneel in the dirt, radiation suit creaking, and cradle a shard of crystal like it might whisper secrets to her.
I’ve seen her laugh—short, bright, unguarded.
It carries over the canyon like chimes in a storm.
And I’ve seen her fury.
It flares up quick, uncontrolled, when Ciampa brushes her off or when the marines wave their rifles around like children playing soldier. Her eyes go sharp. Her spine straightens. There’s a kind of pride in her that refuses to bend.
I recognize it.
It’s the kind of fire that got me cast out.
It’s the kind of fire that makes people die.
I shouldn’t watch her. I can’t want anything from her.
My blood is marked. My hands—no matter how clean I keep them—still carry echoes of screams. And still, she… sees me.
Not clearly. Not yet. But something inside her knows I’m not just a monster in the cliffs. That’s more terrifying than any weapon. More dangerous than any sting tail.
And tonight, when I find the cookie—still warm from the heat of her palm—my fingers tremble as I pick it up.
I take it back to the cavern, but I don’t eat it right away. I stare at it first. Like it might accuse me. Like it might vanish if I look away.
I sit on the flat stone I use as a bench and hold the cookie between two claws. My claws dwarf it. I could crush it without trying. But I don’t.
I inhale.
It smells sweeter this time. Like she added something extra. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. I wouldn’t know. But I tell myself it’s different. That she meant this one more.
I take a bite.
And everything goes still.
There’s no war here. No shame. No death. Just sugar and softness and a warmth that shouldn't belong on this hell-world. And it’s hers. From her. For me.
My hands shake harder.
I curse myself.
Weak. Foolish. Sentimental.
But I eat the rest, slow, savoring every grain. Every tiny hint of vanilla and butter and salt.
After, I burn the wrapper again. But not before I fold it carefully. Smooth the creases. Hold it like it matters.
I don’t sleep that night.
Not because I’m afraid.
Because I don’t trust what’s growing behind my ribs.