5. Just Rocks
Just Rocks
Valerie & Sigurd
The cabin floor vibrates with the steady hum of the jet engines as the city disappears beneath a blanket of cloud.
Everything around me has been built on a scale that still takes some getting used to.
The ceiling arches high above my head, all to accommodate the towering wingspans and colossal bulk of the billionaire elite.
I sit swallowed by one of the oversized armchairs, clutching a mug of dark-roast coffee just to keep my hands occupied.
Across the aisle, Sigurd looks perfectly at home. He removed his tailored suit jacket twenty minutes after takeoff and now sits reading the financial section of a broadsheet newspaper. Apparently, even billionaire krakens still read the morning paper.
The white fabric of his dress shirt pulls taut across his shoulders.
His tentacles rest loosely against the back of the chair, familiar enough by now that the sight itself shouldn’t distract me.
Unfortunately, yesterday one of them wrapped around my waist. The memory of exactly how that felt is proving considerably harder to ignore.
Stop staring at him. You’re flying into a political minefield, not a vacation. I raise the mug to my mouth and take another swallow of coffee, searching for a focus that simply refuses to come.
The newspaper rustles across the aisle. Sigurd lowers the top edge of the financial section, his glowing blue eyes settling on me.
“You’ve been quiet since we breached thirty thousand feet,” he says. “Is the coffee inadequate?”
“The coffee is fine.” I set the mug on the polished wood of the center console before my nervous hands turn it into a laundry problem. “I’m just reviewing the itinerary.”
Sigurd folds the paper in half, the crease snapping sharply.
Saltweather already felt far away while I was staying in the city. Up here, headed toward a floating mountain I’ve only ever read about, it feels farther still. Whatever happens at Mt. Qaf, Sigurd is the one person besides me who actually knows what I’ve agreed to walk into.
“So. Your mother.” I curl my fingers around the leather armrest. “If she asks about my background, do I lie?”
“You being a human librarian won’t be a problem.
As for the rest, use the story of how we met.
” Sigurd leans forward and sets the folded newspaper aside.
“She’ll hate it, but she values protocol too much to cause a scene at Rakan’s wedding.
Stay polite, answer what you can, and don’t let her provoke you. ”
“That’s not as reassuring as you might think, Sigurd.”
“I have the utmost faith in you, Valerie,” he replies. “You’ll be fine.”
I’m not nearly as certain. Facing him in his office was easier.
I was furious then, armed with evidence and too angry to wonder whether I belonged in a billionaire’s corporate tower.
Mt. Qaf is different. I’m about to spend a weekend surrounded by monster moguls while pretending I belong at Sigurd’s side.
Still, I didn’t come this far because I expected any of this to be comfortable. I came because Saltweather needs me to see it through. A floating mountain and a kraken matriarch don’t change that.
Half an hour later, the jet touches down with a dull vibration beneath my feet. By the time the flight attendant unseals the cabin door, I’ve convinced myself I’m prepared for Mt. Qaf. Then I step outside and discover preparation was optimistic.
The high-altitude air hits first, thin and cold enough to sting the inside of my nose.
Morning sunlight flashes off the surface below us so sharply that I have to squint.
The private airfield has been carved directly into the mountain.
Its broad landing strips and polished emerald terraces throw green light across everything they touch.
Beyond the runway, the mountain rises into an impossible skyline of towers, arches, hanging gardens, and suspended bridges.
I’ve seen drawings of Mt. Qaf in old books, most of them speculative and several centuries out of date, but none of them come close.
I tighten my hand around the metal railing as I take it all in.
Saltweather is weathered brick, rusted iron, and fishing boats patched often enough to work. Mt. Qaf looks as though someone built an entire city without even considering cost as a factor.
Sigurd steps onto the platform behind me. “Take your time on the stairs. The altitude catches humans faster than most monsters.”
“Good to know before I embarrass myself in front of an international guest list.”
“If you faint, I’ll catch you.”
I look back at him, but his expression remains perfectly serious. “That was almost reassuring.”
“It was intended to be.”
I start down the stairs, blinking against the glare. Sigurd falls into step beside me, his broad frame blocking enough of the sunlight to make the descent easier.
“Is the entire mountain made of emerald?”
“The core is granite,” he says. “Most of what you can see is an emerald crust several hundred feet thick.”
I slow for a step. Several hundred feet of emerald apparently qualifies as a minor architectural detail in his world.
Sigurd glances down at me. “Don’t let the architecture intimidate you, Valerie. It’s just rock.”
“Several hundred feet of emerald.”
“Very expensive rock.”
I laugh, and by the time we reach the bottom, my eyes have adjusted enough to take in the airfield properly. The place is crowded without feeling chaotic. Security teams direct arriving guests toward separate entrances while uniformed staff collect luggage before anyone has to ask.
Somewhere overhead, something enormous passes across the sun. I catch the underside of a vast pair of wings disappearing beyond one of the towers and leave the question for later.
We’ve barely crossed half the distance to the private terminal when a sharp clatter of heels cuts through the surrounding noise.
A human woman in a severe black blazer and enormous designer sunglasses comes straight toward us, typing on a tablet as she walks.
She narrowly avoids a baggage handler without looking up, then points her stylus toward a row of insulated crates.
“Those go to the west staging area!” she calls. “If the orchids spend another ten minutes in direct sunlight, I’m billing someone personally.”
The nearest porter changes direction immediately. She reaches us seconds later and finally lowers the tablet.
“Sigurd.” Her tone suggests his name is also an accusation. “You’re late.”
Sigurd doesn’t so much as blink. “Hello, Camille. We decided to take the scenic route.”
“The scenic route.” She pushes her sunglasses higher on her nose. “Of course you did. Nothing says wedding weekend like improvising the arrival schedule.”
Then she turns to me, her gaze traveling briefly from my face to my clothes before stopping at my shoes. She looks like an event planner deciding whether I’m about to create another problem.
“My name is Camille Thorn,” she says. “You must be Valerie. Sigurd’s plus-one.”
Mt. Qaf may be a floating city made from gemstones and populated by creatures I’ve only encountered in books, but Camille is treating the whole thing like an overbooked hotel with an orchid emergency.
Event planners, apparently, remain event planners at every tax bracket. It’s more reassuring than it should be.
“Valerie Priest.” I offer her a smile. “It’s nice to meet you. The venue is incredible.”
“It’s a logistical nightmare.” Camille taps her stylus against the tablet. “But if nobody drops anything expensive off a cliff before Sunday, I’ll consider it a success.”
She looks down at my feet again. “I already approve of the shoes.”
I glance at my sensible flats. “That makes one decision I’ve gotten right this week.”
“You’d be amazed how many people arrive here in six-inch heels and then act personally betrayed by stairs.” Camille turns and gestures for us to follow. “Leave the luggage. Staff will take it to your suite. You two are with me.”
Sigurd starts after her without argument, and I follow.
Camille leads us out of the private terminal and into one of the residential wings.
She keeps answering messages on her tablet as she walks.
The corridors are broad enough for monsters several times Sigurd’s size, with arched ceilings and polished stone floors.
Every few minutes, someone intercepts Camille with a question about flowers, seating, security, or catering. She answers without breaking stride.
“I have you both in the east wing,” she tells us as we turn down another corridor. “Rakan upgraded your suite.”
Sigurd’s mouth tightens. “I specifically asked him not to do that.”
Camille looks over the top of her sunglasses. “And you’ve known him how long?”
“Long enough to know better.”
“Exactly.”
The route twists through enough passages that I lose track of the terminal within minutes. Eventually, Camille stops in front of a pair of tall oak doors set into the stone wall.
“Here we are.” She taps something on her tablet, and one of the doors unlocks with a quiet click. “Your luggage is already inside. If you need anything, ask the staff and they’ll find me. Preferably before whatever you need becomes an emergency.”
“I thought everything was already an emergency,” I say.
Camille points the stylus at me. “You’re learning.”
Then she’s gone, her heels fading down the corridor as another voice calls her name around the corner. Sigurd pushes the door open, and I follow him inside.
The suite is warm enough that I loosen the collar of my blouse at once. After the cold air outside, the heat feels excessive, though Sigurd doesn’t seem bothered by it. The entrance opens into a living area large enough to swallow my cottage.
Our luggage is already stacked neatly beside the wall. I have no idea when anyone collected it, transported it, and beat us here. Apparently, Mt. Qaf considers that ordinary efficiency.