That I can protect her without destroying everything else.
That I can be enough.
The storm rages on, unforgiving and blind, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the need to run.
I stay.
Because she’s here.
And gods help me—I want to be, too.
CHAPTER 19
JILLIAN
The next morning, I wake up early—earlier than usual, before the camp starts buzzing with drills and data checks and Ciampa’s barked demands. I wrap two nutrient bars in a napkin, fill a water canister, and slip past the perimeter like I’ve done too many times to count. Only now, I’m not just wandering.
I’m going to him.
The storm’s done tearing through the flats, but it’s left behind a world peeled raw—everything scoured and howling, grit embedded in the very bones of the planet. I tighten my scarf against the wind’s leftover bite, boots crunching through new sanddrifts, and follow the familiar path toward the dome.
The half-buried shelter looms ahead, slumped like a scar on the skin of Purgonis. I duck through the narrow opening. My eyes adjust slowly.
He’s here.
Not standing in full view, but not fully hidden either. A silhouette of coiled muscle and waiting silence, crouched near the far wall, one shoulder half-lit by a shaft of sunlight filtering through a crack in the rock above.
I don’t speak, not right away. I set the food and water down in the space between us, careful, deliberate.
He watches. His eyes glow faintly in the dim light—like embers banked deep in a fire, smoldering but not burning. Not yet.
“I thought you might be hungry,” I say, my voice barely louder than the wind whispering through the cracks. “I wasn’t sure what you eat. I mean, besides sting tails.”
The edge of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything I can name.
He doesn’t take the food. Not at first. I sit. Same place as before, cross-legged, hands resting on my knees, letting the silence wrap around us.
I talk.
Not because I expect answers, but because it feels right. Needed. Like part of some strange balance I don’t understand.
I tell him about Earth. About the overgrown jungles of the equator domes, and how my little brother once dared me to eat a live beetle for two credits. I talk about school, how boring it was, how the stars called louder than any lecture ever could.
I tell him I came here chasing wonder—and instead found grief.
“I thought we were the good guys,” I whisper. “I thought we came to learn. But Ciampa... he doesn’t care. Not really. Carson tried to stop him, and look what happened.”
The silence thickens. Not cold. Not threatening. Just... heavy.
I glance up—and find him watching me. Really watching.
His gaze is sharp but not cruel. Intense but not invasive. It’s the look of someone cataloging every detail, not because he distrusts it, but because he doesn’t want to miss anything.
Then, finally, he shifts.
His hand reaches out—slow, deliberate—and taps two claws against his chest.
“Maug.”
