Page 33 of Monster's Pretty Bride

I scowl, gripping tighter. "Let me go, then."

His grip around me tightens. “If I did, would you still be so eager to pretend you have control?"

Bastard.

The sky stretches endlessly above us, the clouds like streaks of ink against the gray horizon. The wind rushes past, carrying scents of damp earth, old magic, and the faint, distant trace of human fires.

We descend before I can argue further, his wings cutting through the air with a lethal kind of grace. The ground rushes up too fast, my stomach flipping before he finally lands, boots hitting dirt with the softest impact.

I blink, heart still hammering from the flight, taking in our surroundings.

We are not in a gargoyle stronghold. Not even close.

A human settlement lies before us, tucked between the rocky outcroppings and sprawling grasslands. Simple wooden homes, a few scattered carts, smoke curling from chimneys. And there are people.

They stare at us, not with terror, as I expect, but with something closer to awe.

A child, no older than seven, suddenly bolts from a doorway, her feet bare against the dirt as she rushes toward Naranus.

He does not flinch.

He does not move away.

The girl stops just inches from him, her round face tilting up, grinning.

“You’re back,” she says simply.

I blink.

What?

An older man steps forward next, his beard streaked with silver, his frame wiry but strong. “We didn’t expect you so soon, Warlord.” His gaze flickers toward me. “And with company.”

The way he speaks to Naranus is not fearful.

Not hesitant.

Not like a man addressing a monster.

“Had a need for trade,” Naranus says, tone casual. “You have what I need?"

The man nods, already motioning toward a cart nearby, filled with bundles of dried herbs and vials of medicinal tinctures. "Everything you usually take, plus extra for the wounds you surely refuse to let heal properly."

Naranus grunts, but there’s something oddly familiar about the exchange, as if this is routine.

I cross my arms, watching as Naranus drops a heavy leather sack at the man’s feet.

The older human kneels, untying it, revealing the contents, freshly hunted beasts, skinned and gutted, cleaned of rot, still glistening in the morning light.

A trade.

I glance between them, my mind working to piece this together.

This isn’t raiding. This is bartering.

The man looks up, shaking his head. “You bring too much again.”

Naranus shrugs. “Your people are smaller. You eat less. That’s not my problem.”

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