Page 8 of Across the Stars (Cosmic Threads of Fate #1)

CHAPTER EIGHT

WATAI

Something cracked open inside him, clicking into place as the tailless creature cried out in its native tongue—unintelligible, but raw with fear.

His anger drained at once when the small hands clawing at his knee went limp, falling against the sand. His eyes widened as a pool of bright red liquid spread beneath their head, lolling it to the side.

Watai dropped his ring blade immediately. Their strange weapon—knocked aside during their clash—was already in Jie’s possession, his wingmate studying it with sharp curiosity.

But this rider—this being—was no Z’myuxi. No horns, no tail, no scales. The strange fitted covering clung to their skin like woven reedcloth, yet it was unlike any tribal garb he had ever seen.

Why here, why now? Had some forgotten tribe lived all this time beyond Z’myu’s embrace?

And why were both his hearts pounding like war drums in his chest?

Nothing about this morning made sense.

His hand trembled as he reached for the strange mask, desperate to see their face. His fingers dug beneath the seam, lifting their head. Crimson wet his hand.

A deep gash split their forehead, blood matting their hair and skin.

Watai sucked in a breath. His hearts stopped. Every fiber of him fixed on the fragile figure beneath him.

“Threadmate…”

The word fell from his lips like prayer. A searing current ripped through his body. The mask slipped from his grasp as terror replaced awe. His gift from Z’myu bled out beneath him.

Enkaia was suddenly at his side, her medicine sling already open, dark eyes wide with concern.

“Mine!” Watai growled, lowering his body over his mate’s body, barring his wing’s healer—their Kylu’Aymo—from touching what was his. “They’re mine! ”

“I need to dress their wound,” she snapped, fangs flashing. “If you don’t move, you won’t have a threadmate left to claim.”

“She means no harm,” Iskzo pathed gently, a wash of calm flooding through their bond. “Trust her. She won’t betray you.”

“How did it come to this?” His chest tightened as the fight drained out of him. Eyes shut, he forced himself to relent, nodding once before stepping aside. “I’m sorry, Enkaia. Please… I only just discovered—”

“Your threadmate,” she finished for him, quickly moving her tools closer and getting to work. Her black braids fell over her shoulder as she drew a knife from her chest bandolier and sliced open his threadmate’s top, exposing their bare skin.

“I may not have found my own,” she murmured, stripping away ruined cloth with practiced hands, “but I know their importance. Regardless of her tribe, my oath to Z’myu forbids me from letting her suffer. And my oath to you demands I tend her wounds.”

“My threadmate… is female?”

His gaze swept over skin pale as dawnlight on clouds, softer than any he’d seen.

She resembled no tribe he knew. Coral Tides younglings sometimes bore light hues, but never this shade.

Their people ranged from pale blue and violet to depths darker than the ocean itself.

Every Z’Mynua tribe carried distinct colors and markings, etched into skin and scale to survive their chosen biome—six tribes, six shades of adaptation. Yet none like hers.

Predators didn’t care for tribe or lineage. They cared only for prey and grew bold when hunger gnawed, striking even at threadmounts. Their minds were too feral for logic. That was why the tribes stayed vigilant, reigning in their regions to guard kin and mounts alike.

And she—with her strange coloring, her lack of horns or tail, her fragile size—would blaze like a beacon in the dark. Protecting her would be his burden. His vow.

If Z’myu bound threadmates from different tribes, they chose where to live. Any Z’myuxi, regardless of hue or mount-marking, was accepted among the tribes. She would be welcome in Lake Trinity—no matter her skin, no matter her form. He would see to it.

Yet still… no protective scales. No markings etched by a mount. Nothing that bore Z’myu’s blessing. Only softness. Too soft. Her long-term survival could wait; for now, he would keep her alive—even if it meant crafting an entire wardrobe of camouflage to hide that pale skin.

His gaze swept her again: no patterns, no scales, no trace of the black mount that should have marked her. No horns. No tail. And smaller—so much smaller—than him.

“How can you be certain she’s female?” The words sounded absurd the instant they left him. Her gender mattered little— threadmates were chosen by Z’myu, fated to be bound together in a cord by their cosmic thread.

Still, he needed to know.

All that mattered was this—he had finally found her.

Through her, a new cordmount. At last, the chance to feel the completion every Z’myuxi longed for.

Now that she was his, he would do whatever it took to heal her wounds and beg forgiveness when she woke.

The last thing he wanted was for her to flinch from his touch—or from the bond itself—because he’d been too hasty and marked her as a threat.

Yet when her eyes opened, there would be questions. He would have to know why she had treated her threadmount as she had. No rider should ever mistreat a member of their cord, least of all the mount Z’myu granted to help govern the land beneath its weavetree.

Enkaia snorted without looking up. “Are you truly doubting me while I keep her alive?” She pressed salve into the wound, leaf-wrapped and pungent.

Her tail lashed in irritation. “Her mammary glands, Watai. Large, full. Brown nipples plain as day.” She pointed to the one closest to her with the end of her knife before putting it back in its sheath on her chest. “If you still don’t believe me, you can stand over my shoulder when I undress her once we’re in the safety of our weavetree.

I still need to tend to any other wounds she may have from your overzealous. ..treatment.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Heat flushed his face, shame edging his voice. “I trust you.”

“Then let me finish. And let’s leave before predators scent this blood.”

Enkaia bound her head, knotting the fabric tight over the balm. “Your mother will want to see her. She’ll ask Z’myu for guidance.”

Watai winced, regretting what he had done even more. His mother would scold him, and deservedly so. Of all his mistakes, this would remain the heaviest. The pressure in his chest squeezed at his bond with Iskzo until his mount sent a wave of reassurance back.

“Is she strong enough for recall?” Watai asked quietly, hand pressed to Iskzo’s scaled foot. “Or must I carry her over land, retrace every step?”

Enkaia leaned low, ear to the female’s mouth, hand resting over her chest. Watai’s hearts pounded as he waited, ready to carry her across all Z’Mynua if it meant undoing his harm.

“She’s stable enough,” Enkaia said at last, relief softening her tone. “Recall her to the Mind Hall. Our leaders will know how to welcome her.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

“That is exactly what we will do.” He nodded and exhaled slowly, the crushing grip around his hearts loosening ever so slightly. “Recall to the weavetree.”

“What of her threadmount?” Drxya asked, nodding toward the looming dark beast that had sat motionless throughout everything. “Should we guide it home?”

Watai stood, tearing his gaze from the bloody scene he’d created on the sands, and turned toward his threadmount. He reached for Iskzo’s head, pressing his forehead against his, and pouring love and strength over their bond.

“Can you reach our cordmount?” he pathed, hoping his Z’myuzo could communicate with them. “See if you can find its thread?”

“I’ve tried once to reach out to them, but unfortunately my connection with your threadmate is still too weak at this time.” Shame tinged Iskzo’s voice. “There’s nothing. As if no thread exists.”

“You done no wrong,” Watai assured him, concerned that his threadmount would blame himself for something beyond his control. “Try again.”

He raised a hand, silencing his wing’s whispers so Iskzo could focus. The last thing he wanted was for her threadmount to attack them as they took off, enraged that he had not only injured his threadrider but was also taking them away.

Moments later, his mount sagged. “Nothing. No thread. It’s… impossible.” Iskzo shifted his gaze away from Watai’s brow and toward the looming cordmount. “No matter how hard I look, I can’t find their cosmic thread. It’s as if they don’t exist at all.”

Watai stroked his neck gently. “You tried. That’s enough.”

“Drxya, Jie—have your mounts try.” Watai looked over at his two wing assistants, who were standing next to each other, their tails entwined. “I’d like them to give it a shot before we leave for the weavetree.”

Both riders bowed. “Congratulations, Wing Commander.” Drxya’s grin flashed wide before his gaze slid to the unconscious threadmate on the sand, a frown cutting through the triumph. “Even in such dire circumstances.”

“Our threadmounts would be delighted to assist you,” Jia added, looking over his shoulder to their cordmounts. “Whatever it takes to help us finish our mission and return to our weavetree. I promised them they could catch as many fish as they wanted once we got back.”

“I promised Iskzo the same thing.” Watai let out a soft chuckle as he scratched his threadmount between his calm emerald eyes. Anxious bright-green swirls showed Watai how much his Z’myuzo disliked their current predicament. “We’ll be leaving soon, boy.”

“Everyone has a cosmic thread that connects them to their fate,” Iskzo pathed, his mental voice confused. “I’m not sure how a creature can exist without being linked to Z’myu.”

“We don’t always have all the answers for everything,” Watai replied softly, scratching his threadmount under the chin. “That’s why my mother, the Z’Aymo, exists—to provide us with the answers we seek but cannot find on our own.”

“Our cordmounts were unable to reach her threadmount,” Jia announced, frowning across his brow. “It doesn’t make sense...”

“Thank you,” Watai told them, bowing his head. “We did what we could. Now we take her home and pray her mount does not rage.”

“We’ll stay behind,” Drxya offered, turning to face the enormous creature. “Watch it. Recall once you’re safe.”

“I’d be grateful.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Watai nodded and sighed, his gaze fixed on his unconscious threadmate’s even, long breaths.

“It would be our honor.”

Watai’s attention was captivated by the sleeping female, his injured threadmate. Watai bent and easily picked her up. So light, so fragile.

He lifted her up and turned to where his threadmount sat on the ground, crouched low to allow him to easily climb on top of him and become situated as quickly and easily as possible.

He turned to Iskzo, the threadmount crouched low to ease his climb.

Swinging a leg over the thick neck, he settled into the saddle, fastening his safety belt before binding her securely against him with extra cords, tying her to both rider and mount.

Only then did he draw a steady breath, raise his fist high, and let his voice carry across the wing.

“We ride! Recall to the weavetree!”