Page 9 of Across the Stars (Cosmic Threads of Fate #1)

CHAPTER NINE

WATAI

The world tore sideways.

Watai’s stomach lurched as the cosmic thread snapped tight, yanking rider and mount across the veil. The air warped, light and sound crushing in on itself until everything narrowed to a blinding teal tunnel as they followed their cosmic thread connection to their weavetree.

A rush of air, then weight slammed back into his body as they broke through the veil.

Lake Trinity spread below, where three worlds collided: a mountain ridge dripping with jungle, rolling forested hills, and the cold shimmering sands of the desert.

At their center rose the great tree of his people— the largest entity in as far as he could see—a twisted, living beacon whose glowing branches had guided lost ones home for generations.

No matter the hour, its dark purple leaves glowed a bright, pulsing fuchsia. The deep-brown trunk shimmered teal from within, like a heartbeat felt rather than heard, soothing every soul under its canopy, calming everyone in the area.

He clutched his threadmate closer, cords binding her small body against his chest. Her blood had seeped into his scales and leather, sticky warmth reminding him of how fragile she was.

His hearts hammered—what if the recall ripped her away from him? What if Z’myu had granted him this miracle only to steal her back in the same breath?

Iskzo’s presence anchored him, their bond a steady roar in his mind. “Hold on. She’s tethered now—through you. Z’myu would not call her back just as when you just found her.”

He wanted to believe that. He forced himself to breathe, to trust in Z’myu’s plans. It was foolish to doubt her.

As they flew over the lake’s dark water, welcoming cries erupted around them, echoed by his wing, who recalled behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief as he counted the familiar calls, making sure every voice was there.

All twenty-four. Home.

“Our wing is complete,” Iskzo confirmed, banking left and beating his six wings for altitude. “I’ll dismiss them now.”

“Thank you.” Watai would no longer have to worry about their safety. His hearts could finally shift focus—from command to the fragile weight in his arms. “Have my assistants visit after they’ve rested. We’ll need to discuss our next plans.”

“Are you going to take time off to tend her?” Iskzo’s mental voice softened.

“If Z’myu wills it.”

The breeze teased his threadmate’s hair across his face, strands brushing his cheek.

He smiled faintly and gathered a lock between his fingers, pressing it to his nose.

Sharp and fresh, like lightning before a storm.

He wanted to brand the scent into his memory until Z’myu welcomed him into her embrace.

As the weavetree loomed larger, he tightened his hold on her, bracing her between his chest and his threadmount’s neck.

Iskzo threaded them through the lower branches; tribespeople paused in their work to watch the wing commander fly past the huts in the Arms of the Weavetree with an unconscious stranger clutched to him, heading toward his parents’ home.

Iskzo slowed, reversing his wingbeats and settling onto the porch near the stairwell. His claws clicked against polished timber. Watai’s mother waited there, pale eyes bright with gold, already knowing.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” she said warmly, baring a fang in a smile. “I see you found your threadmate.”

“I need your help.” He shoved aside the chill running through him at her tone—always she seemed to see beyond what he had done. “Enkaia treated her, but she urged me to bring her here.”

“Give her to me, nyi’ytan.” His mother extended her arms, palms up. “I’ll take her to the old resting place. Your sister and father are waiting.”

His tail flicked, betraying the storm he tried to contain.

He trusted her with his life—she was not only his mother, but the Z’Aymo, Voice of Z’myu, the tribe’s matriarchal leader.

And yet instinct screamed to hold on, to keep touching what was his.

He had spent his prime searching for his threadmate, and now that she lay in his arms, was he meant to surrender her so soon?

But he knew he must. Her care would be safest here. Refusing his mother, after all he had done, would be folly.

Straightening in the saddle, he unhooked the straps binding his threadmate and eased her into the Z’Aymo’s waiting arms.

“She has no trace of her threadmount,” the Z’Aymo murmured, frowning as she held the female close like a youngling. “Yet her soul is bound to yours.”

“I know. My threadmount couldn’t reach it… he couldn’t find its thread.” Watai swung down from Iskzo’s back. “I was hoping you’d have an explanation.”

“I could say the same of her injury.” A smirk flickered across her face, a single fang glinting, as she lifted a brow. “But that can wait for another time.”

She spun and climbed the stairs swiftly, tail bobbing behind her.

A tug ripped through Watai’s chest as his threadmate moved out of reach, the cosmic thread humming taut between them. He pressed a palm between his hearts, staring until they disappeared to the third-floor threshold.

Would this ache—this desperate need to stay near—ever fade?

He didn’t even know her name, yet the weight of what he had done to her pressed sharp against his chest.

Sighing, he turned to Iskzo and guided his massive head down, pressing their foreheads together. He scratched the scaled chin, sending gratitude and love through the bond.

“I appreciate your patience today,” he pathed. “I’ll be a better threadrider. I won’t lean on you so heavily.”

“That’s why we’re bound,” Iskzo crooned, his eyes shimmering in the light between a calm emerald and a loving sapphire. “To be there for each other.”

“I couldn’t have asked for a better mount.” Watai gave him a gentle pat on the side of the neck, then frowned as he touched one of the saddle straps. “Do you want me to take these off? I’m not sure when you’ll be needed again.”

“Leave them.” Iskzo yawned, pulling his head back as he settled on his haunches, wings fanning in a lazy stretch. “You might need me to take your threadmate back to her threadmount.”

“I’ll leave you saddled for now, but I’d like to remove it before sundown.” Watai backed away, gesturing toward the lake. “Go eat those fish you’ve been craving. I’ll be here.”

“Fish…” A deep rumble rose from Iskzo, eyes swirling an excited sapphire and a hungry ruby. “Fish and a nice nap on the sands.”

“Go!” Watai shooed him. “Don’t gorge yourself so much you can’t come get me later.”

“Never!” Iskzo bugled, folding his wings and leaping from the ledge. “There’s no such thing as too much!”

Watai cracked a grin as his mount glided away through the branches, trumpeting his excitement to the whole tribe.

With Iskzo cared for, Watai could focus on the fragile being who’d upended his life.

He dashed up the stairs, past the rooms where he and his sister had once lived as younglings, and onto his parents’ floor.

Inside, his mother and sister knelt beside his threadmate, still unconscious in the family hammock bed. His father was absent, likely deep in duties as Z’Awnu, the tribe’s Protector of Z’myu, on the first day of the growing season. Territory to reestablish, storm damage to mend.

Both women wore Kylu’Aymo garb. His mother’s Z’Aymo necklaces—hollow sticks from each weavetree strung on supple twigs—rested against her chest. Darha’s necklace was simpler, marking her apprenticeship.

“Who is she?” Darha asked, holding a bowl of water and herbs. A waterskin dangled from her arm; in her other hand, a small cloth. “What happened?”

“You can follow your brother’s cosmic thread to her,” their mother answered instead, folding the last of the stranger’s shredded clothing and placing it on a shelf beside the hammock. “She’s his threadmate, though she is not a child of Z’myu.”

“What do you mean, Mother?” Watai moved closer to the hammock, eyes sweeping over the unconscious female. Shorter than any adult Z’myuxi except perhaps Coral Tides. No horns, no tail, no threadmount markings. “How could she not be of Z’myu’s life essence?”

“Although she is a part of your cord, I remember what your cosmic thread looked like ever since I gave birth to you.” His mother sighed and rolled her shoulders as she turned to face him.

Her pale eyes were speckled with gold, seeing not just her son but the cord he carried—how it intertwined with the tribe’s tapestry.

“She belongs to you—and now to our tribe—because the cosmic thread binds you.”

“So I’m not wrong,” he murmured. But if she wasn’t Z’myuxi, then what? “She’s not one of us. So what is she? How did she get here? What am I supposed to do with her?”

“Love her.” His mother’s look was sharp, disappointed he’d even asked. “Treat her as one of us.”

“But how did she get here?” Darha whispered, sitting beside the hammock, wonder in her face as she dipped her cloth in the herbal water and washed the female’s skin. “And how will she survive?”

“Z’myu works in mysterious ways,” their mother mused, drawing a blanket of Z’myuw fur from a chest and laying it over the stranger’s feet. “But one thing is certain. Now that she’s arrived, you must welcome her and complete your bond.”

“She’s mine ,” he hissed, tail lashing at the thought anyone might doubt it.

He snatched the bowl and cloth from his sister’s hands, ignoring the rank that should have restrained him.

Cosmic threadmate outweighed protocol. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make her feel she belongs—and I’ll craft whatever she needs to feel safe. ”

Silence fell as the two Kylu’Aymos watched. Watai worked in quiet focus, washing dried blood and grit from her skin. Up close, her tone amazed him—like pale coral sand catching sunlight.

When he finished, he set the cloth aside and drew a blanket over her cleansed body. His mother handed him a shell comb and hair ties with a level stare, a silent challenge. He lifted his chin and accepted.

Easing into the hammock, careful not to wake her, he gathered a section of her long, soft hair and worked the comb through the strands. All he could do was tend her while she slept… and hope, foolishly, it might be enough to earn forgiveness for what he’d done.

“How do you expect the others to react?” he whispered, eyes never leaving her face. “Will we have to tell the other tribes?”

His mother pinched her lips, displeased at the mention of involving the other tribes. Watai braced for the storm this revelation would bring; his people despised change.

“First, focus on your threadmate,” she said at last. “We’ll tell the others when we must—even if it waits until the harvest festival.”