Page 12 of The Weaver

When the shadowstalker vrix of Takarahl had made war on the thornskulls seven years ago, they’d often spoken of striding to Kaldarak and burning it to ash. But by the time they’d reached this side of the mire that separated the territories of the two cities, Rekosh and his friends had all but lost their drive to do so. Their eyes had been opened. The lives of their companions, their friends, had been thrown away for the queen’s greed.

Zurvashi had begun the war to seize the areas where mender root grew in abundance—not because of the root’s healing properties, but because it could be used to make her favorite shade of purple dye. It didn’t matter that the thornskulls had freely traded the roots with the shadowstalkers. The queen had decided that she needed to seize those grounds and hoard the root for herself.

Urkot had lost an arm, Rekosh, Ketahn, and Telok had collected countless scars, and Ishkal, Ketahn’s broodbrother—along with so many other shadowstalkers—had died, all so Zurvashi could hang purple silk from her belt.

Having obtained what she’d wanted, Zurvashi had grown disinterested in making war on the thornskulls, and had withdrawn her army before they could march on Kaldarak. Rekoshdoubted that she’d known how many of her warriors had lost their will to fight, doubted she’d known how many of them had been ready to abandon her cause and go home.

But that knowledge wouldn’t have made a difference. The queen had only ever taken her own feelings into account.

He never would’ve imagined he’d see this place, much less that he and his companions would live here in peace and friendship with the very vrix they had so brutally battled years before. Yet he already felt more at home in Kaldarak than he had in Takarahl for a long, long time.

Rekosh navigated Kaldarak with ease. By now, he could’ve gone from his den to Ahmya’s even with his eyes shrouded, moving only by touch and memory. How many times had he made this trek? How many times had he watched over the female he yearned to make his, speaking every word but those his hearts urged him to share?

Though he greeted the thornskulls he passed as he traveled, he did not stop to make conversation as he normally would have.

No whispers on the web today. No gossip, no rumors, no amusing stories. Each step was faster than his last, carrying him with increasing speed toward his destination.

Toward his destiny.

During his visit to Takarahl, he’d been painfully aware of the threads of fate, which had been pulled taut despite remaining tangled. But as he and his friends had made their return, he’d sensed those threads winding together in harmony. They’d formed a rope infinitely stronger than any individual thread.

A tether leading him directly back to Ahmya.

The arrival of Rekosh and his tribe had led to an expansion of this city. Skilled thornskull crafters had built three new platforms on one of the massive trees, connecting them to the rest with bridges made of thickly woven silk cord. Sturdy stepslinked the platforms to one another, making them easy for the humans to travel between.

The lowest, widest platform held the two largest structures. One was a place where the humans could gather to share meals and words—a place tohang out, as they said. Beside it was the den shared by Will and Diego, which was nearly thrice the size of the other human dens. That size was necessitated by its dual purposes as both a living space for a mated pair and a place of healing, where they tended to humans and vrix alike.

The highest tier held Cole’s den, which stood out thanks to the large wooden deck he’d built around it. Between the deck’s low railing with its carved posts and the chairs and table he’d fashioned to occupy it, nothing else in Kaldarak looked quite the same.

But it was the middle platform that always caught Rekosh’s attention, with its three small dens—Callie’s on the left, Lacey’s in the middle, and Ahmya’s on the right, where the platform flared out and grew more spacious.

His hearts thumped as he looked toward her den. She was outside, standing with her back to Rekosh and strands of her long black hair fluttering in the breeze. Only her head and shoulders were visible from his vantage.

He quickened his pace, bounding across the rope bridge to reach the human platforms with the gift tucked securely against his abdomen.

Rekosh had gone an entire moon cycle without seeing or speaking to her, and much longer without declaring the claim he’d felt in his hearts for so long.

He raced across the lower platform and up the stairs to the next. He didn’t even glance at Callie and Lacey’s dens as he passed them, keeping his eyes forward in anticipation of the moment when the platform’s gentle curve would bring Ahmya back into view.

Words tumbled through his mind, forming a hundred things he could say to her, a hundred ways to make his claim. But which were the right words? Which would truly express his yearning, his adoration?

Could he even properly express his feelings in her language?

Then his gaze settled upon her, and his heartsthread thrummed, casting aside all his doubts.

Hisvi’keishi—his little flower—who shone as brightly as the sun.

She was facing her den, arms crossed over her chest, with one hip cocked and her lips curled in amusement.

Rekosh’s mandibles twitched upward in a smile, but they fell when his gaze ran over her body. Rather than a blue jumpsuit or the white shirt and shorts she and the other humans normally wore, she was dressed in bright pink silk—one piece wrapped around her chest, revealing her stomach, another tied around her waist and hanging to her knees.

He clenched his fingers, pressing his claws against his palms, and only barely held back a growl. He longed to tear that silk from her body not because it was inferior, which it certainly was, but because it wasn’this. She deserved to wear only the finest silk.

She was meant to wear onlyRekosh’ssilk.

Ahmya laughed. The light, musical sound chased away Rekosh’s tension, soothed his spirit, and tugged directly on his heartsthread, beckoning him to her a little quicker.

Calm yourself, Rekosh. Patience. She is yours to claim, and she will never again wear anyone’s silk but yours.

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