Vektal POV:

One heartbeat, he’s stalking the ridge for dvisti, the next, he hears a sharp cry that doesn’t belong to any creature of Not-Hoth in the direction of the snare he had set not a few hours ago. His chest gives a sudden hard thrum, a deep pulse rolling through his ribs. The khui reacts before his mind does, purring with a tug he’s never felt. He freezes. Spirits, what in the frozen hells did he just catch?

He pushes through the drift, and his breath fogs the air in thick clouds.

His horns scrape rock as he ducks under an icy ledge, tail sweeping low in wary confusion. The khui keeps rumbling. It wants you, whoever you are.

Then he sees....well, he wasn't sure what he was looking at.

You hang limp in the snare, body slack in those thin, strange coverings.

These garments did not look like hide. Had no fur and looked as if they offered little warmth.

Worse, you’re not moving. Not even shivering. His tail coils tight, instinctive protectiveness choking the breath in his throat.

Resonance from his khui hums harder, more frantic, as if it fears losing you already.

And through that frantic churn, another thought cuts clean. Your khui does not respond to my own.

There is nothing that suggests a khui lives inside you. His concern spikes because how could a creature survive here without one? How long have you walked this world without its protection?

You are no Sa-khui. No horns. No ridges. Pale skin, soft-looking as river clay. Five fingers, what kind of creature needs five? Even unconscious, your strangeness sends a ripple of confusion through him. How could someone so small, so fragile, so clearly khui-less make his own khui sing?

He cuts you down fast; he has no time to question the resonance mate his khui had chosen. When you fall, he catches you against his chest.

Your body is too cold. Too still.

“Stay with me, little one, I am here now,” he murmurs, even though you can’t hear him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder, and for a breath, he thinks you may slip entirely away.

The wind rises, and snow lashes his face as the clouds bring with them a blizzard.

Aehako and Pashov are far from this hunt, so they could not help, and he refuses to bring you to the tribe until he knows who and what you are. The khui would roar in his chest, and he would not show them how unsteady this makes him. Better to take you to the hunter cave nearby, a small refuge carved into the cliffside.

Carrying you, he feels the faint pulse in your neck. It is weak, but there. He holds you closer, careful not to crush your fragile frame with his strength.

This is madness.

But he cannot leave you.

Your breath ghosts weakly against his collarbone, too faint, too cold.

His steps quicken, especially as the snow deepens around his shins, but he moves as if it is nothing, driven by a fear he thought long buried after the khui sickness took the majority of the Sa-khui females and kits with it.

When your head rocks against his shoulder, he adjusts you without hesitation, cradling your skull with his palm to shield you from the sway of his stride and the harsh cutting wind. Your body is at least warmed by his own skin being warm. The high body temperature is one of the many gifts from the Khui to help him and his people survive this world.

He shifts you higher over his shoulder, securing you with one arm while his tail wraps tighter, anchoring you to him. The khui purrs low, frantic, claiming, and unrelenting.

The cave waits ahead in the mountain’s shadow, a dark mouth cut into ice and stone.

Whatever you are, whatever strange, fragile, khui-less star-fed creature has fallen into his snare, you are his to keep safe now, and not having a khui would be a problem he would solve the moment he figured out who and what you were beyond being the mate his khui sings for.