Verkiir had never known pain like that which he felt the moment his mate left the room.

It was ridiculous. He'd been in countless battles and had the scars to prove it. He'd felt searing hot Drekthor steel tear through his flesh. He'd been deprived of oxygen for so long that his lungs burned and his body ached, desperate for breathable air. He'd been exposed to the biting winds of a snowstorm in the middle of a remote planet that offered absolutely no natural windbreaks.

Verkiir knew pain, but this was something far worse. With every step he took, his soul felt as if it was being ripped from his body like stitches pulled from a seam. Many orbits ago, when he'd been little more than a youngling, he'd accused the older males of being dramatic; of thinking with their cocks and little else, for surely any pitiable creature not in lust would be able to curb the supposed pain.

Oh, how wrong he'd been. It took every ounce of his strength just to remain standing, but he did it. He had no other choice. He could not disgrace himself any further.

There was still the matter of his exile to contend with.

"I am prepared for your judgment, Pathfinder," he said, keeping his head held high.

But Drol'gan merely waved this off. "Any judgment I could level upon you would be no worse than what has happened here today. I have already excused your actions, First Guardian. But understand if you ever attack me again, you will be killed."

Shock registered in Verkiir's features. What he had done was unforgivable. And yet Drol'gan was letting him off with a warning? He bowed his head, grateful for the Pathfinder's forgiveness.

But that was when the rest of the elder's words finally sunk in. Any judgment I could level upon you would be no worse than what has happened here today. Cold dread flooded his veins, and the waves of illness that rolled through his stomach became nearly unbearable.

His mate had walked away.

The Karuvar held the moment when mates found each other as sacred. They were overjoyed, and impatient to consummate the union and seal their bond for eternity. Never had a female Karuvar rejected a male, nor had a male rejected a female. But there had been tales of mates separated by extenuating circumstances before they could join together.

None of those tales ended well for either party.

"This... isn't good, is it?" a feminine voice asked.

He had almost forgotten Adi'sun was still in the room. Her eyes were wide, and she held her papers again.

"It is not," the Pathfinder confirmed.

"What's going to happen?" she asked.

The door opened, and Drann returned. His ears were downcast, but he walked as he had been taught--the way a future Pathfinder should. He was not quite the presence as his father yet, but he would reach that point someday.

Verkiir was just no longer convinced he would be alive to see that day.

"In Karuvar, we call this dezhval," the Pathfinder began. "There is no adequate translation in your tongue, but if you can imagine someone slowly starving to death, deprived of what they need to live on the most basic level. They become a husk of themselves, until they eventually slip away."

Drol'gan's tone was solemn, and Drann's ears dipped even further. He looked between Verkiir and his father as the Pathfinder continued.

"The physical symptoms vary from person to person. Fever, nausea, chills, sleeplessness, and a lack of appetite are common. So too is a constant and persistent pain that is cured by no medicine."

"That's... devastating," Adi'sun said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Just follow her," Drann insisted. "Go after her. Make her understand."

Verkiir spared a wry smile for the youngling. One day he would learn that things were not that simple. For now, he supposed he had to be the one who proved the point.

"It is more complicated than that," Drol'gan explained. His gaze cut to Verkiir, and he nodded.

"A male must be worthy of his mate," Verkiir finished. "She must see him as a protector. Someone who will be able to keep her and her kits safe. Otherwise, she will reject him."

While it was very rare, Verkiir had heard tale, too, of one mate being rejected by the other for this very reason. If they did not prove themselves, they were destined to be consumed by the dezhval.

But how did one prove themselves to a human?

"That's... a little caveman," Adi'sun said, tapping her pen on her papers. When Verkiir and the other males turned to look at her, her eyes widened slightly. "It's just not usually how we do things on Earth. Women like strong men who make them feel safe, but they also like men who are sensitive and men who make them laugh."

Verkiir frowned at this. Human females required much more than Karuvar females, it seemed. And he was already off to a terrible start.

"I do not know how to do these things," Verkiir said.

Adi'sun looked him up and down and smiled. "I can tell."

Drol'gan ran three fingers over his implant, his brow furrowed. "How long do you believe it will take to repair my implant, Adi’sun?"

"I have to run some diagnostics, but you'll likely be looking at a week or so? The components will take a day or two to create. The surgery will be done in a few hours, but your body needs time to adjust and you need time to heal. I usually like to allow three to four days for that process."

A week. They would be on Earth for a week. While the thought was one that would have filled Verkiir with dread previously, now...

"Then you will have a week to make yourself worthy of your mate, Verkiir. Stars grant you guidance."

* * *

Verkiir had wished to start immediately, but Adi'sun recommended he give his mate "space." He did not understand this, yet there was a great deal he did not understand about humans, so he remained in his quarters aboard the Zavellan, attending to his duties.

For a time, he was able to focus on Drann and his needs. He could ignore the pain, the stomach cramps, and the fact that he broke into a sweat after merely walking the distance of a room. His attention was on Drann's training, as he had been instructed to ensure the young Karuvar could fight as his people were meant to.

While other starfarers relied on technology, and some on magic, the Karuvar were built to wield weapons. They were no cowards to strike at a distance and then retreat. They put their strength, agility, and natural armor to good use.

Every youngling, male or female, was trained in a variety of weapons until one resonated with them. Each Karuvar had a style they preferred. Drol'gan's twin blades were fast as lightning, while Verkiir's halberd was slow but powerful.

Thus far, Drann had shown equal proficiency with all weapons. Such was the way of the Pathfinder line. He would grow fond of one weapon above all others, but he would be competent in the use of any weapon, no matter the training he'd had with it.

Today, Verkiir had trained his charge in the use of a heavy mace. While they sparred, his blood pumped as it should, his body responding to his directives. Perhaps he was slower than he might normally be, but he attributed that to the chills that plagued him at random intervals.

His sense of ease faded as soon as the training session ended, however. They retired to the mess hall, and Drann proceeded to tell him everything Azh'lee had said about humans during their brief acquaintance.

Verkiir had elected to take his meal in his quarters after that.

Yet when he tried to eat, he found the food tasted like nothing at all. Even the protein paste given to soldiers in times of war had some taste, and his meal was of far higher quality. His water, too, did not seem to have the same nourishing effect. He felt ever thirsty, no matter how much he drank.

And when he decided to confine himself to his bed, he found himself chained down in a waking nightmare. He could not find comfort. He tossed and turned, his body aching no matter how he lay. Sweat dripped from him, and he felt a misery like he had never known; a misery he could not escape.

The males had not been exaggerating. He needed Mei'gahn. He needed his mate. And if he could not make himself worthy of her...

He did not know what might happen to him.