Maverick Dommer wanted a son. He wanted a whole line of four-armed sons and daughters spread across the stars, each one strong enough to carry his blood. But no mate would follow a man with no roof. And tonight the wilds of Xyni proved it. He stood in a shallow rock hollow, all four arms braced against the storm. Rain hammered his bare chest. His loincloth stuck to his thigh. Somewhere out in the dark, a spore-beast screamed. He had slept under open sky for three seasons now. A mate could not raise a child here. A child would not last one wet night. Maverick had scouted this valley for weeks. He knew every ridge and every hunting run. But knowing the land did not solve his problem. He needed walls. He needed a place a woman would enter without fear, a place an heir could grow safe. Then the lightning showed him the grove. Downslope stood a cluster of huge glowing mushrooms. Their caps burned blue and violet against the rain. At the center rose one giant fungus, hollowed and shaped like a cottage. Warm light spilled from round windows. Curved tunnels linked the outer caps to the central dome. Someone had built this. Someone had left it. Maverick climbed down fast. Mud slid under his feet. He reached the arched door and shoved. It held. He set two hands on the frame, two on the wood, and pushed with his whole back. The latch snapped. He stumbled inside. The storm cut off behind him. Dry air. Steady light from the glowing walls. He stood dripping on a floor of packed stone. A dead hearth waited in the corner. Passages branched off toward the smaller caps, dry and wide enough to store food. Maverick walked the whole place with rain still running off his arms. He counted three rooms. He found a well fed by water dripping through the fungus canopy above. He tasted it. Clean. He pressed a hand to the inner wall and felt no leak, no cold, no rot. This would hold a mate. This would hold a child. He worked through the night. He hauled fallen caps to block the broken latch. He dried the hearth and lit a small fire with dead stalks. By dawn the grove was his. His breath no longer fogged. His hands no longer shook. Maverick stepped back outside as the sun rose. The storm had passed. The wet caps glowed pale now in daylight. He had a home. He had walls, water, and warmth for the family he meant to raise. He had solved the first problem. And standing there, dry at last, he faced the next one plainly. A home meant nothing empty. In all his scouting of this valley, he had never once seen another of his kind. To sire an heir, he first had to find a mate on a world that seemed to hold none.

Maverick had a home now. What he needed was a mate. But no woman would enter this grove while a killer waited at the door. The beast came at dusk. Maverick heard it first, claws scraping stone outside the arched entrance. He looked through a round window. The glowing caps had shifted to a warning red as clouds rolled in, and their light spilled across the thing prowling below. It was huge. Its body ran long and low like a lizard's, but thick plates armored its back and sides. Six trunk-like legs carried its weight. A barbed tail dragged behind it. The creature lifted its snout toward the glow and opened a mouth full of teeth. It had followed the light. It meant to stay. Maverick's plan for courting could wait. No mate would follow him here while this thing hunted his door. He had to kill it or drive it off tonight. He took no spear. Against those plates a spear would snap. He looked at the well in the corner, its wide cap roof over clear water, and the wooden pillars that held it. He set two hands on one pillar and pulled. The wood cracked free. Now he had a club as thick as his leg. Maverick shoved the door open and stepped out. The beast swung its head toward him and hissed. It charged. Its legs pounded the ground. Maverick did not run. He waited until the snout nearly reached him, then dove aside. Teeth snapped shut on empty air. He swung the pillar down onto its skull. The blow cracked loud. The beast staggered but did not fall. Its tail whipped around. A barb tore across his ribs. Blood ran down his side. Maverick grabbed the tail with his lower two hands and heaved. The creature's back legs left the ground. He spun and drove it into the stone wall of the grove. Plates buckled. The beast screamed. It scrambled up, dazed, and Maverick struck again, both upper arms behind the pillar. The wood shattered on its skull. The creature dropped. It lay still, then dragged itself upright and fled into the dark, tail limp behind it. Maverick stood in the red light, chest heaving. The wound at his ribs stung. He pressed a hand to it and felt the bleeding slow. The beast was gone. It would not come back soon. He looked at the broken well. One pillar lay in splinters. He would have to mend it before the roof sagged into the water. But the door was safe. The grove was safe. Maverick washed his wound in the clean water. As the caps faded from red toward calm blue, he thought again of the empty rooms behind him. The threat was gone. Now nothing stood between him and the true problem. He had a safe home and no one to share it. Tomorrow he would leave the grove and search the valley for a mate.

At dawn Maverick left the grove and walked into the valley. He wanted a mate. But he stopped at a still pool and saw himself in the water. Four arms. Thick chest hair. A loincloth that barely covered his thighs. Blood dried along his ribs. He looked wild. Any stranger would run before he spoke a word. He had to change how he met people, or he would meet no one at all. He followed a trail into a forest of giant mushrooms. Their caps flickered blue, then gold, then pink as the wind shifted. Small moths with frog feet drifted between the stems, trailing fine dust. Maverick moved slow. He kept his hands low and open. He wanted to look calm, not like a beast. A tall figure knelt among the herb rows at the forest edge. Its skin was pale teal. Its hair was braided vines that ended in green leaves. It wore a thin gown that stopped high on its hips. It hummed to a drooping plant, and Maverick watched the plant lift its leaves toward the sound. This was a Mycelonite, born of this world, one who spoke to living things. Its name was Mylonin. Maverick stepped forward. A twig cracked under his foot. Mylonin turned. Its eyes went wide. It saw the four arms, the blood, the size of him. It stumbled back and raised both hands. Maverick froze. Slow, he sank to one knee. He set all four palms flat on the ground. He lowered his head. He did not speak or move. Mylonin stared. Then it looked past Maverick, at a moth that had landed on his shoulder. The moth did not flee. It sat calm on his skin and fanned its wings. "The sporewing trusts you," Mylonin said. Its voice was soft. "They flee from cruel things." Maverick lifted his head. "I mean no harm. I came for help, not to fright you." Mylonin stepped closer. It reached out one slender hand and touched the dried blood at his ribs. "You are hurt." It studied his face, not his arms now. "You knelt. A wild thing does not kneel." "I have a home," Maverick said. "A grove with rooms and clean water. I look wild. I know it. But I am not." Mylonin was quiet a long moment. Then it plucked a broad leaf and pressed it to his wound. "Hold this. The sap will close it." It rose and looked him over once more. "Walk with me. My people trade herbs at the far grove. If you keep kneeling like that, they may not throw stones." Maverick stood. For the first time a stranger had not run. His wild look had failed to drive Mylonin away. But now Mylonin would take him to a whole village of watchful eyes, and one kneeling would not be enough for a crowd.

The trail widened, and the village came into view. Cob homes rose under giant mushroom caps, ringed by a wooden fence. Racks of dried herbs hung by the gate. Maverick slowed and dropped his four hands low, open and empty. Mylonin walked beside him, humming to the plants along the path. As they neared the gate, Mylonin stopped short and stared at him. "You want a mate," Mylonin said. Its voice was flat, certain. "The ground told me. The roots feel your want. It runs deep in you." Maverick stiffened. He had not spoken of this to anyone. "I do," he said. "I built a home. I want a family to fill it." Mylonin stepped closer. It touched a vine of its braided hair and studied his four arms, his broad chest, the whole size of him. "My people bond by strength. When two of us choose each other, the weaker kneels and submits to the stronger. It is our way." It tilted its head. "You knelt to me in the herb rows. But your body is strong. This puzzles me." Maverick met its eyes. He saw the question there, and something warmer under it. He weighed his answer. He could stand tall and claim to be the stronger. Or he could kneel again and let Mylonin choose. "I knelt to show I meant no harm," he said. "Not because I am weak. But I will kneel to the one I want." He lowered himself slow, all four palms flat on the dirt, head bowed. "I want you, Mylonin. If your way is to submit, then I submit." Mylonin went still. The plants around them lifted their leaves toward him. A moth drifted down and landed on his bent shoulder. Mylonin watched it fan its wings. "A strong one who kneels," Mylonin murmured. "I have never met such a thing." It knelt too, until they faced each other on the ground. It reached to a pouch at its hip, marked with pale glowing signs, and drew out a fresh leaf salve. It pressed the salve to the healing wound on his ribs. "Rise. You are welcome here. And you are chosen." Maverick stood, his heart loud. He had come to trade herbs and hide his wild look. Instead a Mycelonite had claimed him as a mate. His arc had turned in a way he never planned. But as they passed through the gate, other Mycelonites looked up from their work. They saw Mylonin kneeling before Maverick moments ago, saw the four-armed giant accepted. Whispers spread down the lane. One elder Mycelonite stepped into the path and blocked the way, arms crossed. "Mylonin chose an outsider," the elder said. "A creature not of our world. The village must judge if this bond is allowed." Mylonin took Maverick's lower hand. "Then we face their judgment together." The gate closed behind them, and the crowd pressed in.

The crowd walked Maverick and Mylonin out of the village, up a stone trail, to the edge of a great waterfall. Water crashed into a dark lake far below. Three elders waited on the wet ledge. The oldest held out a scrap of woven cloth, tiny and see-through, marked with a braided symbol. "You are not like us," the elder said to Maverick. "You carry a gender. Our people carry none. We do not know what such a mate brings." Mylonin stepped forward, but the elder raised a hand. "His body is strong. His kind is unknown. If he wishes to stay bonded, he must prove he is worthy to exist here. He must take the plunge and rise from the lake alive." The elder pressed the ceremonial garb into Maverick's lower hand. "Wear the rite cloth. The falls will judge you." Maverick looked at the drop. The lake below churned white where the water struck. He had fought a beast with a wooden club and won. But this was different. This was their law, and Mylonin's people all watched. Mylonin touched his arm. Its teal fingers trembled. "The roots say the water runs deep and cold," it whispered. "Many have not risen. You do not have to." "I built a home for a family," Maverick said. "I will not lose you to a cliff." He set down his other belongings. The tiny rite garb barely fit his frame, but he tied it and stepped to the edge. Four muscular arms spread wide. He filled his chest with air and jumped. He fell fast. The wind tore at him. He hit the lake, and the cold swallowed him whole. Darkness pulled him down. He clawed the water with all four arms, kicking hard against the weight. His lungs burned. He fixed his mind on Mylonin's face and dragged himself up. He broke the surface and gasped. The crowd on the ledge went silent, then began to stamp their feet in a slow beat. Mylonin scrambled down the rocks to the shore and pulled him from the shallows. Maverick coughed water and lay in the mud, alive. The oldest elder climbed down last. It studied the four-armed giant sprawled on the bank. "The falls kept you," the elder said. "You may stay bonded." Then its face hardened. "But a bond is not a bloodline. Your kind and ours have never made young together. Mylonin carries no gender and no womb. If you two cannot bear an heir, this bond ends with you. That, the village will not honor." Maverick sat up, dripping and cold. He had survived the water and won the right to stay. But the elder's words landed heavier than the fall. He had a mate now, sealed by law. He still had no path to the heir he crossed the stars to make.

Three days after the falls, the eldest elder came to Maverick's grove. The old Mycelonite walked between the glowing mushroom caps and stopped at the tall fungus that served as his home. "You have one turn of the moon," the elder said. "Bear an heir by then, or the bond ends." Then it turned and left. Maverick stood in the doorway, four fists clenched, and had no idea how a man and a womb-less mate could make a child. Mylonin found him among the herb rows. Its braided vine hair hung limp, and its teal skin had gone dull. "My body is changing," it whispered. It pressed a hand to its flat stomach. "The roots told me a way. My people can shift, slowly, when the bond is deep. But it takes strength, and it hurts. I will be weak for many days." Maverick knelt at once, all four hands open. "Then I will guard you while you change," he said. "You gave me your trust at the falls. I give you my arms now." Mylonin lay down inside the mushroom cottage. Its breath came shallow. Its skin cooled, then flushed, then cooled again. Maverick carried water from the well and pressed cool cloths to its brow. He tore herbs from his garden rows and crushed them into a paste for its cracked lips. For two days Mylonin thrashed and moaned. Its hips widened. Its stomach swelled inward and hollowed to hold new hidden flesh. On the second night, a fever gripped it hard. Mylonin's vines went brown at the tips. "I cannot," it gasped. "The change is too much. I am splitting apart." Its whole body shook. Maverick gathered Mylonin against his chest, two arms cradling its back, two holding its cold hands. "You will not split," he said. "Feel me. I am solid. Match my breath." He breathed slow and deep. He hummed low against its hair. He did not sleep. He held the trembling body through the dark while the glowing caps outside pulsed soft blue. By dawn the shaking stopped. Mylonin lay still and warm. Its skin had turned a rich, healthy teal. Its hips had settled broad and full. It opened its eyes and touched its own new belly with wonder. "It worked," it breathed. "The roots sing again. I have a womb now, Maverick. A place for your seed." Maverick let out a long breath and pulled Mylonin close. He had built a shelter. He had survived the falls. Now he had sheltered his mate through the change that made an heir possible. But as Mylonin smiled up at him, he saw how thin it had grown, how much the shift had drained. The body was ready. The mate was not yet strong. And the moon was already climbing toward the elder's deadline.

The morning after the change, Mylonin still could not stand. Maverick fed it broth from a wooden cup, one hand under its head. Its new womb was ready, the roots said. But the moon had nearly finished its turn. Maverick knew what the elders wanted. He also knew his mate was too weak to try. He set the cup down and made a hard choice. He would wait one more day for Mylonin to gather strength, or the bond would end with nothing. That night, Mylonin found him at the well inside the glowing grove. Its vine hair had greened again. Color had returned to its cheeks. "I am ready," it said. It touched his broad chest with a slender hand. "The roots sang all day. My body wants this now. We have no more time to lose." Maverick studied its face. He remembered how thin it had grown. "You nearly split apart," he said. "I will not break you." "You will not," Mylonin said. It took two of his four hands and pressed them to its full hips. "I chose you at the falls. I chose this pain. Let me choose this too." He knelt then, the way he had knelt the first day. All four hands open. Mylonin smiled and drew him up. Inside the mushroom cottage, the walls pulsed soft blue. Maverick was careful. He was slow. Two arms cradled Mylonin's back. Two held its trembling hands, the way he had held them through the fever. Mylonin's breath quickened, but the roots sang instead of screaming. Its skin stayed warm and teal. It did not cool. It did not brown at the tips. When it was done, they lay tangled in the glow. Mylonin pressed both their hands to its belly. "I feel it," it whispered. "Something has taken hold. Deep, like a seed in dark soil." Its eyes shone. "Your line will carry on, Maverick. Across the stars, you said. It begins here." Maverick let out a long breath. He had built the shelter. He had survived the falls. He had guarded his mate through the change. Now his seed had found a place to grow. For the first time, the elder's deadline felt beaten. But at dawn, Mylonin woke pale and shaking. It clutched its stomach and doubled over the bed. A thin green fluid ran down its leg. "Something is wrong," it gasped. "The seed took, but my body fights it. This flesh is too new. It does not know how to hold a child." It gripped his arm hard. "Maverick, I could lose it. I could lose both of us." Maverick caught Mylonin before it fell. The child was made. Now he had to keep it from dying inside a body that had never carried life. He wrapped his mate in his arms and turned toward the village. He needed a Mycelonite healer, and he needed one before the sun climbed higher.

Maverick carried Mylonin through the mushroom-roofed cob homes at a run. His mate hung limp across two arms, green fluid streaking its thigh. He shouted for help. A door opened. An old Mycelonite waved him inside, hands already moving to a shelf of clay jars. This was the village healer, the one Mylonin had once traded herbs with. Maverick knew the face but not the trade. He laid Mylonin on a woven mat and stepped back to give the old one room. The healer pressed a palm to Mylonin's belly and closed its eyes. "The child holds," it said. "But the new flesh rejects it. I need the root that calms a fighting body." It pulled a jar down, sniffed, and set it aside. Another. Another. Its hands began to shake. "Empty. I traded my last three moons ago." It looked at Maverick. "Without it, both die before the sun peaks." Maverick's chest went tight. "Name the root. I will find it." "You cannot. It grows a valley away." The healer touched Mylonin's cold cheek. "There is no time." Then Maverick remembered his garden. Back at the glowing grove, he had planted rows of strange plants gathered from across the whole planet. Bulbs. Vines. Flowers no Mycelonite had named. "I have plants," he said. "Many. Gathered far. Come with me. Look at them all." The healer hesitated, then snatched up a worn pouch stitched with pale mushroom marks. They ran together to the grove. Maverick led it to the herb rows. The healer moved down the line, crushing leaves, tasting sap, spitting. It stopped at a teal bulb trailing pale roots. "This one." It broke the bulb open. "Not the same root. But the same song. It will do." Inside the cottage, the healer ground the bulb against a stone and mixed the paste with well water drawn from the mushroom-capped well. It fed the green slurry to Mylonin drop by drop, tilting its head with one hand. Maverick knelt beside the mat. All four hands hovered, useless, ready. He watched his mate's throat move as it swallowed. Minutes passed. Mylonin's shaking slowed. The fluid stopped running. Color crept back into its cheeks. Its eyes opened. "The seed," it whispered. "It still holds. The fight is done." The healer sat back, drained. "The body accepts the child now. For today." It fixed Maverick with a hard look. "But this bulb will not last the whole term. Its body will fight again, harder, as the child grows. You need the true root. And only the elders know where it grows." Maverick took Mylonin's hand and pressed it to his chest. His child lived. His mate breathed. But the elders held the one thing that could carry them to birth. He had begged their permission once. Now he would have to beg again.