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The stag collapsed in a heap of shadow and broken bone, its twisted antlers sinking into the dirt. The air reeked of rot, of something that should never have existed. For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Hunters clutched their spears, knuckles white. Children whimpered behind their mothers' skirts. The torchlight flickered across faces frozen between awe and horror.
And in the center of it all stood Matthew, chest heaving, threads fading from his trembling hands.
The corrupted beast had fallen by him. A boy. Barely older than fifteen summers.
"By the Loom…" one of the hunters whispered. "What… what did he just do?"
Matthew staggered, black veins still crawling faintly along his skin. He could feel the whispers buzzing in his skull like hornets, thrilled at the carnage. Unravel, unravel—
He forced his lips into a thin line, gripping his chest. His heart felt frayed, his weave pulsing with that dark splinter. But he stayed upright.
A child pointed at him. "Mama, look! Matthew killed it!"
The mother shushed her son, pulling him back. Her eyes were not grateful. They were afraid.
"Matthew…" Liora's voice cut through, shaky and sharp. She stepped forward, torch trembling in her hand. Her eyes darted to his arms, to the fading black veins. "What… what are you?"
Matthew opened his mouth, but no words came. Around him, the silence turned heavier, the space between heartbeats stretched taut like a thread about to snap.
They weren't just staring at the dead beast. They were staring at him.
And they were afraid.
---
The whispers didn't fade when he stumbled away from the square. They swelled.
Each step back toward his hut felt wrong, his body burning from within. He fell to his knees beneath the crooked willow, clutching his chest. The black filament buried deep inside his weave pulsed, eager, alive.
Every time he touched a thread, it writhed, spreading faint cracks through his veins.
He saw again the stag's hide—threads ruptured with the same black strands that now throbbed inside him. It was no accident. It was the same corruption, seeded within.
"Unravel," the whispers crooned. "Break. Then you will be whole. Then you will be free."
"No…" he rasped, digging his nails into the dirt. "Not yours… never yours."
But the shadows didn't care. They pulsed, waiting.
---
That night, the longhouse burned with firelight. The elders sat in a circle, their wrinkled faces drawn and wary. Villagers crowded outside, pressing against the walls to hear.
"He slew the beast. None of us could touch it," one hunter argued. "That is no curse. That is protection. The Loom chose him."
Another spat into the fire. "The Loom doesn't blacken veins. Didn't you see him? He fights like a beast, not a chosen. That thing inside him—"
"—is the same that corrupted the stag!" another elder barked. "If it spreads, the boy will fall too. And when he does, the whole village will follow."
A heavy silence followed. The air was thick with fear.
At the edge of the firelight, Matthew lingered in the shadows, listening. Their words struck harder than the stag's charge. Protector. Curse. Blessing. Doom.
He turned away before they noticed him, his chest aching worse than any wound.
---
Far beyond, within the Origin Realm, a great screen of woven starlight rippled with the scene.
Kai lounged sideways on his throne, one arm draped over the armrest, the other holding a crystal bowl of popcorn. His expression was calm, faintly amused, as the elders argued over Matthew's fate.
"Classic," he muttered, tossing a kernel into his mouth. "Give mortals a savior, and the first thing they do is call him cursed."
Ema stood beside him, her form bathed in silver light. Unlike Kai, her eyes were troubled as they lingered on the black pulse in Matthew's chest.
"It grows," she murmured. "Every time he weaves, the filament burrows deeper. This is no mere sickness. It is the Shadow Hunger."
Kai arched a brow, swirling the popcorn bowl. "You make it sound dramatic. It can't touch me, and it sure as hell can't take my realm. At best, it's… a parasite with ambition."
Her lips pressed thin. "But the boy, Kai. You care for him. His weave is delicate. If the Hunger pushes too far—"
Kai cut her off with a lazy shrug. "Then he'll have to fight harder. Pressure makes diamonds. Besides…" His grin sharpened, eyes glinting with interest. "Did you see that? He shaped his threads like blades. Combat weaving. The kid's evolving."
Ema's gaze flickered between the boy and her lord. "…Or breaking."
"Breaking and evolving aren't that different," Kai said, leaning back. "Let's see which one wins."
---
The village slept. But Matthew did not.
He sat beneath the willow again, sweat dripping down his face as golden threads flickered faintly before his eyes. Each attempt to grasp them made the black filaments crawl further, whispering, tugging.
"Tear. End. All threads belong to the void."
For a moment, he almost gave in. It would be so easy to stop fighting. To unravel everything, to let the black star swallow the world.
But then he saw Bren's wide, frightened eyes. Mira crying in her mother's arms. Liora clutching her torch, refusing to run.
If he gave in… who would protect them?
Matthew's hands clenched. "No. I won't be your hands. I'll weave for life… even if it kills me."
His will sparked. Threads flared brighter. Slowly, painfully, he shaped them—not to mend wood or cloth, but into a crude shield, a barrier that shimmered faintly before his chest. It wavered, half-formed, but real.
He pushed further, forcing the threads into a sharp line, a spear of light. His vision blurred, sweat pouring, his veins searing—but the spear held.
The whispers recoiled for a moment, hissing. The black star above pulsed faintly, like it was watching.
Matthew gasped, collapsing to his knees. The shield and spear unraveled back into faint sparks. His chest burned. His arms shook. But he had done it.
For the first time, his weaving wasn't just about mending what was broken.
It was about protecting what he refused to lose.
---