The village had not slept since the stag's death.
Its twisted carcass smoldered in the square, antlers collapsed into brittle ash, flesh still reeking of oil and shadow. Even in death the beast defied nature—the flames that licked its hide sputtered like wet tinder, reluctant to consume the corruption it carried.
Matthew lingered at the edge of the firelight, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His veins still ached where the blackness had surged during the fight. He could feel it even now—the splinter lodged inside his chest, pulsing faintly with each heartbeat.
But it wasn't the stag that made the villagers whisper.
It was him.
Eyes followed him wherever he moved. Some gleamed with awe, others with suspicion, but none with comfort. Children clutched their mothers. Hunters rested hands uneasily on spear shafts. He had been savior and threat in the same breath.
Elder Harun finally spoke, voice carrying across the hush.
"The boy wields the Loom. He called light from broken threads. He saved us when none could."
A hunter spat into the dirt. "And nearly tore himself apart doing it. I saw his veins blacken. Whatever lives in him—it's the same rot that twisted the stag."
Murmurs swelled, agreement mixing with denial.
Matthew's fists clenched. He wanted to shout that he hadn't asked for this, that he wasn't the monster they feared. But before he could speak, a small voice cut through the tension.
"Matthew!"
Mira—her hair still tangled, her little face streaked with soot—broke free from her mother's grasp and ran straight toward him.
"No, wait—"
Too late. His threads stirred instinctively, answering fear before reason. Golden strands flickered around him like nervous fireflies. Mira's hand brushed his sleeve—
—and a shard of blackness leapt.
A hair-thin filament of shadow burrowed beneath her skin. Her eyes went wide. She stumbled, clutching her wrist as faint black lines spread like cracks through porcelain.
Matthew's heart seized. "No…"
Her mother screamed. Hunters lunged to pull her back.
"The corruption spreads!" someone roared.
Panic erupted.
"Keep him away from her!"
"He carries the black star's curse!"
"Exile him before it takes root in us all!"
Matthew staggered back, shaking his head violently. "I—I didn't mean to! I didn't—"
The whispers coiled inside his skull like smoke.
See? You are no savior. You are a loom of unravelling. Spread us. Grow us. Let all threads return to nothing.
"No!" His voice cracked. "I won't—"
But Mira's cries gutted him. Her body writhed, faint black veins spiderwebbing across her arms. Hunters raised spears. Mothers clutched children. He could see the future in their eyes: torches, exile, blood.
Something inside him snapped.
Threads burst from his palms, golden lines sharpened into jagged blades of light. They hissed against the dirt, cutting deep grooves. A barrier flared between him and the mob.
The crowd froze. Fear, sharper than awe, carved into their faces.
"Stop this madness!" Liora's voice rang out, iron-hard. "He saved you all—will you repay him with murder?"
Her defiance checked the mob, but barely. The threads in Matthew's hands shivered. Slowly, painfully, he willed them to dissolve. His knees nearly buckled with exhaustion.
"I never wanted this," he whispered, unheard beneath the murmurs of curse and exile.
---
The Origin Realm
Above a starlit dais, a screen shimmered—Matthew hunched in the dirt, golden threads fading from his hands, villagers cowering in fear.
Kai leaned back on his throne, lazily tossing popcorn into his mouth. His golden eyes glimmered with amusement.
"Well, well. First blood-drawn weaponization." He smirked. "Didn't take the boy long to turn weaving into blades."
Beside him, Ema's gaze lingered on Mira, her small body wracked by the creeping blackness. Her brow furrowed.
"This should not be possible," she murmured. "The Hunger cannot leap so easily from one vessel to another. Unless…"
"Unless the splinter's breeding," Kai finished for her, swirling his drink. "Cute mechanic. Messy, but cute."
Ema's voice dropped. "If left unchecked, it will fray his world."
Kai shrugged, lips curling faintly. "Drama builds character." He leaned forward slightly, eyes never leaving the screen. "Honestly? This is better than half the anime finales I've watched."
---
Back in the Village
By nightfall, Mira had been carried to the healer's hut. Her skin burned feverishly, veins etched with crawling black threads. No herb soothed it, no prayer banished it. The healers tried weaving, but the corruption recoiled like a snake, resisting every stitch.
She murmured in her delirium, whispering words she should not know. "All must unravel… all threads return…"
Her mother wept bitterly, cursing Matthew's name. Fear thickened. Hunters muttered openly about exile.
The elders gathered, their decision swift: Matthew was to be placed under "protective watch."
Half protection. Half prison.
Bren lingered by his side, silent but steady. Liora argued fiercely in his defense, her words cutting through venom, but even she could not silence the rising tide of fear.
Matthew felt it all—the suspicion, the weight of Mira's suffering, the pulse of shadow in his chest. Every time he touched his threads, the black filament inside him throbbed harder, hungrier.
The whispers promised release.
Unravel her, and she will be free. End her suffering. Feed us, and she will be whole.
He pressed his hands to his skull, desperate. "Shut up… shut up!"
But in the silence of the night, temptation dug deeper.
--
When the village finally slept, Matthew slipped free of watchful eyes or so he thought. His steps carried him to the healer's hut, heart hammering.
Mira lay pale and sweating, lips moving with whispers too familiar. Her small hand twitched in fever.
For a moment, Matthew faltered. The darkness inside urged him to end it—to unravel her thread completely. His fingers hovered, trembling.
"No…" His voice was raw, breaking. "Not like this."
He pressed his palm to hers. Golden strands stirred, thin and fragile, weaving not to mend, not to cut, but to stabilize. To hold. To buy her time.
Light glimmered faintly between them. The blackness slowed. For the first time, her breathing eased.
Matthew nearly collapsed with relief. Sweat poured down his face as the threads dissolved.
Then—her eyes opened.
For an instant, they gleamed not with shadow, but with gold.
Matthew froze, staring.
Far away, in the Origin Realm, Kai leaned forward in his throne, the first true spark of interest flickering across his face.
"Oh," he murmured. "That's new."
---