The village of Emberstead should have been quiet that night, blanketed in the usual hush of the forest wind. Instead, the streets hummed with tension. Every window that glowed with lantern light seemed to carry whispers, every doorway became a gathering point for fearful eyes.
And at the center of it all—Matthew.
Mira was resting in her family's home, her fever broken for now. People should have been relieved, but relief was absent.
The guards guarding Mira's room had seen the way Matthew's threads sank into her body, too many had felt the weight of that strange black star when it pulsed overhead.
The whispers swelled louder.
> "It wasn't healing."
"It was binding—binding her soul to something dark."
"Maybe he's carrying the same corruption that sickened her…"
By dawn, the elders had called a council.
---
The Council of Doubt
Matthew stood before them in the meeting hall, the air thick with suspicion. The elders sat in a semicircle, faces worn by decades of fear and superstition.
Old Meras, voice sharp as cracked bark, leaned forward. "Boy, you tell us plain—what power did you use? Was it the Loom, or something else?"
Matthew opened his mouth, but the words stuck. The threads inside his chest thrummed, hot, eager, whispering answers he dared not speak.
"It was weaving," he forced out, fists clenched. "I held her together when she would've fallen apart."
Some nodded. Others scoffed.
One elder muttered, "That wasn't the Loom's work. I felt it. Something colder. Hungrier."
The murmur of assent rippled through the hall, and Matthew felt the ground shift beneath him.
---
Cracks Between Friends
When the council ended, Matthew found Bren waiting outside. The boy's jaw was tight, his arms crossed as though he'd been holding his anger in for too long.
"You should've left Mira alone," Bren snapped. "If she dies, it'll be on you. Everyone knows it."
Matthew flinched. "I saved her."
"Did you? Or did you just tie her to that… thing in the sky?"
The words cut deeper than any blade. For the first time, Matthew saw not a friend, but an accuser in Bren's eyes. He turned away before his voice could crack, before the urge to lash out with shadow threads overcame him. The whispers laughed in his ears, delighted at his restraint.
---
The Weight of the Hunger
That night, Matthew lay awake on his cot, staring at the wooden ceiling. The black filament in his chest pulsed like a second heartbeat, hotter with every breath.
And the voices grew louder.
Not one, but many.
Fragments. Hisses. Groans. Laughter. A chorus stitched together from broken throats, all murmuring the same promise:
> "We can help you. We can make them listen. Cut the threads of fear. Unravel the council. Then no one will doubt."
He pressed his palms to his temples, sweat dampening his skin. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
Until a hand touched his shoulder.
"Matthew," Liora whispered. She stood beside his bed, her gaze steady in the lanternlight. "You're breaking apart. I can see it in your eyes."
"I'm fine," he lied.
Her expression hardened. "You're not. You're holding something in, something that's tearing you open from the inside."
He almost told her—about the voices, the star, the hunger—but stopped. To speak it aloud felt like surrender.
---
Kai Watches
Far above, in the vast and gleaming chamber of his realm, Kai leaned back in his seat, watching the scene unfold across the woven screen. His golden eyes glimmered with faint amusement.
"So fragile," he murmured. "This isn't just power he's fighting for—it's trust. Reputation. The kind of battle that cuts deeper than claws or steel."
Beside him, Ema frowned. "The whispers… they're spreading through the village itself. Not just in Matthew. That isn't normal."
Kai only smirked. "Good. A story isn't alive unless it bleeds into the world around it."
---
Whispers in the Dark
Later that night, Matthew slipped from his bed and sat cross-legged on the floor. If the whispers wouldn't leave him, then he'd meet them head-on.
He drew his threads into being. Pale silver filaments shimmered in the dark, weaving between his fingers like strands of moonlight. But instead of binding wounds, he pushed them outward, thinner, finer, until they vibrated in the air.
Not threads of strength—threads of listening.
Every vibration carried echoes of sound, faint ripples of conversation. Soon, the voices of the council chamber reached his ears, soft and muffled as though spoken through cloth.
"…He's too dangerous."
"…We can't keep him here."
"…Exile, before he draws more of the Hunger's gaze."
Matthew's throat tightened. Exile. They were already planning to cast him out.
The threads quivered in his hands. For one terrible moment, he imagined sending them back—piercing the elders' chests, unraveling their breath, silencing them forever.
The Hunger roared in approval.
But Matthew snapped the threads away, clutching his chest. His vow hardened.
---
The Vow
"If I must leave," he whispered to himself, voice shaking, "I'll leave stronger than I came. And I'll take this curse with me—before it takes everyone else."
The black star flared above the village, brighter, sharper, as if something vast had just opened its eyes and fixed them on him alone.
In Kai's realm, the golden-eyed observer leaned forward, finally serious.
"Oh?" he murmured. "The Hunger's attention sharpens. The boy's thread is tugged taut."
And he smiled, sharp and dangerous.
"Now things get interesting."