The village gathered beneath the old ash tree, torches burning low in the autumn dusk. Emberstead had never been so silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as every eye turned toward the raised platform where the elders stood.
Matthew sat apart, flanked by two hunters with spears. Their "protective watch." It felt more like chains. His palms twitched with the memory of golden threads, but he kept them still. If he so much as stirred the weave now, they'd take it as proof of guilt.
Elder Harun's voice carried across the crowd.
"The corruption festers. Mira's veins still burn with shadow. And we cannot ignore that it leapt from Matthew to her."
A murmur rippled, bitter and fearful.
"He is no boy," spat one of the older hunters. "He is a vessel for the rot. Exile him now before the rest of us are poisoned."
Matthew lowered his head. He had no words left to defend himself. The truth was, he didn't know how to stop it.
Then Liora's voice rang out.
"Exile him? After he saved us from the stag? After he risked himself to protect Mira? Without him, half this village would already be corpses!"
Her defiance cut through the tension like an axe through ice. A few villagers nodded, shame flickering in their eyes. But others only scowled harder.
Bren stepped forward, fists clenched. His voice shook.
"He's my brother. I… I believe in him. But you all saw the black lines spread. If we keep him here, how many more will suffer?"
Matthew's chest twisted. Bren's words were torn in two, just like his loyalty.
The council of elders spoke in hushed tones, then Harun raised his hand.
"The decision lies not in faith, but in survival. We will put it to vote. Stay, under watch. Or exile, beyond Emberstead's walls."
A silence deeper than the grave spread. Then one by one, hands lifted.
"Exile."
"Exile."
"Exile."
More than half. The word tolled like a funeral bell.
Matthew felt something inside him hollow out. He had prepared for this moment, but hearing it aloud still shattered him.
Liora shouted, fury blazing in her eyes.
"Cowards! You trade a boy's life for your fear!"
But the choice was made.
Harun's voice was heavy.
"Matthew Weaver, at dawn you will leave Emberstead. You may take what you can carry. Should you return before the corruption is purged, we will not open the gates."
The torchlight flickered. The villagers' faces blurred together—fearful, guilty, relieved. None reached for him. None dared.
Except one.
Mira, pale and trembling, pushed through the crowd. Her mother tried to hold her back, but the girl's voice cut clear despite her weakness.
"Don't… don't send him away. He didn't hurt me. He saved me. I'm still here because of him."
Her black-threaded veins glimmered faintly in the firelight. The villagers recoiled. Some hissed prayers.
Matthew's throat closed. He wanted to reach for her, to promise her he'd find a way to undo this. But the hunters blocked him with crossed spears.
The council turned away. The vote stood.
Night swallowed the gathering.
---
The Origin Realm
Kai lounged back in his starlit throne, watching the scene like a theater performance. His golden eyes glinted with amusement.
"Exiled at last. Nothing sharpens a blade like being cast into the wild."
He tossed a grape into his mouth and smirked.
"Now the real story begins."
Ema's voice was quiet, but her gaze was hard.
"You call it a story. For him, it is a breaking."
Kai chuckled. "Yes. And let's hope he breaks beautifully."
---
Later That Night
Matthew sat beneath the crooked willow, a small bundle of belongings at his side. He hadn't gone home. Couldn't face his mother's tears.
The whispers curled warmly in his chest.
See? They cast you out. We are all you have. Let us guide you.
He pressed his palms together, weaving threads of light between his fingers. They quivered but held, fragile as breath.
"No. I still have them. Liora. Mira. Even Bren. I'll come back. I'll prove I'm not just rot."
The threads flickered gold, defying the shadows.
At dawn, the gates would open—for the last time.
Matthew would step beyond Emberstead's walls, alone.
But not broken. Not yet.
60(2) Threads Beyond the Walls
The village gates creaked like an old wound reopening.
It was dawn, but no warmth lingered in the light. The mist hung heavy across the forest edge, swallowing trees into pale shadows. At the gates, the entire village had gathered, faces carved in stone, eyes watching as though they were here for a funeral rather than a farewell.
And perhaps they were.
Matthew stood before them, a small pack strapped across his shoulders, the weight laughably light compared to the burden in his chest. His palms trembled where no one could see, tucked into his sleeves, nails digging crescents into his skin.
He had fought the stag. He had bled for them. He had nearly broken under the whispers. And now, the price of his courage was exile.
---
Elder Harun raised a hand for silence. His voice was low but carried.
"The boy leaves today. Not as enemy, but as one touched by forces beyond our control. The Loom has woven him a path beyond our walls. We cannot follow."
Some nodded in agreement, others looked away. The smell of fear hung heavier than the smoke from the still-burning stag's corpse outside the square.
Liora pushed forward, her voice sharp with desperation.
"This is madness! He saved us. He saved all of you. And you repay him with exile?"
Murmurs rose. Some muttered agreement, others spat curses.
Harun did not look at her.
"Liora. Enough. The vote is sealed. We protect the village, whatever the cost."
Matthew felt Liora's eyes on him, blazing with fury and sorrow. He wanted to meet them, to draw strength from her defiance—but his gaze slid away, ashamed.
Then a smaller voice cut through the tension.
"Matthew…"
Mira.
The little girl shuffled weakly forward from her mother's arms. Her skin was still pale, veins traced faintly with black despite the healers' work. Yet her eyes glimmered with fragile light as she reached toward him.
"Don't… unravel," she whispered, fingers trembling.
Matthew's throat tightened. He crouched to meet her gaze, ignoring her mother's fearful hiss. Carefully, he touched the tips of her fingers, no threads stirring this time.
"I won't," he whispered back. "Not for you."
Her hand slipped from his, too weak to hold on. Her mother snatched her away, clutching her as though Matthew were a wolf at the door.
The gates groaned open. The forest breathed its cold mist toward him.
---
Matthew walked. Each step on the dirt road away from the village felt heavier than the pack on his shoulders. Behind him, silence pressed—not cheers, not farewells, not even prayers. Only the sound of the gates slamming shut.
He didn't look back.
But he felt it—the weight of their eyes. Fear, mistrust, guilt. As though he carried a sickness that might spill over them if they stared too long.
His steps faltered at the tree line. The forest beyond loomed, its branches twisted like claws, mist clinging to its roots. The whispers coiled eagerly inside his chest.
Beyond these walls, you are free. No chains. No judgment. Only power.
Matthew clenched his fists. He forced one step forward, then another.
No chains, perhaps. But no safety either.
---
Hours bled together as he wandered deeper into the wilds. The path dwindled into deer trails, then vanished entirely. Hunger gnawed at him, though fear gnawed harder.
The filament in his chest pulsed with each heartbeat, as though keeping time with his fear. The whispers slid through his mind, honey-slick and poisonous.
They cast you out. They spat on your gift. But we will never leave you, Matthew. We will weave with you. We will show you how to cut, how to end, how to unravel.
He stopped in the mist, clutching his chest, breath ragged. "Shut up," he hissed. "You won't decide who I am."
The whispers chuckled. We already are.
---
4. First Trial in the Wilds
He didn't hear the creatures until they were almost on him.
A rustle in the brush. A low growl, like bones grinding. Eyes—three pairs—glowing faintly red through the fog.
Wolves. Or what had once been wolves.
Their fur was patchy, mottled with black rot. Veins of shadow bulged beneath their skin, pulsing like molten tar. They circled him, silent save for the crack of jaws.
Matthew's breath quickened. He stumbled back, hand fumbling at the pack for a knife. But even as his fingers closed on the hilt, he knew it wasn't enough.
The first wolf lunged.
Instinct took over. Threads exploded from Matthew's palm, golden strands snapping into a crude spear. He thrust it forward with a desperate shout.
The wolf impaled itself on the light. Its body convulsed, black veins bursting into smoke as it collapsed.
The other two snarled and attacked. Matthew swung clumsily, his spear dissolving into sparks and reforming in trembling bursts. He managed to slash one across the flank, sending it yelping back, but the third snapped at his arm, teeth grazing his sleeve.
Pain seared. Threads flared again, sharper, angrier. With a scream, Matthew drove them down, pinning the wolf to the ground. The corruption sizzled away, leaving only a husk of ash.
Silence fell, broken only by his gasping breath.
The last wolf slunk away into the mist.
Matthew dropped to his knees, shaking violently. His hands glowed faintly, threads flickering like unstable fire. Every fiber of his body screamed with exhaustion.
But he was alive.
---
As his breath slowed, he noticed something strange.
The whispers weren't mocking him this time. They were… humming. Pleased. The black filament in his chest vibrated, resonating with the lingering corruption in the wolves' ashes.
Matthew's eyes widened.
The corruption had been drawn to him. Like moths to a flame.
Which meant it always would be.
Terror clenched his gut. But so did realization. If it came to him… then perhaps he could learn to fight it. Perhaps he could even guide it, contain it.
The thought both thrilled and sickened him.
---
6. The Origin Realm
Above the starlit dais, the screen flickered with Matthew's desperate struggle. His thread-spear, his trembling defiance, the corruption pulsing faintly in his veins.
Kai leaned back in his chair, sipping from a chilled glass. His golden eyes gleamed with amusement.
"And the hero steps into the wilderness. Classic arc."
Ema stood beside him, arms crossed. Her expression was not amused.
"He walks a path with no return. The more he listens to the whispers, the more he becomes their vessel."
Kai swirled his drink lazily. "Or maybe he's writing a new kind of threadwork. Weaponized weaving, born from desperation. Pain's the best teacher, after all."
Her gaze flicked to him. "Or the cruelest."
Kai only smirked, tossing another handful of popcorn into his mouth. "Either way, I'm enjoying the show."
---
Night crept through the forest, shadows thickening. Matthew stumbled into a clearing, his body aching, his mind a battlefield of whispers and resolve.
He froze.
Through the mist ahead, a faint glow shimmered. Not firelight, not stars—something steadier.
The outline of huts. Movement. A settlement.
Relief warred with suspicion. Was it another village? Or a trick of the Hunger, baiting him deeper?
Matthew swallowed hard, clutching the threads flickering at his fingertips.
Either way… he had no choice but to step forward.