THREADHEART: The Bloom That Binds

Warp And Weft

Chapter 8:

To weave is to choose. To warp is to twist. What Killua weaves now—was once Velra’s whisper.

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Morning. Crisp. Still.

Too still.

Killua threaded a silver line through a shattered pinecone, pinning it to a tree like a warning sign.

They were walking into Velra’s nest—he could feel it.

Not with fear.

But with something worse.

Recognition.

The deeper they ventured into the frost-glass forest of Arren, the more signs they saw:

Threads too fine to see, but brushing against the skin like breath.

Trees bent into curves that looked like blooming sigils.

Birds with their wings fused at odd angles—thread-stitched midflight.

“We’re inside her loom,” Killua muttered.

“Then what’s the plan?” Gon asked.

“To out-weave her.”

They stopped near a clearing.

Killua held out his hand—and from it, multiple threads spun outward, faster, cleaner than before.

But they didn’t lash. They formed.

He wasn’t just cutting anymore.
He was weaving counter-patterns—tiny thread traps that mirrored hers, but cancelled the tension instead of tightening it.

“That’s new,” Gon said.

“It’s mine,” Killua replied, voice calm.
“Velra wanted to rewrite me. Fine.
I’ll write better.”

He planted the threads in the trees—trip-lines that didn’t trap but erased hers when triggered.

A loom against a loom.

Then came the pressure. A sudden hum in the earth.

Velra.

But she didn’t step out. She sent a proxy.

From the trees fell a woman—fully grown, face blank, with threads webbed across her back like broken wings.

“This one can speak,” she said, mouth moving like it was remembering how.

Killua tensed. Gon reached for his staff.

“I’m not here to fight,” the woman croaked.
“I’m here to see what kind of weaver you’ve become.”

“Why now?” Killua asked coldly.

“Because the next time we meet,” she said with Velra’s cadence, “I will no longer be me. I’ll be you.”

She raised her arms—her threads recoiled as Killua’s patterns responded and snuffed them mid-flight.

“Good,” the proxy said.
“You’re almost ready.”

Her threads exploded, taking her with them in a silent detonation of memory and silk.

Gone.

Killua stared at the residue. Gon stood beside him.

“You didn’t flinch this time.”

“Because I’m not scared anymore.”

He looked up—where the trees still swayed with unseen tension.

“She’s getting desperate. Which means her next move… it’ll be personal.”

“You sure?” Gon asked.

“No.”

Killua smirked. “But she is.”

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Far off, Velra sat before a dying flame, one hand trembling.

Not in fear.

But in anticipation.

She whispered softly:

“He’s starting to understand...
what it means to lose something he made himself.”

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