"The Price of Truth"

The Weaver's voice was not a sound. It was a violation—a thousand serrated words carving themselves into Clara's skull, peeling back her thoughts like rind from fruit. The air in the mill thickened, tasting of copper and burnt sugar, as the creature loomed over her. Its form shifted endlessly: a swarm of moths with human eyes, a tangle of marionette strings, a mouth split into too many teeth, each one whispering.

"The night he died," it hissed. "Give it to me."

Clara's knees buckled. The memory surged unbidden—*Liam's hand slipping from hers, the roar of the storm, the flash of headlights—*but she clenched her jaw. "No."

Evelyn drifted closer, her ivy shroud hissing as it dragged across the floor. "Refuse, and it will take all your stories. You'll forget your name. Your face. Even him." She gestured to Liam, whose translucent body shuddered as the Loom's threads burrowed deeper into his chest.

Clara's breath fogged in the freezing air. "Why that memory? What's so special about it?"

The Weaver's laughter echoed through the mill, rattling the tapestries. One unraveled—a scene of a car crash, threads bleeding crimson—and Clara recoiled. It was hers. The night she'd fled Hollow's End.

"Your guilt is a feast," the Weaver crooned. "But his death… ah, that is a masterpiece."

Liam's head snapped up, his voice a rasp. "Don't, Clara. It'll use it to break the pact. To get out."

The Weaver struck.

A thread lashed from the Loom, barbed and glistening, and plunged into Liam's throat. He choked, his form flickering like a guttering candle.

"Choose, little liar."

The Memory

Rain sheeted the windshield, the wipers frantic metronomes. Clara, 17, white-knuckling the steering wheel. Liam, 15, laughing in the passenger seat, his breath smelling of stolen beer. "C'mon, floor it! They'll never catch us!"

But the road was a black serpent, slick and cruel. The car hydroplaned. Screaming metal. Shattering glass. Then—silence.

Clara crawled from the wreck, blood hot on her face. Liam lay motionless, half-submerged in the ditch, his red hoodie darkened by water… or blood. She reached for him. A hand yanked her back.

"Leave him," her father growled. "It's too late."

But Liam's fingers twitched. A wet, ragged breath. "Cl… Clara…"

Her father dragged her away. "The Weaver will fix this."

The Loom

Clara gagged, the memory dissolving into the taste of ditchwater and gasoline. The Weaver's threads quivered eagerly.

"You bastard," she spat at the creature. "You made my father leave him there. You took Liam and twisted him into… into this!"

Evelyn's cold hand gripped her shoulder. "And you let it happen. You ran. Now pay your debt."

The Loom shuddered. Liam's eyes met Clara's, pleading. "Don't. Please."

But the Weaver was done waiting.

A thread snapped toward Clara, hooking into her sternum. Agony exploded—a white-hot brand searing through muscle, bone, soul. The memory tore free:

Liam's broken body in the mud. The truth—he'd still been alive. Her father had lied.

The Weaver screamed in ecstasy, its form swelling as it absorbed the memory. The mill's walls dissolved, replaced by the storm-lashed road of that night. Rain lashed Clara's face. Headlights speared the darkness.

And there, in the ditch, Liam stirred.

"Finish the story," the Weaver commanded.

The Choice

Clara staggered toward the wreck. This wasn't memory—it was real. The Weaver had woven her into its tapestry, and the rules had changed.

Liam's hand trembled as she knelt beside him. His pupils were dilated, black ink spilling down his cheeks. Weaver's eyes.

"You're not him," Clara whispered.

"Aren't I?" Liam's voice was a perfect mimic, down to the cracked smile. "You want to save me? Then stay. Let the car hit us. Feed the Weaver your end."

Behind her, headlights roared closer.

The real Liam screamed from the Loom. "It's a trap! Run!"

But Clara was done running.

She gripped Fake Liam's hand—cold and waxy—and yanked him upright. "You want a story? Let's give it a twist."

With a scream of rage, she shoved him into the road.

The truck hit.

Fake Liam shattered into a million threads, his howl shaking the earth. The Weaver recoiled, its form unraveling. "NO! YOU CHEAT! YOU—"

The vision collapsed.

The Aftermath

Clara awoke on the Loom's floor, her mouth filled with ash. The mill was crumbling, tapestries burning to cinders. Liam lay beside her, the threads retreating from his body.

Evelyn writhed in the corner, her form disintegrating. "Fool! You've doomed us all!"

The Weaver's voice boomed, weaker now but venomous. "This changes nothing. I am in your blood. In your lies. I will always hunger."

Clara hauled Liam to his feet. "Then I'll starve you."

They ran as the Loom collapsed, the Weaver's screams chasing them into a tunnel of thorns. When they burst free, they were back at the well—its stones cracked, the liquid inside still and dark.

Liam slumped against the mill's ruins, his eyes human again. "Clara… the pact. It's not over. The Weaver's just—"

A wet cough wracked his body. Black threads wriggled beneath his skin.

Clara's blood went cold. "What's happening?"

He smiled, bitter. "You can't unfeed a god."