"The Rotting Crown"

Liam's skin was cold as river stones, his breath shallow and tinged with the sour-sweet stench of rotting lilacs. Black threads pulsed beneath his collarbone, spreading like roots. Clara dragged him through the cemetery gates, her boots slipping on moss-slick graves.

"The crypt," Liam rasped, his head lolling. "Carter family… beneath the angel."

She found it—a crumbling mausoleum, its stone angel weeping greenish tears of mildew. The door screeched open, exhaling air that smelled of wet earth and forgotten words. Inside, names of dead Carters lined the walls, but at the center sat a single coffin, lid pried ajar.

Inside lay a skeleton crowned with thorns.

"The first keeper," Liam whispered. "Take the crown. It knows the Weaver's name."

Clara hesitated. The crown wasn't metal, but bone—yellowed and knotted with briars that twitched as she reached for it.

"It's alive," she breathed.

"So is everything here." Liam coughed, threads writhing up his neck. "Hurry."

The moment her fingers brushed the thorns, the crypt doors slammed shut.

Shadows peeled from the walls, coalescing into figures—Carters long dead, their faces half-rotten, eyes milky with mold. They circled her, voices overlapping:

"Only a Carter may wear the crown."

"But which Carter?"

"The liar?"

"The coward?"

Clara gripped the crown, thorns biting her palms. Blood dripped onto the bones, and the whispers sharpened:

She left him.

She let him die.

She deserves to rot.

"Shut up!" She spun, clutching the crown like a weapon. "I'm saving him. That's more than any of you did!"

The ghosts hissed, retreating into the walls. The coffin lid slid shut, revealing words carved inside:

THE WEAVER'S NAME IS BURIED WHERE ALL LIES GO.

Liam's laugh was a wet rattle. "The well. Of course."

The crown seared Clara's scalp as she wore it, thorns drawing blood that trickled into her eyes. Visions flickered—Evelyn in her lace collar, screaming as thorns devoured her; her father kneeling at the well, begging the Weaver to take him instead of Liam. But beneath the pain, a name echoed:

…three syllables, older than language…

A crash outside. The cemetery trembled, graves splitting open. From the fissures crawled echoes—shapeless, hungry things, drawn by the crown's power.

"Run," Liam choked.

Clara hauled him up, fleeing toward the well. The earth groaned behind them, the echoes' whispers burrowing into her mind:

Let him die.

Let him die.

Let him—

She gripped Liam's hand tighter. "Not again."

The well's stones were bleeding, dark fluid oozing into the dirt. Clara lowered Liam against it, his skin now gray as tombstone. The crown's thorns tightened, the name almost audible—

A shadow fell over them.

The Weaver stood at the tree line, no longer formless. It wore Liam's face, perfect and cruel, its body woven from black lilacs and funeral silk.

"You wear my crown," it said, Liam's voice laced with static. "You kneel at my altar. Yet you still defy me?"

Clara stood, blood streaking her cheeks like tears. "Give me his name."

The Weaver smiled. "You already know it."

The crown's thorns jerked her head toward the well. Inside, the silvery liquid reflected not her face, but a word:

"CLARA."

The world tilted.

She was seven, hiding in the attic as her parents argued below. "We have to tell her," her mother sobbed. "She's part of this too."

Her father's fist hit the wall. "No. The pact was for Liam. She stays ignorant."

The Weaver's laughter slithered around her. "You are my true heir. Your grief, your guilt—they fattened me. Liam was merely a placeholder… until you returned."

Liam's breath hitched. "Don't… listen…"

"His corruption is your doing," the Weaver crooned. "Undo it. Speak my name, and let your brother die as he should have."

The crown burned. The name clawed up her throat—

"Clara, no!" Liam lunged, tackling her as the Weaver roared. The crown tumbled into the well.

The liquid erupted.

Threads exploded from the depths, snatching the crown and dragging it under. The Weaver shrieked, its stolen form unraveling.

"YOU WILL BEG FOR THIS DEATH!"

Liam collapsed, the black threads retreating from his veins. Clara cradled him as the ground quaked, the echoes swarming the Weaver, tearing at its threads.

"Did we… win?" Liam mumbled.

Above them, the sky cracked open, raining ash and whispers. The well collapsed, swallowing the crown—and the Weaver's name—into the dark.

"No," Clara said. "We just pissed it off."