"The First Truth"

The storm began with whispers.

They slithered from the cracked earth, coiled in the ash-choked air, and seeped into Clara's lungs like poison. The sky hung low, a bruised tapestry of greys and greens, flickering with faint, corpse-light flashes. Hollow's End was unraveling.

Liam limped beside her, his breath ragged. The black threads beneath his skin had retreated but left behind angry red welts, pulsing like infected veins. "The church," he gasped. "St. Agnes. It's the only place the Weaver can't touch."

"Why?" Clara snapped, scanning the warped street. Houses leaned drunkenly, their windows shattered, doors hanging open like slack jaws. Shadows pooled in the gaps, squirming.

"Because it's empty," Liam said. "No stories there. Just silence."

A guttural roar split the air. The ground heaved, cobblestones erupting into jagged teeth. Clara grabbed Liam's arm, dragging him into an alley as the road behind them collapsed, swallowing storefronts and streetlamps into a sinkhole of writhing threads.

"Move!" she barked.

They sprinted, the storm howling at their backs.

The church loomed ahead, its spire spearing the sickly sky. The oak doors were scarred with centuries of initials, but the heavy iron cross still held firm. Clara slammed her shoulder against the wood until it groaned open.

Inside, the air was dead. No whispers. No rot. Just dust motes drifting in the fractured light of stained glass saints. Clara collapsed against a pew, her hands trembling.

Liam sagged beside her, peeling back his hoodie to reveal the welts. They squirmed faintly, as if something beneath his skin itched. "It's not over. The Weaver's just… regrouping."

"Then we finish it," Clara said. "You heard the crypt. The Weaver's name is mine. How do I use it?"

Liam hesitated. "Names have power here. But you have to mean it. You have to… become it."

Before she could ask, the doors exploded inward.

The Storm

It wasn't wind. It was voices.

Thousands of them, howling lies, regrets, and secrets in a cacophony that cracked the pews and shattered the windows. Clara covered her ears, blood trickling from her nose. Through the maelstrom, figures emerged—townsfolk, or what was left of them.

Mrs. Harlow, the baker, her face a melted wax mask. "You killed him!" she screeched, doughy fingers clawing at Clara.

Mr. Green, the librarian, his mouth sewn shut with thread. "Liarliarliar—"

And behind them, Evelyn, her ivy shroud now thorny and wild, eyes blazing silver. "You can't outrun what you are," she hissed. "The first truth is always the ugliest."

Liam flung a pew at the horde, buying seconds. "The basement! Now!"

They stumbled down crumbling steps into a crypt. Liam barred the door with a rusted iron grate. The walls were lined with tiny coffins—children's coffins, dates stretching back centuries.

"Carter sacrifices," Liam said grimly. "Every generation. Dad tried to spare us. But the Weaver always takes its due."

Clara's stomach churned. "And Mom? Did she know?"

Liam's silence was answer enough.

The Memory

Clara, age nine, hiding under the porch. Rain drummed the earth as her parents argued inside.

"It has to be Liam!" her father snarled. "The pact demands a son!"

"He's eight years old!" her mother sobbed. "There's another way. Clara's stronger. She could—"

A slap. A whimper. Then her father's voice, cold as a grave: "The girl is useless. The Weaver wants a story*, not a scribble."*

Clara clutched her notebook of fairy tales, ink smudging under her tears.

The Crypt

The memory faded, leaving Clara breathless. Liam stared at her, his eyes hollow. "You knew. All this time, you knew they chose me."

"No," Clara lied, the word ash in her mouth.

The welts on Liam's chest pulsed. "Don't. The storm's peeling everything bare. I can feel it."

The grate rattled. Threads oozed through the cracks, hissing like serpents. Evelyn's voice slithered after them: "Tell him, Clara. Tell him the first truth."

Clara backed against the wall, coffins digging into her spine. "When Dad dragged me from the wreck… he said it was too late to save you. But I heard you breathing. I felt your pulse. I didn't fight him. I let him make me believe you were gone."

Liam's face crumpled. "Why?"

"Because I was scared!" The confession tore free, raw and bleeding. "Scared of the Weaver. Scared of becoming… this."

The grate burst open.

The Confession

The storm flooded in, a tsunami of voices and claws. Clara stumbled, but Liam caught her, his grip fever-hot. "Say its name! Now!"

The Weaver materialized above them, no longer hiding behind Liam's face. It was a column of screaming mouths, eyes, and hands, its core a pulsing, rotten heart threaded with lies.

"CLARA," it boomed, her name a curse. "YOU ARE MINE."

She lunged forward, blood from her torn palms smearing the floor. "No. You are mine."

She spoke the Weaver's true name—her name—not in fear, but in fury.

"CLARA."

The church trembled. The storm froze.

"CLARA."

The Weaver's heart split, black ichor spraying the walls.

"CLARA!"

With a shriek that peeled paint from the stones, the Weaver imploded.

The Aftermath

Silence.

Clara collapsed, her ears ringing. Liam knelt beside her, the welts on his chest now still. The storm was gone. The townsfolk… were gone. Only dust remained.

Outside, dawn bled through the shattered windows. The streets were scarred but intact, the lilacs shriveled to brittle stalks.

"Did we…?" Liam whispered.

Clara touched her chest. A faint warmth lingered, a thread binding her to nothing. "It's over."

But as they stepped into the light, the church doors creaked shut behind them. Carved into the wood, fresh and gleaming:

THE FIRST TRUTH IS NEVER THE LAST.