The Harlow Secret
Liam's breath fogged the brittle pages of the ledger, his finger tracing the faded ink: Evelyn Harlow, 1879–1893. First Liar. First Betrayer. The dates lined up with the Carter sacrifices, but the name…
Harlow.
Mrs. Harlow's thorn-filled grin flashed in his mind. "You're the rot now," she'd hissed. Was her family's vendetta older than the mill? Older than the crown?
He pocketed the ledger and slipped into the storm.
The Hollow's New Queen
Clara stood at the mill's heart, threads spooling from her fingertips as she wove. The townsfolk knelt before her, their necks collared by sinewy vines. Their eyes—silver and unblinking—followed her every move.
"Bring me the boy," she commanded, her voice layered with the Weaver's static.
The mob stirred, but before they could obey, the ground trembled. Black lilacs erupted through the floorboards, their roots snaking toward her crown. Clara hissed, swatting them away. "Traitors."
The lilacs were not hers.
The Last Harlow
Liam found the Harlow house at the forest's edge, its roof sagging under the weight of centuries-old ivy. The door hung askew, revealing a girl inside—no older than 16—kneeling before a shrine of dried lilacs and rusted knives.
She turned, her eyes the same thorn-split silver as Mrs. Harlow's. "You're late."
Liam froze. "You're expecting me?"
"The rot always comes." She stood, brushing dust from her overalls. "I'm Aisling. The last Harlow. And you're here because you finally figured out we started this."
Liam tossed the ledger at her feet. "Evelyn Harlow made the first pact. Why?"
Aisling's smile was all teeth. "Same reason you Carters kept it: fear. Power. Boredom." She kicked the ledger aside. "But Evelyn didn't just feed the Weaver—she stole from it. Buried its true name under the old oak. Your sister's wearing a crown of lies, Carter. You want to save her? Dig."
The Roots Remember
The oak stood at the cemetery's heart, its trunk split by lightning, roots coiled around weathered graves. Liam drove the shovel into the earth, Aisling leaning against a tombstone, sharpening a blade.
"Faster," she said. "Your sister's not the only one who hears the whispers."
Liam's shovel hit wood. A coffin—child-sized, its lid carved with symbols that matched the well's. Inside lay a skeleton clutching a journal.
EVELYN'S DIARY
The first page:
"The Weaver's name is not a word. It's a sound. A scream. A silence. I will take it to my grave."
The last page:
"The Carters think they control it. Fools. It's in our blood. Our bones. The rot is us."
Aisling snatched the diary. "Evelyn didn't just betray the Weaver—she became it. The Carters trapped her soul in the crown, but the rot… it's still ours." She pressed her blade to Liam's throat. "So here's the deal: I help you break the crown, and you let me carve your sister's heart out."
The Crown's Price
Clara felt the oak's roots tear into her threads. She snarled, storming into the cemetery, her shadow devouring the moonlight.
Liam stood at the open grave, Aisling's knife at his back.
"Traitor," Clara hissed, the ground cracking at her feet.
"You're not her," Liam said, voice steady. "But I can bring her back."
Aisling lunged.
The blade sank into Clara's chest—not flesh, but threads. They coiled around the metal, snapping it as Clara backhanded Aisling into a tombstone.
"Pathetic," Clara said, lifting Liam by his throat. "You think a Harlow's knife could hurt me? I am the Hollow now. I am endless."
Liam choked out a laugh. "Yeah? Then why'd you come running?"
Her grip tightened—then faltered.
Beneath them, the oak's roots erupted, piercing Clara's legs. She screamed, not in pain, but recognition.
"Evelyn," she gasped.
The First Liar's Curse
The roots dragged Clara underground, into a chamber lined with mirrors. Evelyn Harlow waited, her lace collar pristine, eyes bleeding silver.
"Welcome home, sister," Evelyn said. "The crown's heavy, isn't it?"
Clara's threads lashed out, but Evelyn caught them, weaving a tapestry of the past:
Evelyn, 14, burying the Weaver's name.
Evelyn, burning the Carters' mill.
Evelyn, laughing as the first Carter child drowned.
"The Weaver didn't corrupt me," Evelyn said. "I invited it. And now… you've invited me."
Her hand plunged into Clara's chest, seizing the crown's roots.
"Time to rot, little queen."
The Unlikely Pact
Aboveground, Liam hauled Aisling up. "We need to destroy that oak. Now."
She spat blood. "The roots are in her. Burn it, and you burn her."
Liam stared at the shattered headstones, the black lilacs choking the graves. "Then we cut the rot out."
Aisling grinned. "Finally, a Carter with guts."