"The Crown of Thorns"

The Awakening Rot

The ash of the oak settled like snow over Hollow's End, but the silence didn't last. By dawn, the graves began to bleed. Thick, black liquid seeped from the soil, pooling around Clara's boots as she stood at the cemetery's edge. The cracked crown hummed faintly against her temples, its fractured thorns prickling her skin like spider legs.

"They're moving," Liam said, voice low.

The townsfolk lay where they'd fallen, limbs twisted, throats swollen with thorns—but their fingers now twitched. Petals spilled from Mrs. Harlow's unhinged jaw, her milky eyes rolling toward Clara.

"They're not dead," Aisling muttered, kicking a half-buried shovel. "Just… repurposed."

Clara's threads stirred, sensing the rot's pulse beneath the earth. Dormant, Aisling had said. A lie. The rot was hungry.

The Fractured Crown

In the Carter attic, Clara faced the mirror. The crown's reflection wavered, its cracks glowing with faint silver light. She pressed a palm to the glass, and the surface rippled, revealing Evelyn's ghostly smirk.

"You can't outrun what you are," Evelyn whispered. "The crown is broken. The rot is free. And it wants you."

Clara's threads lashed out, shattering the mirror. Shards clattered to the floor, each reflecting a sliver of her face—eyes hollow, lips peeled back in a snarl.

Liam found her kneeling in the debris. "We need to leave. Now."

"And go where?" She laughed bitterly. "The rot's in the soil. The water. The air. It's in us."

He gripped her shoulders. "Then we cut it out."

Aisling's voice cut through the tension. "Or we feed it something better."

Aisling's Gambit

The Harlow house reeked of dried lilacs and iron. Aisling spread a yellowed map across the table, her thorn-scarred fingers tracing the Hollow River's curve. "Evelyn didn't just bury the Weaver's name. She bound it to seven anchors—old Harlows, buried with their lies. Destroy the anchors, and the rot starves."

Liam frowned. "You didn't think to mention this earlier?"

"Would you have trusted me?" She smirked. "Besides, the first anchor's here." She stabbed the map—the mill.

Clara's crown throbbed. "No. The mill's mine."

"Exactly." Aisling's eyes gleamed. "The rot's festering there. Let it consume the anchor, and the crown… well, you'll have to choose. Power or survival."

The Mill's Heart

The mill's walls pulsed like living flesh as Clara stepped inside. The air was thick with the stench of decaying roses, the floor carpeted in black petals. At the center, the Loom lay in ruins, its threads replaced by gnarled roots.

"It's here," Clara whispered.

Aisling hung back, dagger drawn. "Evelyn's first anchor. Her sister's bones."

Liam pried up the floorboards, revealing a small coffin. Inside lay a child's skeleton, its skull crowned with rusted thorns.

"Marion Harlow," Aisling said. "Evelyn drowned her to seal the first pact. Now, she's the rot's foundation."

Clara's threads quivered. "How do we destroy it?"

Aisling tossed her the dagger. "You're the queen. You tell me."

The Sacrifice

The crown's cracks burned as Clara knelt. Marion's bones began to rattle, the thorns on her skull twisting toward Clara.

"She's yours," Evelyn's voice echoed. "Just like Liam. Just like you."

Clara drove the dagger into the coffin. The skeleton erupted into black smoke, howling as it dissolved. The mill shuddered, roots retracting, petals withering.

But the crown screamed.

Clara collapsed, the thorns digging deeper. Liam caught her as the walls cracked, the mill collapsing around them.

The Rot's Retaliation

Outside, the townsfolk stirred. Mrs. Harlow rose first, her limbs snapping into unnatural angles. The lilacs bloomed anew—crimson this time, their scent cloying and sweet.

Aisling backed away. "One anchor down. Six to go."

"What's happening to them?" Liam demanded, clutching Clara.

"The rot's adapting," Aisling said. "It doesn't need corpses anymore. Just… hosts."

Mrs. Harlow lunged, her jaw unhinging. Aisling's dagger found her throat, but the wound sprouted thorns, knitting itself shut.

"Run!" Clara gasped.

The Crown's Choice

In the forest, Clara's vision blurred. The crown's voice slithered into her mind, soft and seductive.

"Let me in. Let me heal you."

She tore the crown from her head, blood streaming down her face. "Never."

But the rot had already taken root. Black veins spidered up her arms.

Liam gripped her hands. "We'll fix this."

Aisling snorted. "You can't fix a curse. Only outlive it."

The New Threat

At dusk, they reached the second anchor—a crumbling chapel. Inside, another coffin waited. But this time, the skeleton wore a familiar red hoodie.

Liam froze. "That's… me."

The corpse's head turned, its empty sockets locking on Clara.

"Yours," Aisling said. "The rot's learning."