Pixiom

Ten years after her brother’s tragic death, Clara Carter receives a letter in his handwriting: “Come home, Clara. I’m waiting.”

But Hollow’s End is no ordinary town.

Its cobblestone streets swallow secrets. Its fog hides faces that aren’t quite human. And beneath the abandoned mill, something ancient stirs—a hunger that feeds on stories, twisting grief into lies and memories into cages.

Returning to bury her guilt, Clara discovers her brother Liam is neither alive nor dead. Trapped in the realm of the Weaver, a primordial entity that weaves reality from stolen tales, he warns her of the town’s curse: “They’ll wear you like a mask.”

As Clara digs into her family’s past, she uncovers a chilling truth. The Carters were never victims—they were keepers of the Hollow, sacrificing loved ones to pacify the Weaver. Now, the entity wants a new story. Hers.

The Weaver’s Hollow

The crown of thorns seared into Clara's skull, its spines drawing blood that mingled with the rot's inky tendrils. A scream tore from her throat, swallowed by the cacophony of a thousand voices—her voices. Generations of Harlows whispered, wept, and raged inside her mind, their regrets etching themselves into her bones.

"You were always too stubborn, Clara," her mother's voice sighed, sharper than the rest.

Clara stood in a void, a desolate expanse where the sky and earth were woven from fractured vows—broken wedding bands, shredded letters, and ash. Before her, a spectral figure materialized: Evelyn Harlow, her mother's face gaunt, her hands clasped around a flickering thread of silver light.

"You found the flaw," Evelyn said, her voice echoing as if spoken through water. "But light alone won't save you. It must be woven."

The thread pulsed in Clara's palm, searing yet weightless. Behind Evelyn, shadows coalesced into a towering figure—the Thorned King. His body was a lattice of rot and briars, his crown a nest of serpents. Eyes like dying stars fixed on Clara.

"Little liar," he rasped. "You wear my crown but lack the spine to wield it."

The void trembled. Doppelgängers oozed from the ground—twisted mirrors of Clara, their mouths stitched with thorns. They lunged, but the thread in her hand lashed out, slicing through them like a blade. Their screams harmonized with Liam's voice, distant and pleading: "Clara, don't!"

Aisling materialized beside the Thorned King, her crimson cloak now fused with rot. "Cut the thread," she urged, sweetly venomous. "Let the crown consume you. It's easier than fighting."

Clara hesitated, the thread trembling. Memories surged—the car wreck, Liam's hand slipping from hers, the lie she'd carved into her heart: It wasn't my fault. The rot fed on that lie, fattened itself on her guilt.

"Promises are cages," the Thorned King crooned, advancing. His thorns unfurled, snaking toward her. "Break yours, and I'll spare the boy."

Evelyn's ghost gripped Clara's wrist. "The thread is a vow, Clara. One you must keep, not sever."

The thorn in Clara's palm blazed. She saw it then—the truth etched in the light. The thread wasn't a weapon. It was a promise. The first promise: her mother's dying oath to protect her, woven into the curse's heart.

"No," Clara breathed. "You tried to rewrite the curse. You used your last breath to stitch this thread into it."

Evelyn smiled, fading. "Finish it."

The Thorned King roared, his form unraveling as Clara wrapped the thread around her fist. She charged, not toward him, but into him—the thread piercing his chest.

"I keep my promises," she snarled.

The void erupted in light. The Thorned King shattered, his crown crumbling to ash. But as the darkness receded, Clara felt the rot's poison still in her veins, coiled and waiting.

Aisling lay sprawled on the ground, her cloak now tattered, her eyes wide with fury—and fear. "Fool," she spat. "You've only trimmed its claws. The rot's roots are deeper than you know."

Clara collapsed, the thread dissolving. Somewhere, Liam called her name.

But the Thorned King's laughter echoed in the stillness.

"Until next time, little Harlow."

"The Thread of Light"