The Crown of Thorns

The Whispering Woods had always been a living thing. Its trees did not merely creak—they breathed, their gnarled trunks expanding like ribcages with every gust of wind.

Moss hung in tattered veils, brushing Elara's face like skeletal fingers as she pressed deeper into the gloom. The air tasted of wet iron and spoiled honey, thick enough to choke on.

Kael walked beside her, his boots sinking into the mulch of centuries-old leaves, his father's dagger clutched white-knuckled in his hand. The silver chain around Elara's wrist glinted dully, its surface etched with runes that writhed under the moonlight like trapped insects.

She could still feel the Veil's hunger, even muted by the chain. It gnawed at the edges of her mind, whispering promises of power if she'd only rip the metal free.

But the chain held, for now. Her body, though—that was another matter. The corruption had climbed past her jaw, spidering up her cheek in jagged black threads. Her right hand was unrecognizable: fingers elongated into talons, the skin cracked and ashen, oozing a thin, iridescent fluid that sizzled when it hit the ground. She flexed it experimentally, watching the shadows ripple in response.

"You're becoming one of them," Kael said without looking at her.

"One of who?"

"The Unseen."

Elara snorted. "They'd need to offer better gifts."

But the joke fell flat. Ahead, the trees thinned, revealing a clearing bathed in an unnatural twilight. At its center stood a massive oak, its trunk split open like a wound. From the fissure spilled a viscous black liquid that pooled at the roots, bubbling as though heated from below. The air here was worse—thick with the stench of rotting flowers and burnt hair.

"This is it," Elara murmured. The Thorn Pendant pulsed against her sternum, its warmth clashing with the chain's icy bite. "The Veil's heart."

"No," Kael said quietly. "Its grave."

Shadows detached from the trees.

They came slowly at first—figures cloaked in tattered gray, their faces hidden beneath hoods stitched shut with black thread. Then the corrupted villagers emerged, Mrs. Harlow at their lead. Her scythe was gone; in its place, her hands ended in serrated bone blades, glistening with the same oily substance that seeped from the oak. Her stitches had split entirely, her mouth a gaping maw of needle-teeth. She did not speak. She didn't need to. The hatred in her hollow eyes was language enough.

Elara raised her corrupted hand. The shadows shuddered.

"Stay back," she warned.

Mrs. Harlow lunged.

The world erupted into chaos.

Elara's talons met bone, the impact jarring her arm to the shoulder. Mrs. Harlow screeched, swiping wildly, her bladed hands carving gashes into the earth. Kael ducked a villager's grasp, driving his dagger into their chest. Black sludge sprayed, burning his cheek, but he didn't falter. The dagger hummed in his grip, its edge glowing faintly blue as it drank the corruption.

"Elara!" he shouted. "The tree!"

She didn't need telling. The split oak pulsed rhythmically, its fissure widening with each beat. Inside, something moved—a shape too large, too wrong, to name. The Veil's voice pierced through the chain's suppression, sharp as a nail.

"Rip. Tear. Feast."

"No," Elara growled, clenching her fist until the chain drew blood.

Mrs. Harlow seized her moment of distraction. A bone blade sliced across Elara's ribs, drawing a line of fire. Elara stumbled, her corrupted hand instinctively lashing out. Talons sank into Mrs. Harlow's chest, and the world twisted.

Visions flooded her: Mrs. Harlow as a girl, laughing in the village square. Mrs. Harlow weeping over her son's empty cradle. Mrs. Harlow clawing at her own face as the Unseen's whispers filled her skull.

"Take her," the Veil urged. "Take her strength."

Elara recoiled, releasing her. Mrs. Harlow collapsed, gasping, her human eyes flickering beneath the corruption. "Kill… me…" she rasped.

Before Elara could react, the oak split wider.

A hand emerged—skeletal, draped in rotting velvet. Then another. A figure pulled itself free, towering and grotesque. Its body was a patchwork of bone and shadow, its head crowned with antlers strung with thorny vines. Where a face should have been, there was only a void, save for two pinpricks of crimson light.

"Little Weaver," it intoned, its voice the sound of roots snapping, of graves emptying. "You wear my sister's trinket."

Elara froze. "Sister?"

The Thorn Pendant flared. The figure laughed, a wet, choking sound.

"Liora's spark. How it festers in you." It stepped forward, the ground blackening beneath its feet. "I am the Thorned Prince. Last of the Unseen you trapped. And you… you are the key."

Kael moved to stand beside Elara, his dagger raised. "Stay away from her."

The Thorned Prince tilted its head. "Ah. The betrayer's scion. How fitting." It gestured, and the shadows surged.

Kael's dagger clattered to the ground as tendrils of darkness wrapped his limbs, lifting him into the air. He thrashed, but the bonds tightened, drawing blood.

"Let him go!" Elara snarled.

"Why?" The Thorned Prince drifted closer, its void-face inches from hers. "Your bloodline spent centuries hunting mine. His ancestors chained your mother. Burned your aunts. Drowned your sister in the well. And yet… you protect him."

Elara's breath came in ragged gasps. The chain on her wrist trembled, the runes glowing hotter.

*"Remove it," the Thorned Prince crooned. *"Let me show you true power. Let me make you what you were born to be."

For a heartbeat, she hesitated. The chain's bite was agony. The Veil's whispers promised relief.

Then Kael screamed.

The Thorned Prince's shadows had reached his face, threading beneath his skin like worms. His veins bulged black, his eyes rolling back.

"Stop!" Elara begged. "Please!"

"Remove. The. Chain."

She reached for it—

—and stopped.

Her mother's journal, tucked in her satchel, seemed to burn against her hip. "The Veil cannot be mended—only reborn. A Veyne woman must anchor it…"

But her mother had refused.

Elara looked at Kael, his face contorted in silent agony. At Mrs. Harlow, now crouched and keening, her humanity flickering. At the split oak, oozing the Unseen's rot.

She made her choice.

With a roar, Elara tore the chain from her wrist.

The world exploded.

Power flooded her, raw and searing. The corruption surged, engulfing her body—her skin hardened to obsidian, her hair dissolving into smoke, her talons lengthening into jagged scythes. The Veil's voice became a chorus, singing in a language of fire and ruin.

"YES," it hissed. "AT LAST."

The Thorned Prince stumbled back. "What have you done?"

Elara didn't answer. She moved.

One moment she stood before the oak; the next, her talons were buried in the Thorned Prince's chest. It howled, thrashing, but she twisted her grip, peeling its shadow-flesh like parchment.

"You are not Liora," it spat.

"No," Elara said. "I'm her vengeance."

She ripped its heart free—a pulsing, blackened thing—and crushed it.

The Thorned Prince dissolved, its scream echoing through the woods. The corrupted villagers collapsed, their stitches dissolving, their eyes clearing. Mrs. Harlow sobbed, cradling her bladed hands like a child.

The oak shuddered, its fissure sealing with a sound like a thousand bones snapping. Golden light spilled forth, weaving itself into a new tapestry—the Veil, reborn.

Elara fell to her knees.

The power receded, leaving her hollow. Her body was human again, but fragile, broken. The corruption had retreated to a single black line across her palm. The Thorn Pendant lay cold against her chest.

Kael crawled to her side, his face bloodied but alive. "Elara…"

She smiled faintly. "Told you… I'd fix it."

But the Veil's voice lingered, softer now, mournful.

"The anchor… requires a soul."

Elara's breath hitched. She looked at Kael.

"No," he whispered.

The light from the oak intensified, wrapping around her, pulling.

"Take care of them," she said.

And then she was gone.

END OF CHAPTER 6