Roots of Rot

Thorn Hollow was not built—it was burrowed.

Nestled in a valley between the jagged Teeth of Marrow Mountains and the serpentine Blackroot River, the village clung to the earth like a lichen-stained secret.

Its cottages, squat and stubborn, were crafted from timber hewn from the Whispering Woods itself, their roofs mossy and sagging under centuries of rain.

The village square, a uneven cobblestone expanse, centered around the ancient well where the First Weaver's bones still rested. The well's stones bore carvings worn smooth by time: thorns, serpents, and a woman's face with hollow eyes, her mouth open in a silent scream.

To the north stood the Ashen Fields, a blighted stretch of land where crops withered overnight and the soil wept a thin, gray sludge. Old Marl claimed it was punishment for the village's founding sins, though none dared ask what those sins were.

To the south lay the Gloomshade, a section of the Whispering Woods where sunlight dared not linger, and the trees grew so close their roots knotted into staircases for things better left unclimbed.

But it was the village church that held the darkest allure. A crumbling edifice of blackened stone, its spire leaned precariously, as if bowing to some unseen master.

Inside, the air hummed with the weight of forgotten prayers, its walls lined with tapestries depicting Thorn Hollow's history—or what the elders wanted remembered. Women weaving thread into shimmering veils. Men burying chests of thorny relics. Children dancing around a pyre where a figure in a black robe burned.

Sorin traced a finger over the pyre tapestry, his smirk sharpening. "Cheery place."

Veyra snorted, her boots crunching on dead leaves blown through the cracked stained-glass windows. "They're hiding something. Look." She knelt, brushing dust from the floor to reveal a symbol etched into the stone: a circle of thorns encircling a weeping eye. "Same mark as the cultists we fought near the shrine."

"Not a surprise," Sorin said, glancing at the altar, where Sister Evaine's hymnbook lay open to a page titled "Hymns to the Mother's Mercy."

"This 'Mother' they're waking—she's no newborn nightmare. She's in their bones."

"..."

Beneath the church, the catacombs breathed.

Sorin and Veyra descended a hidden staircase, its steps slick with algae and something darker. The air thickened with the cloying sweetness of rot and burnt incense. Veyra's fire danced in her palm, casting flickering light on walls lined with skulls—each one marked with the thorn-and-eye symbol.

"Cozy," Sorin muttered, eyeing a mural of a robed figure cradling a shadowy infant. "Family portrait?"

"More like a warning." Veyra pointed to the next panel: villagers bowing to a woman with teal eyes and a crown of thorns, her hands dripping black sludge into the well. "The First Weaver. But she's… different here."

"Different how?"

"Look at her face." Veyra leaned closer. "She's smiling."

The mural's Weaver bore none of Liora's sorrow. Her grin was wild, her eyes alight with fervor, the thorns on her crown blooming into flowers. Beneath her feet, words were carved in Old Tongue: "From her rot, we rise."

Sorin whistled. "So the First Weaver wasn't just a martyr. She was their queen."

A scuttle echoed ahead. They froze as a rat darted past, its fur patchy, eyes glowing faintly green.

"This way," Veyra whispered, following the rodent's path to a rusted iron door. Behind it, voices chanted in dissonant harmony.

"..."

Elara's hands trembled as she braided starlit thread into the Veil's tapestry.

Since the ritual, the bond with Kael had become a double-edged sword. His presence steadied her, his mortal warmth a tether against the Veil's cold pull. But his emotions bled into hers—his guilt, his fear of becoming his father, his want—a relentless current threatening to drown her.

She stood in the Ashen Fields now, Kael at her side, as villagers scattered seeds into the gray soil. Old Marl watched from a distance, his gnarled hands gripping a cane carved from a human femur.

"They're wasting their time," Elara said quietly. "Nothing grows here."

"They know," Kael replied. "But it's the Festival of Sowing. Tradition."

The festival was Thorn Hollow's oldest ritual, a plea to the earth for forgiveness. Women wore crowns of dead ivy, men drank wine laced with ashes, and children carried effigies of the "Veil's Bride" — a doll woven from thorny vines — to the well, where they drowned it in the First Weaver's name.

This year, the effigy bore teal eyes.

"They're mocking you," Kael growled as villagers side-eyed Elara, their whispers sharp as knives. Witch. Harbinger. Mother's Daughter.

Elara touched her ribbon, frayed now. "They're scared."

"They should be." He nodded to the woods, where shadows writhed thicker than usual. "The Unseen's corruption is spreading. Whatever Sorin and Veyra found—"

"Will be dealt with." She closed her eyes, sensing the Veil's tremors. "The Mother is stirring. I can feel her… hunger."

Kael's hand brushed hers. "We'll stop her."

The bond surged, and for a heartbeat, their minds merged. Elara saw herself through his eyes — ethereal, fragile, beautiful — and felt his resolve harden like forged steel. She pulled away, cheeks flushed.

"Don't," she whispered.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like I'm worth saving."

Before he could reply, a scream tore through the square.

"..."

The iron door creaked open, revealing a chamber lit by green-flamed braziers.

Dozens of hooded figures knelt around a pulsating mass of roots, their chant rising in fervor: "Mother of Rot, flesh of our flesh, wake and walk among us!" The roots coiled around an altar where a woman's corpse lay, her skin moss-green, her chest split open to cradle a writhing shadow.

"Well," Sorin breathed. "That's unsettling."

Veyra's fire sputtered as the shadow turned, its hollow gaze locking onto them.

"Intruders," it hissed through the corpse's lips.

The cultists rose as one, their hoods falling to reveal villagers — the butcher, the baker, even sweet-faced Lira, the flower girl. Their eyes were gone, replaced by swirling void.

Sorin drew his dagger. "Time to go."

"No." Veyra's flames roared. "Time to burn."

"..."

Elara staggered, clutching her chest as the bond flared with Kael's panic.

The villagers — no, husks — converged, their mouths unstitching to reveal rows of needle-teeth. Kael shoved Elara behind him, his dagger flashing, but the blade passed harmlessly through their shadow-flesh.

"They're not real," Elara realized. "Illusions. The Mother's playing with us."

Old Marl limped forward, his cane tapping. "Not illusions, girl. Offerings."

His face melted, revealing the Thorned Prince's void-like visage beneath.

"Hello, little Weaver."

Elara's teal eyes blazed. "You're dead."

"Death is a door," the Prince rasped. "And my Mother holds the key."

He struck, shadows lashing. Kael leapt in front of Elara, taking the blow meant for her.

"..."

In the catacombs, Veyra's fire consumed the husks, but more surged from the walls.

"We need to kill the source!" Sorin shouted, slicing through a root.

The corpse on the altar sat up, the shadow within it swelling. "You cannot stop her. She is coming. She knows your name, Elara Veyne."

Veyra froze. "How does it know—"

The shadow laughed. "The Veil whispers. The Mother listens. And soon, she will take."

"..."

Elara knelt over Kael, his blood staining the Ashen Fields.

The Thorned Prince loomed, his antlers dripping venom. "Join her, Weaver. Or watch him die. Again."

Memories surged — Kael's father's cruelty, his mother's chains, the locket's weight — and Elara's resolve hardened.

She tore the ribbon from her collar.

"You want my name?" she snarled. "Come and claim it."

The Veil ripped open, and the Mother's laughter shook the earth.