The Ashborn

The forest fell utterly still.

Hazel's breath came shallow and ragged, her pulse thrumming with something ancient and irresistible. The Mother's voice echoed inside her bones—calling not just to her mind, but to something deeper. A bloodline older than her name.

"You are mine," the Mother whispered. "Born of grief. Molded by fire. I do not need to make you—you are already becoming."

But just as Hazel's hand twitched—just inches from taking the Mother's—a cold wind swept through the clearing.

And a new voice pierced the Hollow.

Low. Gravelly. Human.

"She is not yours."

The Mother turned her eyeless face sharply.

From between the trees stepped an old man, cloaked in ash-stained robes. His body glowed faintly with a sickly white shimmer, almost translucent, like a dying flame. Around his neck hung a symbol none of them had ever seen before—three roots twisted into a knot, burned into blackened bone.

Silas snarled, stepping between the figure and Evelyn. "Who the hell are you?"

The man didn't flinch. He looked only at Hazel.

"I am called Ashborn," he said, voice dry as parchment. "I was the one who first laid the curse upon this land."

Hazel recoiled. "You're one of them."

"I was," Ashborn nodded. "One of the elders. I helped bury her. Helped spread the lie. I let fear guide me instead of truth."

The Mother hissed. "Traitor."

"You made yourself this way," he said, turning toward her. "But I see now… we made you first."

The ground cracked beneath his feet.

Silas tensed. "You're dead."

Ashborn's eyes flickered. "Yes. And no. My soul was bound to the roots. My punishment is to watch the Hollow suffer forever. But the girl…" He looked again to Hazel. "She can end this."

The Mother raised a hand, bark splitting into thorns. "She is mine."

"No," Ashborn said.

And then—

He knelt.

"To you, Hazel," he said solemnly. "I give my name, my curse, and my final breath. Use it to bind her again… or free her."

Hazel trembled as a wave of power surged from him into her—silver and black smoke twining into her chest like ink in water.

Visions struck her again—memories not just of the Hollow, but of the ritual that sealed it. The true words, the real root sigil, the price of peace.

And with it came a choice.

Evelyn grabbed her arm. "Hazel, please. Don't become her."

The Mother's voice boomed now—shaking trees, cracking stone.

"Choose, daughter."

Hazel rose slowly.

Her eyes now shimmered with gold and ash.

"I will choose," she said softly. "But not for you."

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