Thornwick Hollow, 1971
The fog hung thick over the valley like a breath never exhaled.
Beneath the crooked limbs of the Ashwood tree, twelve figures stood in silence. Their faces were half-shadowed beneath dark hoods, hands clasped tightly before them. At the center stood Elowen Ashwood, tall and grim, a woman carved from purpose. A faint glow from a lantern illuminated her pale face and the trembling leather-bound book she held.
The tree behind her was ancient—blackened bark twisted with deep grooves, its gnarled roots splitting the earth beneath like fingers clawing for escape. The land itself felt wrong here. Too quiet. Too still.
Elowen opened the book.
"We gather," she said, her voice clear but cold. "By ash and oath, by blood and stone, we bind the Hollow once more."
One of the hooded figures stepped forward, holding out the object wrapped in velvet—a smooth, black stone that shimmered despite the absence of light. The air turned colder as it was unwrapped. A hush swept through the group like wind through dead leaves.
Elowen pressed a blade to her palm, then held her bleeding hand over the stone. One by one, the others followed. Blood met stone. The ground trembled faintly beneath them.
She knelt at the base of the Ashwood tree and began to chant—low, rhythmic, and strange. The words did not sound like English. The language was older than the town, older than the land.
The stone was buried beneath the roots.
The book's final page was signed with Elowen's name, written in dark crimson ink. As the last syllables fell from her lips, a gust of wind tore through the clearing, extinguishing the lantern.
In the dark, someone whispered, "Is it done?"
But Elowen was already walking into the fog, her figure swallowed by the mist.
Behind her, the earth sealed itself. The stone was gone. The oath was made.
And the Hollow slept.