The town had gone silent.
No birds.
No wind.
No sound but the whisper of fog brushing against windows, slipping beneath doorways like it belonged there.
Noa sat on the floor of her room, legs crossed, the stone fragment glowing faintly before her. She hadn't left the house in two days—not since the words appeared on her window. Not since the fragments chose them.
Each of the girls had started experiencing things. Personal things. Disturbing things.
And it was getting worse.
Celeste was the first to fall.
It happened in the kitchen, mid-conversation. She dropped her mug, gasped for air, and crumpled to the floor.
Her eyes fluttered, then went still.
And when she spoke, it wasn't her voice.
"She waits beneath the ash. You broke the oath. The Hollow breathes again."
Then she screamed—a sound pulled from somewhere too deep for a sixteen-year-old girl—and passed out cold.
When she woke, she was sobbing. She didn't remember anything.
Astra couldn't stop painting.
Canvas after canvas, all in charcoal and black ink. Every one depicted the Ashwood Tree, split down the middle, its roots bleeding.
"I can feel it dying," she whispered. "Something's eating it from the inside."
Mavis had started burning when she touched her stone again. Her palms blistered like she'd grabbed a hot stove.
Still, she refused to throw it away.
"It picked me," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm not backing down now."
And Riven—who never wavered—was now barely speaking. She sat on the edge of things, watching everyone with eyes too wide.
They met in the abandoned greenhouse behind Noa's house.
The fragments were brought in jars. The leather-bound book sat open, the oath Elowen wrote glimmering faintly in the moonlight.
Riven crossed her arms. "You want to finish the ritual? Here? Now?"
"We don't have a choice," Noa said. "The fog is creeping in faster. I think if we don't act, it'll swallow the town."
"Or us," Astra added.
"And what exactly do we do?" Riven snapped. "We say some words, cut your hand open, and pray that whatever nightmare's under that tree goes back to sleep?"
Noa looked at her. "Yes."
The silence afterward was deafening.
But no one walked away.
They stood in a circle, their fragments laid before them.
The book rested in the center, open to the last full page. The final line had bled away.
Celeste, still pale, opened her mouth to read—but it wasn't her voice that came out.
"Elowen bound the Hollow in blood. You must do the same. One must bleed. One must forget."
Noa stepped forward. She pulled a small blade from her pocket—an old ritual dagger she'd found in the attic, wrapped in silk.
Without waiting, she cut across her palm.
Her blood dripped onto the fragment. It hissed on contact.
The wind picked up. The windows shattered outward.
Fog spilled into the greenhouse, choking out the stars.
Each girl grabbed her fragment. Their hands trembled. The book began writing by itself—inky script scrawling across the empty page.
Then, without warning, the five fragments lifted into the air—spinning, glowing, binding themselves to each girl's palm like a brand.
And just beyond the broken glass, the fog moved.
It watched.