Back in her cottage, Chizzy sat beside the hearth, the fire casting flickering shadows that danced like spirits on the walls. Her fingers trembled as they unclasped the iron locket. She had worn it since she was a child, never daring to open it after the night her mother gave it to her — the night of the scream, the blood, and the silence that followed.
She opened it slowly, half-expecting some curse to pour out. But inside was something simple a folded piece of parchment, old and brittle with time. The edges had browned, and the writing had faded, but it was still legible.
It read:
"If the fog returns, find the roots beneath the ash tree. The truth sleeps in the Hollow. You must not forget what you are."
Chizzy stared at the words, her breath hitching. Beneath the ash tree. The Hollow. That name again whispered by the Watcher and now written in her mother's desperate hand. Her instincts urged her to throw the locket into the fire, to pretend she had never read it. But something deeper within — something old, something buried —demanded she remember.
She stood and threw on her cloak, fastening the iron clasp at her throat. Outside, the fog still clung to the ground like spilled ink, but she moved through it with new purpose.
The ash tree stood at the edge of the village, its gnarled limbs clawing at the sky. Beneath its roots, the soil was soft, undisturbed for years. She fell to her knees, digging with her bare hands. Dirt packed under her nails, her breath misted with effort, until her fingers scraped against something solid.
A box.
It was made of dark wood, sealed with an iron lock identical to her locket. The pieces clicked together with a strange sense of destiny, and the box creaked open.
Inside was a book bound in leather black, smooth, and unnervingly warm. No title marked its cover. When she opened it, the pages pulsed like a heartbeat. Symbols she didn't recognize danced across the parchment. They shimmered, then shifted into words she somehow understood.
It spoke of bloodlines not just hers, but of a lineage forgotten by the world. Witches. Wardens. Shadows made flesh. The Hollow was not just a place it was a door. And Chizzy, the last of her line, was its key.
A wind picked up, unnatural and cold. The ash tree groaned as if waking from a long slumber.
Chizzy stood slowly, the book clutched to her chest.
She was no longer afraid.
The Watcher's words echoed in her mind: You must choose.
And she had.
She would not sleep.
She would rise.