The Willing Ones
The woods around the manor rubble cradled the group in a thinning fog, dawn's gray light seeping through the trees like a reluctant witness. Liam leaned against a splintered beam, bat beside him, his chest, leg, and shoulder a tapestry of blood-soaked bandages—pain a fire he'd forged into will. His mom sat nearby, tunnel map on a plank, her hands steady now, eyes sharp with a clarity that cut deeper than guilt. Maya clutched her sketchbook, runes dark, her bandaged hand trembling as she traced the last of Carter's bloodied stone. Sofia fed Luna, wrench gleaming, her fierce spirit a ember refusing to die, the dog patched and alert. Ethan rigged the radio, crowbar dented, static hissing—"…Raven Hollow… anomaly contained…"—his ear and leg leaking red. Noah pored over journal scraps, glasses cracked, voice low as he unraveled Elias's final truth.
"'The Watcher wakes with the willing,'" Noah read, finger steady, journal trembling. "'Bound by blood, freed by choice—its heart beats in those who call.' Carter wasn't just a vessel—someone let him."
"Protocol," Liam growled, badge—Eclipse Protocol—heavy, his dad's death a wound reopened. "They juiced him—W-Extract."
"Not just them," Noah said, adjusting his glasses, a torn page in hand. "Elias says it's older—Raven Hollow's founders, 1691. They summoned it, fed it—willingly."
Maya's pencil froze, rune dark. "Founders? You mean—"
"Us," Liam's mom whispered, voice breaking, plank slipping. "Our families—Blackwoods, Holloways, Carters… your dad found it in the lab. Records—names. They started this."
Liam spun, badge a brand, rage flaring. "You knew?"
"Not all," she sobbed, hands up. "He told me pieces—said our blood's cursed, tied to it. I didn't believe… until now."
A hum pulsed—soft, deep, from the rubble. Luna growled, hackles up, as the fog swirled, the air alive—not the lullaby, but a heartbeat, ancient, steady. The group grabbed weapons—bat, wrench, crowbar, knife—Liam standing, pain a spur, badge pocketed.
"It's back?" Sofia hissed, wrench up, Luna tense.
"No," Noah said, journal trembling. "It's us—the willing. Our blood woke it."
The hum grew—rubble cracking, a glow seeping, not the Watcher but something else—human shapes, shadows peeling, faces familiar yet old: Blackwood robes, Holloway eyes, Carter scars—ancestors, eyeless, smiling, flesh not ichor.
"You…" one rasped, voice layered—Elias's, their own. "You call us still…"
Liam swung, bat cracking a skull—blood sprayed, human, warm. "No!" he roared, tire iron flying, smashing another—Sofia's wrench thudded, Ethan's crowbar bashed, Maya's knife slashed—they fell, bleeding, not dissolving, piling in the dirt.
"They're real," Maya gasped, sketchbook slipping, rune plank flaring. "Not echoes—us!"
Noah chanted—"Thread snaps…"—rune pulsing, light searing, but the figures staggered, not fading, flesh holding. "Blood ties," he panted, glasses falling. "Ours—it's in us, always was."
Liam's mom clutched him, whispering, "Your dad—he knew. Tried to break it—died for it."
Headlights flared—distant, roaring closer. Radios crackled: "Targets active… anomaly spiking…" Ethan's radio sparked—"…containment critical…"—cutting off.
"Protocol," Liam growled, bat up, tire iron slick. "They're here."
The figures smiled—ancestors, blood kin—stepping back, fog swallowing, the hum fading, a whisper lingering: "Willing…"
"Woods—move!" Liam yelled, dragging his mom, the group bolting—Luna limping, branches clawing, fog choking. Gunfire cracked—bullets shredding leaves, grazing Liam's shoulder, blood hot anew. He grunted, swinging the bat back, cracking a rifle—an operative fell, Maya's knife slashing his leg. Sofia's wrench thudded a helmet, Ethan's crowbar bashed, Noah ducked, rune wood flaring.
The rubble loomed—crater dark, tunnel collapsed, but a pulse beat—deep, alive. "It's not the line," Noah shouted, journal flapping. "It's us—the curse—our blood!"
An operative lunged—rifle up—Liam tackled, tire iron cracking his skull, blood mixing with his own. "Fall back!" another barked, rifles retreating, SUVs roaring—"Anomaly unbound… abort!"—headlights fading, silence falling.
They collapsed in the crater, panting, bloodied, Luna growling. Liam's mom clutched the plank, tears streaking. "It's true—I saw names. We're them."
Maya checked her hand—no mark, but a pull, deep. "Carter was a pawn—Protocol used him, but we're the root."
Sofia's wrench trembled, fierce. "Our families—summoned it?"
"Fed it," Noah said, glasses gone, journal soaked. "1691—ritual blood. Elias bound it, but our kin kept it alive—willingly."
Ethan wiped blood from his leg, grim. "So we're screwed—born cursed?"
"No," Liam said, badge heavy, resolve steel, standing despite the pain. "We break it—us, them—Protocol too."
The fog pressed, dawn gray, a hum lingered—not the Watcher, but their own blood, calling.
Later, they hid in the woods—rubble a shield, wounds patched, the truth a blade. Liam's mom sat, map useless, eyes wide. Maya sketched ancestors' faces, Sofia sharpened her wrench, Ethan rigged the radio, Noah read scraps.
"It's us," Liam said, badge gleaming, voice low. "Not just the Watcher—our blood woke it, keeps it."
"Then we end it," Maya replied, pencil firm, runes dark. "Ourselves—Protocol—the curse."
Sofia nodded, fierce. "For Luna—for them."
Ethan smirked, grim, radio sparking—"…Raven Hollow… bloodline active…" "Round ten."
Noah closed the journal, calm, blind without glasses. "We've got the truth. Let's burn it down."
Outside, the fog thinned—a heartbeat pulsed—their own, a war reborn….