The third heart was a mirror.
Eleanor found it in the ruins of her rented Ford, now a carcass of rust and ivy. The rearview mirror hung askew, reflecting not her face, but a child's—her child's, though she'd never borne one. The girl in the glass had Eleanor's auburn hair, Martha Harlow's green eyes, and a smile sharp enough to cut bone.
"You knew," the girl whispered. "You've always known."
Eleanor smashed the mirror with the dagger. Shards rained down, each fragment a tableau of lives she'd never lived—a scholar swallowed by the Door, a mother cradling a scaled infant, a priestess chanting at the stones. The final shard showed her father's funeral, the coffin lid etched with a spiral-triangle.
"The infection isn't new," she realized. "It's inheritance."
The Hollow shuddered in agreement.
The townsfolk came at dusk.
They moved as one—a tide of twitching limbs and milk-white eyes, their mouths sewn shut with silver thread. At their helm strode Jeb Lowe's corpse, reanimated by tendrils of black mist, his ledger clutched in moldering hands.
"Offffferingggg…" they droned. "Give ussss the guardian…"
Eleanor retreated to the standing stones, her dagger carving arcs of greenish light. The townsfolk halted at the stone circle's edge, hissing as the symbols flared.
"Traitor," Jeb's corpse gurgled. "You were supposed to ssssave usss…"
"I am," Eleanor said. "By letting you die."
She plunged the dagger into the earth. The stones sang, their vibrations liquefying the ground beneath the horde. Jeb dissolved first, his ledger pages swirling into a storm of ash. The others followed, their screams cut short as the Hollow drank them down.
Silence. Then—
"Clever," crooned Abigail's voice from the trees. "But the Door prefers its meat fresh."
Eleanor didn't turn. "Show yourself."
The air rippled. Abigail stepped forth, her form flickering between girl and monstrosity, the Horned Woman of the Blackthorn Grimoire.
"Three hearts to break the cycle," she said. "Two gone. One to go. Shall I tell you where it lies?"
"In me," Eleanor said. "I'm the last sacrifice."
Abigail's laugh was a symphony of broken violins. "Sacrifice? No. You're the feast. The Door didn't choose you, Eleanor—it bred you. Your father signed the contract with his blood. Your mother carried its seed. You've been a vessel since birth."
The truth unfolded like a switchblade: late-night arguments, her father's obsession with "family history," the way her mother had vanished after signing papers at a lawyer's office—papers with wax seals shaped like spirals.
"They sold you," Abigail whispered. "To keep the Blackthorns fed. To keep the Door polite."
Eleanor's dagger hand trembled. "Why let me destroy the other hearts?"
"Because the Door hungers most for volition." Abigail cupped Eleanor's chin, her touch burning cold. "A willing soul tastes sweeter. And you, little guardian, are finally… willing."
The stones erupted.
Nine pillars of black fire scorched the sky, their apexes coalescing into the Door—no longer a shadow, but a presence, vast and voracious. Its tendrils cascaded, wrapping Eleanor in a cocoon of whispered promises:
"End it," the Door crooned. "Give me your heart, and I'll spare the next child. The next hollow. The next you."
Eleanor closed her eyes.
She saw Sheriff Burke, reloading his shotgun in the face of oblivion.
She saw the townsfolk, kneeling not in reverence, but resignation.
She saw her reflection in the mirror-shard, that green-eyed girl who'd never exist.
"No," Eleanor said.
She stabbed herself in the chest.
Pain. Then—nothing.
Then everything.
Eleanor floated in the Door's womb, a trillion stars squirming around her. The third heart beat in her grasp—a locket shaped like the spiral-triangle, its chain fused to her ribs.
"You can't," the Door thundered. "I am your blood. Your breath. Your—"
"No," Eleanor said again. "You're a parasite."
She tore the locket free.
The Door screamed.
The stars winked out.
The standing stones crumbled.
And Eleanor Voss, last guardian of Blackthorn Hollow, opened her eyes.