35

Elara's hands trembled as she fit the key into the lock. The cold metal bit against her skin, almost as if resisting her touch. A deep breath steadied her, and with a quiet click, the door to the study swung open.

The scent of aged parchment and dust filled her nostrils, a sharp contrast to the damp night air outside. The flickering candlelight revealed shelves lined with books—some bound in cracked leather, others wrapped in thick cloth. Strange symbols adorned their spines, whispering of knowledge long forgotten.

Elara stepped inside, her boots echoing softly against the wooden floor. The book at her back pulsed, its presence growing heavier. She knew she didn't have much time. Whatever had spoken to her in the woods, whatever had watched from the shadows—it wasn't gone. It was waiting.

She had to understand what she was dealing with before it returned.

Her mother's desk stood in the center of the room, its surface covered in scattered notes and delicate trinkets. A single leather-bound journal lay open, ink scrawled across the yellowed pages in rushed strokes. Elara's fingers traced the words, her pulse quickening with each line:

The Awakening is incomplete. Without the anchor, the body begins to consume itself. Power without control leads to destruction.

Her stomach twisted. Her mother had known. She had known about the transformation, about the danger Elara now faced. She had hidden the truth for a reason.

A flicker of movement in the reflection of a glass cabinet made her spin around, her breath catching in her throat.

Nothing.

Just the dim candlelight shifting against the glass.

She exhaled slowly. Paranoia was setting in. But the warning in the journal was clear—her abilities were unstable. The power surging through her veins was not fully hers to wield. Without the proper guidance, it could consume her, unravel her from the inside out.

The book on her back pulsed again, almost impatiently. It had given her power, had granted her the ability to command shadows and light alike. But at what cost? Had it chosen her, or had she unknowingly bound herself to it?

Her gaze flickered to a locked chest in the corner of the study, the wood darkened with age. Another keyhole, smaller than the one for the study door. The answer had to be inside.

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the open doorway, snuffing out the candle. Darkness swallowed the room.

Elara's pulse pounded in her ears as she turned sharply, instinct screaming that she was no longer alone.

Then, the whisper came.

Soft. Amused. "You are running out of time."

The book at her back burned, its warmth seeping through her clothing. She had to move. She had to find the anchor before it was too late.

Swallowing her fear, she reached for the next key. The chest was waiting.

Elara's fingers trembled as she slid the key into the lock of the chest. It fit perfectly, as though it had been waiting for her all along. With a hesitant breath, she turned it. A soft click echoed through the room, followed by the slow creak of the chest's lid lifting open.

Inside, layers of cloth concealed its contents. She peeled them back carefully, revealing a small, ornate mirror. Its silver frame was covered in intricate symbols—the same ones that lined the bookshelves. The glass shimmered as if reflecting more than just the dim candlelight.

Elara's heart pounded. This wasn't an ordinary mirror. It radiated a strange energy, pulsating in time with the book at her back. Her fingers hovered over its surface, hesitation warring with curiosity. The words from the journal echoed in her mind:

The Awakening is incomplete. Without the anchor, the body begins to consume itself.

Was this the anchor? Would it stabilize the power within her, or would it only draw her deeper into the unknown?

Before she could decide, the whisper returned.

Louder. Closer. "Look."

The glass of the mirror darkened, shifting like a pool of ink. Then, an image formed—herself, standing in the study. But something was wrong. Her reflection wasn't mirroring her movements. It was watching her.

A cold shiver ran down her spine. Her own eyes stared back at her, but they weren't hers. They were deeper, filled with something ancient, something hungry.

Then, the reflection smiled.

Elara stumbled backward, her breath catching in her throat. The mirror rattled, its surface rippling as if it were alive.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "This isn't real."

But the book burned hotter against her back, a silent confirmation that what she was seeing was very real. And it was only the beginning.

The whisper coiled around her like a serpent. "You are almost ready."

The study trembled. Books toppled from the shelves. The candlelight flickered wildly, casting frantic shadows across the walls. Elara grabbed the mirror, her grip tightening.

Then—silence.

The trembling ceased. The whisper was gone. But the feeling lingered, a weight pressing against her chest.

She needed answers. And she needed them now.

Holding the mirror close, she turned toward the desk, flipping through her mother's notes with newfound urgency. Symbols, incantations, warnings—they all pointed to the same thing.

Her power was growing, but it was incomplete. Without control, she would become something else. Something that could no longer be called human.

The book at her back pulsed, as if agreeing. The mirror's surface remained dark, waiting.

Elara inhaled sharply. The key had unlocked the study, the chest had revealed the mirror—but there was still something missing.

The final piece of the puzzle.

And she was running out of time to find it.

The door behind her slammed shut with a deafening bang. She whirled around, heart hammering against her ribs. The candle's flame flickered violently, casting long, twisting shadows across the room. Something had changed.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

Elara barely had time to react before the air thickened, pressing against her like unseen hands. The mirror in her grasp pulsed, its surface shifting as though trying to show her something. Her breathing came fast and shallow.

The figure stepped closer. Not quite human, not quite shadow. It moved with an unnatural grace, its presence filling the study with a chilling weight. Elara's muscles locked, but she forced herself to stay still, to meet its gaze.

"Who are you?" she demanded, voice steadier than she felt.

The figure tilted its head, amused. "You already know."

The book on her back pulsed harder. The mirror in her hands trembled.

Elara took a step back, her mind racing. If this was the final piece of the puzzle, she needed to understand it—fast. The whisper had said she was almost ready.

But for what?

Amid the tension, something slipped from the folds of cloth inside the chest—a letter, sealed with her mother's crest.

Elara's breath caught as she picked it up, her fingers hesitating before breaking the wax seal. The words inside shattered everything she thought she knew:

My dearest Elara, I never hated you. I only wanted to protect you. They hunted me for the same reason they now hunt you. Your aunts and uncles—they seek your blood, just as they sought mine. They will not stop.

Elara's grip tightened. The shadows in the room stirred.

She was never safe. Not then. Not now.