The storm hadn't stopped since the night she awoke.
Every night, thunder cracked above the old Voss estate like the sky itself was breaking, and the rain fell in sheets heavy enough to drown out her thoughts.
Elara had started to hate silence. When it was quiet, she could hear things — whispers in the walls, faint heartbeats that weren't her own, echoes that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.
It had been three days since she first saw the mark on her chest begin to shimmer.
Three days since the strange woman, Clara, pressed the silver key into her hand and told her, "When the storm speaks your name, follow it."
Tonight, the storm was screaming her name.
Barefoot, she wandered through the dim corridors of the mansion. The marble floor was cold, and her nightgown trailed behind her like smoke.
The air smelled faintly of wet stone and jasmine — the scent Adrian always left behind.
She'd told herself she hated that smell.
She'd told herself she hated him.
But hate didn't explain the way her pulse quickened every time she thought she saw him in the shadows.
She stopped in front of the long hallway that led to the west wing — the part of the house Adrian had told her never to enter. The door was slightly open. A sliver of light spilled across the floor, pale and silver, like moonlight trapped indoors.
"Elara…"
Her name drifted through the hall, soft and intimate.
She froze. The voice didn't belong to Adrian — it was older, colder, threaded with something that made her spine prickle.
"Elara," it said again, closer this time.
She swallowed, the key on her chain pressing coolly against her collarbone. Her fingers brushed it — it was warmer than it should have been, almost pulsing like a heartbeat.
And then she saw it.
At the end of the hall stood a mirror — tall, framed in black iron twisted into the shape of roses. She'd seen it before, but tonight it seemed… alive. The surface shimmered faintly, rippling as though stirred by an invisible hand.
Her reflection moved a second too late.
Elara's breath caught. "Who's there?"
The glass darkened. Then, as lightning flashed outside, she saw another face in the reflection — her own, but not. The woman in the mirror looked older somehow, her eyes colder, her lips painted deep crimson.
The reflection smiled.
"You shouldn't be here," it whispered. "Not yet."
Elara stumbled back. "What are you?"
The reflection tilted her head. "I'm what's left of you. The part that remembers."
"I don't understand—"
"You will," the mirror said softly. "The key knows. It remembers, too."
The chain around her neck suddenly burned against her skin. She gasped, clutching it, and when she looked down, the silver key was glowing faintly — etched with tiny symbols she had never noticed before.
The mirror pulsed, light spilling from its surface in gentle waves. The air hummed with energy — low, vibrating, magnetic.
"Elara," the voice said again, but this time it wasn't a whisper. It was a command.
Her hand rose of its own accord, reaching toward the glass.
It felt warm — almost alive. The surface quivered under her touch, like the skin of a heartbeat. Then, without warning, her fingers slipped through.
Her breath hitched.
The glass parted like liquid, rippling outward, and she felt something — a pull, strong and invisible, tugging at her arm, then her chest.
"Elara?"
She spun around.
Adrian stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his dark hair, his white shirt clinging to his chest. His eyes — storm-gray, sharp — narrowed as he took in the scene.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice low.
She could barely speak. "It was calling me."
His gaze flicked to the mirror, and his entire body went rigid. "Get away from it."
"You know what this is, don't you?" she said. "You've been hiding it."
"Elara—"
"It said my name."
He crossed the space between them in two long strides, grabbing her wrist before she could touch the glass again. His fingers were hot, his grip unyielding.
"It's not calling you," he said, voice taut. "It's calling what's inside you."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. "What does that mean?"
He didn't answer. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking between her and the glowing key around her neck. "Where did you get that?"
"A woman gave it to me. Clara. She said—"
Adrian's grip tightened. "You should've destroyed it."
"Why?"
"Because that key opens doors that should never be opened."
The mirror shuddered again, the sound vibrating through the floor. The air grew colder, the storm outside roaring in sync with whatever was happening inside the mansion.
Adrian pulled her closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Listen to me. Whatever happens, don't let go."
She looked up at him. "You're scaring me."
"Good," he said. "You should be scared."
The words had barely left his lips when the mirror exploded in light.
A blast of wind knocked them both backward. Glass rained down in glittering shards that vanished before touching the floor. Elara screamed as something — a force, a presence — wrapped around her, pulling her toward the mirror's heart.
"Elara!"
Adrian lunged, grabbing her hand. His eyes burned like silver fire. She could feel the strength in his grip — the desperation — but the pull was too strong.
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can!" His voice was raw. "Fight it!"
The light swallowed her whole.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but darkness.
Then her feet touched the ground — cold, uneven stone.
Elara opened her eyes and found herself in a vast, circular room. The walls were lined with mirrors, hundreds of them, but none reflected her properly. Each one showed something different — fragments of her life, her death, her other faces.
In one, she saw Lyra — her old self — lying lifeless on a marble floor.
In another, she saw Adrian kneeling beside her body, eyes hollow with grief.
Her throat tightened. "This isn't real."
But the mirrors whispered back — soft voices overlapping, whispering her name like a prayer, or a curse.
"Elara. Elara. Elara."
In the center of the room stood a door.
Black iron, carved with roses that bled red light.
The key around her neck pulsed.
Her hands shook as she lifted it. "What are you?" she whispered to the door.
The whispers grew louder, a thousand voices layered as one.
"We are what you were. We are what you will become."
Her heart pounded. She pressed the key into the lock. It turned with a click — slow, deliberate.
The door opened an inch, then stopped. From the darkness inside, a faint breath escaped — slow, steady, alive.
"Elara," the voice came again, gentler now.
Not from the mirrors. Not from the air.
From within the darkness beyond the door.
"Welcome home, Elara Hale."
The lights in the room flickered out.
Something stepped forward from the shadows — unseen, but close enough that she could feel the air shift, could hear the faint rhythm of a heartbeat that wasn't hers.
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Her body trembled, trapped between fear and an eerie pull she couldn't explain.
And then — a hand, pale and cold, reached out from the darkness.
Its fingers brushed her cheek.
"We've been waiting for you."
The door slammed shut.