When Elara opened her eyes, she was lying on the cold marble floor of her room.
The storm had gone silent. The house was dark, still — almost too still. The only sound was the steady dripping of water somewhere nearby, rhythmic and slow, like a heartbeat echoing from inside the walls.
Her head throbbed. Her body felt heavy, like she'd been dragged through a nightmare and dropped back into her skin.
For a moment, she wondered if it had all been a dream. The mirror. The voices. The door.
Then she felt it.
The key — the one that had hung around her neck — was gone.
And in its place, pressed against the skin of her collarbone, was a faint burn.
She sat up quickly, her breath catching. The mark glowed faintly under the pale moonlight — not carved, not tattooed, but fused into her skin. Thin silver lines spread from it like veins of lightning.
"What…" she whispered, fingers trembling as she touched it. The mark pulsed once beneath her fingertips, almost like it was alive.
Then —
A voice.
"You shouldn't have opened the door."
She gasped, spinning toward the sound.
Adrian stood in the doorway, half in shadow, his shirt unbuttoned and his face unreadable. His eyes — that cold, storm-gray — locked on her chest, and something like fear flashed across his expression.
"What did you do?" he said quietly.
"I—" Her throat felt dry. "The mirror… it pulled me in. I saw—"
"I told you not to touch it." His voice was soft, but every word was sharp enough to cut.
"It called me!" she snapped. "You're the one hiding things! You knew about that mirror, about this—" she pointed at the glowing mark "—and you said nothing!"
Adrian's jaw clenched. "Because I was trying to protect you."
"Protect me?" She let out a harsh laugh. "From what, Adrian? From the truth?"
He stepped closer, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. His voice lowered. "You think the truth will save you? It's the only thing that ever killed me."
Something in his tone made her heart stutter. "Killed you?"
Adrian didn't answer. His gaze lingered on her mark again. "It's begun, then."
"What's begun?"
He hesitated — then sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "The connection. Between your soul and the veil."
"The veil?"
"The barrier between this world and the next," he said. "You've touched it now. It will start to remember you."
She stared at him, disbelief and fear warring inside her. "You're insane."
"Am I?" He walked toward her, slow, deliberate. "You think the woman who revived you was a miracle worker? She was a keeper. One of the old ones who guard the boundary between life and death. And when she brought you back, she didn't come empty-handed."
He knelt before her. His presence was magnetic, dangerous, almost comforting despite the words spilling from his lips. "That key she gave you—it wasn't metal. It was a piece of your soul, forged into shape."
Her stomach turned cold. "That's impossible."
He smiled faintly. "You keep saying that, and yet you keep proving yourself wrong."
The mark on her chest pulsed again, stronger this time. She flinched, gripping her collarbone. "It hurts."
"It's trying to open," he said. "Something's trying to cross through you."
"Stop it!"
"I can't." He reached out, hesitated, then pressed his palm against the mark. The pain in her chest surged — but so did warmth. For a brief moment, the burn softened, fading beneath his touch.
His hand lingered. The air between them changed — charged, heavy.
Elara's breath came faster. She should've pulled away, but she didn't. Something about the way he looked at her — raw, conflicted, afraid — made it impossible to move.
"You shouldn't be able to do that," she whispered.
"I shouldn't be able to do a lot of things," he murmured. "But death doesn't forget its debts."
Their eyes locked — his storm against her fire — and for a second, the world outside didn't exist.
Then the lamps flickered.
A low hum filled the air. The shadows in the corners of the room shifted — moving, stretching upward like smoke taking form.
Adrian's hand fell away. "We're out of time."
"Elara," the whispers came again, soft and familiar — from nowhere and everywhere. The same voice that had called her through the mirror.
The shadows crept closer, taking shape — long fingers, hollow faces, whispering echoes. The air grew freezing cold.
Adrian stepped in front of her, his entire posture changing — protective, predatory. His eyes glowed faintly silver.
"What are they?" she breathed.
"Echoes," he said. "Remnants of those who crossed the veil and couldn't return. They sense you now."
"Why?"
"Because they think you're one of them."
The nearest shadow lunged. Adrian moved faster than she could see — a blur of motion, his hand slicing through the air. The thing screamed, dissolving into smoke.
He turned to her. "We need to seal the mark."
"How?"
"You trust me?"
Her pulse pounded. "I don't know."
"Then decide fast."
The second wave of shadows rose from the floor, surrounding them in a circle of shifting black mist. Adrian grabbed her wrist, pulling her close.
"Breathe," he whispered. "And whatever you feel—don't fight it."
He pressed his palm over her heart again. This time, instead of warmth, cold shot through her — not painful, but sharp, like winter air rushing through her veins.
Adrian's breath ghosted against her ear. "Repeat after me."
"I can't—"
"Do it."
His voice left no room for argument.
He began to speak in a language she didn't recognize — ancient, melodic, like something carved from stone and moonlight. The mark on her chest flared, light spilling through his fingers.
"Elara," he said, and she realized his voice was shaking. "Say it."
Her lips moved without thought. The words poured from her like she'd always known them.
The light grew brighter. The shadows screamed — a chorus of pain, fury, and hunger. The room trembled as if the mansion itself was alive and trying to resist.
Then, as quickly as it began, it was over.
The shadows vanished. The storm outside went silent again.
Elara collapsed forward, catching herself against his chest. For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Adrian's hand stayed on her back, steady and careful, though his pulse thundered beneath her palm.
"You did it," she whispered.
He shook his head. "No. We just delayed it."
She pulled back enough to look at him. "What happens when it opens again?"
He met her gaze, and for the first time, she saw fear there. Not for himself — for her.
"When it opens again," he said quietly, "you'll stop being you."
Her throat tightened. "And what will I become?"
His jaw clenched. "Exactly what killed me."
Elara froze.
"What?"
He turned away, walking toward the window. The lightning outside flashed, outlining his silhouette — tall, elegant, impossibly alone.
"I died once too," he said. "A long time ago. And when I came back… I brought something with me."
She stared at his back, every part of her trembling. "You're not—"
"Human?" He looked over his shoulder, eyes burning silver in the dark. "Not entirely."
The silence that followed was heavier than the storm.
Elara pressed a hand over the mark on her chest — the faint light still pulsing beneath her skin.
The words replayed in her mind like a heartbeat:
Exactly what killed me.
And for the first time, she wondered if the real danger wasn't the mirror.
It was her.