Night settled over the estate like a held breath.
Moonlight lay across the gardens in pale ribbons, silvering the gravel paths and turning the distant forest into a wall of ink and shadow. The world seemed too still — as though every living thing had paused to listen for something yet to arrive.
Elara stood at her open window, arms folded against the chill. Sleep had refused her. Again.
The air felt charged.
Waiting.
She exhaled slowly.
"Get a grip," she murmured.
The curtains stirred.
Somewhere in the distance, a night bird cried.
Silence returned.
Then—
A sound rose from the forest.
Long. Low. Echoing.
It pierced the quiet like a blade through silk.
Elara froze.
The sound came again.
Not close.
Not far.
Ancient.
Alive.
Her breath caught in her throat.
A tremor passed through her hands.
A memory — unbidden, unwanted — surged from the dark.
A smaller hand gripping a frayed blanket.
A dim village house.
Wind rattling loose shutters.
