In the days that followed, Lila observed more than ever. Students seemed tense, their hands twitching, fingers curling involuntarily, almost as if reacting to something unseen. She saw a boy in the corridor, paler than usual, clawing at the air. When asked later, he muttered, "It… it wants me. It watches. The hand… it speaks."
The academy itself seemed alive, corridors stretching longer at night, ceilings arching higher, shadows pooling unnaturally. Lila noticed symbols etched into the walls, faint scratches forming abstract hand shapes. When she traced them, a cold numbness traveled up her arm.
Ezra and Clara became her secret allies. In whispered conversations in the hidden corners of the library, they explained: "The hand doesn't just haunt. It consumes. It feeds on fear, doubt, and secrets. The longer it watches, the stronger it becomes."
They decided to investigate the hidden basement beneath the chapel, a place students avoided entirely. Candles flickered as they descended the narrow spiral staircase. The air was thick, heavy, smelling of mold, iron, and something acrid, almost alive. The walls were lined with journals and artifacts from centuries past. Faded handprints, small and large, seemed to crawl along the walls.
One journal detailed Elowen's obsession: rituals that could bind or transfer consciousness through touch, mirrors, and shadows. Lila felt a chill as she read aloud:
"The hand does not simply touch the flesh. It touches the mind. Those who resist it too strongly… vanish. Those who submit… serve it."
A sudden draft extinguished their candles. The shadows in the room deepened, forming long, sinuous shapes like fingers crawling across the floor. Clara whispered, "It knows we're here. It's testing us."
Suddenly, Lila felt a cold brush against her wrist. She recoiled; there was no one there. Yet a pale hand-shaped mark had appeared, curling along her skin. Her pulse raced.
"It's feeding," Ezra muttered. "The more afraid we get, the more it grows."
For the first time, Lila realized that she could sense it, like an itch in the back of her mind, a hunger lurking in shadows. It was patient, waiting for the right moment to strike.