The morning light filtered through the crimson drapes, painting the wooden floor of Elara's room with golden hues. The scent of dew and freshly baked bread from the town square drifted in with the breeze, but Elara barely noticed. Her fingers brushed over the worn pages of the journal she found hidden beneath the library floorboards the night before.
Her heart hadn't stopped racing since.
The journal, bound in a peculiar black leather that shimmered with undertones of silver when the light struck it, was written in a language she both knew and didn't. It twisted and danced across the page like smoke—at first incomprehensible, then suddenly readable in flashes. The words weren't static; they rearranged themselves, revealing a narrative that seemed to breathe with its own life.
Last night, after hours of studying by candlelight, she had deciphered the first page:
"Only those born of eclipse may awaken the Gate. Beware, for the mirror of truth casts shadows deeper than the dark itself."
That phrase alone had lodged itself in her mind like a seed.
"Elara!"
Her aunt's voice from downstairs broke the trance.
"I'm coming!" she called back, quickly hiding the journal beneath her mattress. She paused, her hand lingering a second longer than necessary, reluctant to part with it.
The kitchen smelled of rosemary and eggs. Her aunt Marla, a tall woman with laugh lines and always-chapped hands, stirred a pan while humming a familiar lullaby.
"You look like you didn't sleep," Marla said without looking.
"I didn't," Elara admitted, sitting at the small wooden table. "Strange dreams again."
Marla turned then, her brow furrowed. "Still? You've had them since the storm last month. Are you sure it's just dreams?"
Elara hesitated. She'd never told her aunt about the night of the eclipse—the strange pressure in the air, the sensation of being watched, the pull toward the library. She wasn't even sure she understood it herself.
"Just… confusing images," she said finally. "Things that don't make sense."
"Sometimes," Marla said quietly, "dreams are echoes of truths too dangerous to remember."
Elara's eyes shot up. "What do you mean?"
Marla gave a tight smile, brushing her graying hair behind her ear. "Nothing. Just old sayings from my mother. Eat before it gets cold."
But Elara wasn't convinced.
That afternoon, Elara returned to the old library. She moved differently now—every step more purposeful, her senses alert. The journal had awakened something in her, and she wasn't going to ignore it.
The librarian, Master Aldrin, wasn't at his usual post. The front desk sat unattended, and the ancient grandfather clock in the hallway had stopped ticking. She glanced at the spiral staircase that led to the restricted archives and, for once, found the velvet rope barrier hanging loose.
Her pulse quickened. Taking a deep breath, she climbed.
Dust clung to the air like mist. Rows upon rows of forgotten tomes lined the shelves, some so old they seemed fossilized. She made her way to the center of the room, where a circular stained glass window cast a dim rainbow glow across the reading table.
She pulled out the journal and placed it there.
Immediately, the temperature dropped.
A gust of wind—impossible, given there were no open windows—whistled through the shelves. The candle sconces flickered, and a low hum vibrated beneath her feet.
The journal flipped open by itself.
Elara gasped.
A new passage had appeared.
"She who hears the Whisper may choose to turn away. But the Gate remembers the ones who listen."
"Elara."
A voice—not her aunt's, not the librarian's. Softer. Otherworldly.
She spun around. No one.
"Elara," it said again, this time from behind her.
She turned—but found only her own reflection in the glass of a nearby display case. Except… it wasn't quite her.
The reflection blinked before she did.
It smiled.
And then it spoke.
"You've already begun."
Her knees buckled, and she stumbled back. The glass didn't shatter, but the surface rippled like disturbed water. Her reflected self reached a hand toward her from the other side—and for a split second, Elara felt warmth brush her cheek.
Then it was gone.
The hum ceased. The wind died. The candles stilled.
Elara stood frozen in the silence.
She didn't know how long she remained there before Master Aldrin's voice called from below, sharp and alarmed. "Elara? What are you doing up there?"
She snatched the journal and rushed down, nearly colliding with him at the bottom of the stairs.
"I— I got lost," she lied, breathless.
He frowned, narrowing his eyes at her flushed face and trembling hands. "Be careful. That part of the library isn't safe. Books up there have teeth. Or worse."
He said it like a joke, but Elara didn't smile.
That night, the dreams returned.
But this time, they weren't fragmented.
She stood in a vast field of obsidian flowers that pulsed with light under a starless sky. In the distance, a silver gate floated above the earth—circular, intricate, like a celestial clock. Symbols danced across its frame, the same as those in the journal. Before her stood the figure from the reflection.
Only now, Elara saw her clearly.
A girl her age. Same face. Same eyes. But her hair floated as if underwater, and her skin shimmered like moonlight on snow.
"You are the key," the girl said. "But only if you remember."
"Remember what?" Elara asked.
The girl tilted her head. "Who you were. Who you chose to become. The eclipse wasn't the beginning—it was the return."
Then she touched Elara's forehead.
And everything shattered.
Elara awoke gasping, drenched in sweat. The journal lay open beside her on the bed, though she had locked it in her drawer the night before.
A new passage gleamed in ink that glowed faintly in the dark:
"The Gate will open when the Eclipsed Heart beats in both worlds."
She didn't understand it fully.
But something inside her did.
A memory, buried so deep it wasn't hers alone. A flicker of something ancient. Something… waiting.
Elara sat upright, looking at the moon outside her window. Her hands trembled, but not from fear.
From anticipation.
Whatever had begun, she was part of it now.
And she wasn't going to run.