Chapter Four: The Mark of Attention
Elara woke with the certainty that something had already seen her awake.
The room was dim, dawn barely pressing at the edges of the window, but her skin prickled as though she had been touched moments before. Not touched—noticed. The sensation lingered along her spine, a faint pressure that refused to fade.
She sat up sharply, breath uneven.
Nothing moved.
And yet her body refused to settle.
Her hands trembled as she dressed. Her thoughts slipped away when she tried to examine them too closely, as though something had scraped clean the center of her memory and left only impressions behind.
She avoided the mirror.
⸻
The village noticed before she could hide.
It wasn't loud at first. It never was.
It was the way voices dipped when she approached. The way people stopped mid-motion and didn't quite look at her. The way space subtly shifted, bodies angling away as though proximity itself carried risk.
At the well, Elara reached for the bucket rope—
And someone else took it first.
"Sorry," the woman said quickly, not meeting her eyes. "You can wait."
Elara hesitated. "I was here—"
"I said wait."
The word landed harder than it should have.
Murmurs rippled outward, quiet but unmistakable.
Elara stepped back.
At the baker's stall, she placed her coins on the counter. The baker hesitated, then pushed them back.
"Come later," he said flatly.
"I always buy in the morning," Elara replied.
His jaw tightened. "Not today."
A woman nearby crossed herself.
Someone else muttered, "She went too far."
Elara's pulse spiked. "What does that mean?"
No one answered.
They never did.
⸻
By midday, the message was clear.
She was being edged out.
The miller's wife refused her delivery. The apothecary closed his door as she approached. A boy she'd known since childhood dropped her basket and ran when she tried to speak to him.
Finally, someone did say it aloud.
"You're marked."
The words came from Old Mara, spoken low but sharp as Elara passed.
Elara stopped. Turned.
"Marked how?"
Mara's eyes flicked instinctively toward the forest. Her mouth thinned.
"You drew attention," she said. "And now you carry it."
"That's not—" Elara swallowed. "I didn't do anything."
Mara stepped back. "That's what makes it worse."
The crowd shifted, creating distance.
Elara felt it then—something subtle but unmistakable.
Not fear.
Avoidance.
⸻
She lost her work before evening.
The steward didn't meet her eyes when he handed her the small bundle of coins.
"It's temporary," he said. "Until things… settle."
"What things?" Elara demanded.
His voice dropped. "Until whatever noticed you forgets."
The words hollowed her chest.
"I need this," she said. "My mother—"
"I know," he said quickly. "But we can't risk it."
Risk what?
The question burned, unanswered.
She left with her hands shaking and her future suddenly uncertain.
Something had been taken from her.
Not by claws.
Not by force.
By silence.
⸻
That night, she dreamed—but not fully.
She was awake enough to know when the air shifted.
"Elara."
Her name pressed into her awareness like a weight.
Her breath caught. "You're doing this," she whispered. "This is because of you."
A pause.
Then—
"Yes."
The admission was calm. Unapologetic.
Her pulse roared in her ears. "People are afraid of me."
"They are afraid of consequence," he corrected.
"I didn't ask for this."
"No," he said. "You stepped into it."
The presence tightened—not around her body, but her space. The pressure was deliberate now. Controlled.
"You are learning what attention costs," he continued. "And what it grants."
Her hands curled into the blanket. "Stop."
Another pause.
Then—
"Make me."
The words settled low and dangerous.
Not a challenge.
A truth.
The pressure eased just enough to breathe.
"You are not claimed," he said. "But you are no longer unseen."
The space withdrew.
The weight remained.
⸻
Elara lay awake long after, staring into the dark.
She had lost her work.
She had lost the village's trust.
She had gained something she could not name—and could not escape.
Outside, the forest stood silent.
And for the first time, she understood:
This was not pursuit.
It was patience.