Damien Sterling's scream—yeah, no, that thing was all kinds of wrong. Didn't sound like a person at all. It just burrowed into Elara's skull, hanging around long after the vision fizzled out and the night slammed back into place, way too cold and dead-quiet. She yanked her hands out of the stream, water splashing everywhere, and honestly, the sensation was just off. Not normal-cold-water off, but sharp and heavy, like she'd dunked her arms in liquid metal. Her heart went full panic mode—felt like it was trying to do a jailbreak out of her chest. Breathing? Forget it. She was sucking in air like she'd never learned how. And the shadows—don't even get started. Those things, crawling all over Damien, tearing at him while he stared right at her, face a twisted wreck of pain… That image decided to set up camp in her brain. Not just scary—way too personal, like she'd spied on something sacred and rotten at the same time. In that split second, Damien was just a guy, not her captor, not some monster—just another human getting chewed up from the inside out. And she'd watched.
Barely a blink later, Mira was there, grounding hand on Elara's shoulder, all warm and steady. "What did you see, child?" Her voice hit different—heavy, sad, like she'd been dragging that sadness around for centuries.
Elara tried to say something but her mouth was useless, stuffed with nerves and cotton. She hugged herself, shaking so hard her bones probably rattled. "He… was screaming. Pitch black room. Shadows—like ropes—came outta him, ripping him apart. I felt it, Mira. It hurt. Just… pain. Pure pain." Her voice barely held up, like the vision was clawing its way out of her throat all over again.
Mira's face just… caved in, eyes going glassy. "The curse," she whispered, so quiet Elara almost missed it. One dumb tear slid down her cheek. "It feeds on them. Eats them alive, inside out. Twists every Sterling until there's nothing left but… something else." She looked right at Elara—sharp, tired, so damn sad. "That wasn't just a vision. That was him. Damien knows you're the catalyst, Elara. He can't help it."
"Catalyst?" Elara echoed, the word feeling too big, too ancient, definitely not like it belonged anywhere near her.
Mira nodded, waving toward the stream. "Your healing magic. The way you're tied to earth, water—all of it. That's what holds up against the Sterling curse." She rubbed her fingers together, like she could pinch a bit of magic out of the air. "Old stories talk about two bloodlines—one dark, one light, tangled up forever ago. You're the light, Elara. Damien's the dark. That's just how it shakes out."
And wow, just like that, it all dropped on her, heavy and cold—like someone dumped a wet blanket made of doom over her head. She wasn't just some girl stuck doing chores, or a bystander in someone else's disaster. Nope. She was smack-dab in the middle of something ancient and nasty. Her whole life tied up with the guy who'd basically wrecked it. That weird, electric thing between them? Turns out it was older than either of them. Hope and destruction, all tangled up, with a sprinkle of something almost like longing. Not that she'd ever admit that out loud.
Funny thing, though—fear didn't exactly shut her down. If anything, it just made her dig her heels in harder. Over the next few days, she threw herself into figuring out this thing inside her. Not just to keep breathing, but to finally get some damn answers. She spent hours out by the hives, hands hovering over the bees, trying to feel their heartbeat. And, swear to god, they actually paid attention. The buzzing chilled out, bees looking downright peaceful. She messed around with the dirt, too—teasing tiny flowers to pop brighter, coaxing sad leaves back to life. It wasn't a miracle, but it was something. She wasn't just a pawn anymore. Not if she
could help it.
Man, air used to be just... you know, air. Nothing special, just background noise. Now it was like it had developed a personality, or maybe Elara was finally paying attention. Her new favorite thing? Flopping onto the porch, shutting her eyes, letting the wind do whatever it wanted with her hair while she tried to tune in to whatever weird secrets it might be carrying. After a while, it was more than just breeze-on-skin. She started picking up on vibes—like, if she got goosebumps, maybe someone was thinking about her, or if the wind went all wonky, that meant drama was brewing somewhere out of sight.
And then there was that one afternoon. She'd barely thought about her dad—his face all desperate and haunted—when suddenly the air got thick and heavy, like the sky was squeezing out a soaked rag right over her head. Before she could even blink, a windstorm went berserk in the yard. Windows rattling, leaves doing their best tornado impressions—just utter chaos. Honestly? It freaked her out big time, but wow, it also gave her this insane jolt. Like holding a live wire. Raw, wild, totally untamed power.
Mira just stood there, arms crossed, looking every bit the annoyed older sister. "Elara, your magic's waking up way too fast. The more you poke at it, the more you're gonna get noticed. And trust me, not everyone out there is rooting for you. Some folks want what you've got, and some are just mad they never will."
Of course, that's when Damien barged into her head—because that's what he did, apparently. His pain was like this black hole, sucking her in, even when she tried to convince herself he had it coming. It was grossly compelling, like rubbernecking a wreck on the highway. She used to just call him a monster and move on. Easy. But after everything, he just looked... trapped. Still dangerous, don't get it twisted, but also just—wrecked.
Back in the city, up in his stupid glass towers, Damien Sterling was about two bad Mondays away from totally losing his grip. Elara not being there? That wasn't just annoying, it was like someone had peeled him raw and left him exposed. All his neat routines and that iron self-control? Slipping. The Sterling curse (which, honestly, sounds like something from a vampire soap) was getting cranky without Elara's magic nearby. Guess being close really did matter—who knew?
Normally, his magic just hummed along under the surface, all chill. Now? It was wild. His eyes, which were usually just cold and judgmental, started catching the light in this freaky, animal way. Even in board meetings, people noticed—his words came out like knives, his patience evaporated, and folks started avoiding eye contact. That scar near his collarbone? Not just a scar anymore. It glowed, angry and red, like a big neon "back off" sign.
And then, oh man, that meeting. Picture Damien across the table from some smug CEO who thought he was untouchable. The dude gave Damien a smirk. Damien lost it. Rage just—boom, detonated. The room felt like it bent, lights flickered, and suddenly it was freezing. The CEO's face went from cocky to straight-up horror movie in seconds, scrambling to get away. Damien barely reeled himself back in, but he was left shaking, hollow. That's when it really sank in, ice-cold—he needed Elara. Not just to win his little power games, but to keep from going full villain. The obsession? It wasn't just about magic anymore. It was straight-up survival.
Henry Carter—man, that dude's basically allergic to sunlight. I swear, I've seen glow-in-the-dark stickers with more of a tan. He's hanging around, soaking up Damien's meltdown like it's the season finale of some bottom-tier reality show. Guy's been itching for this disaster since, I dunno, the Bronze Age? He's got that smug "told you so" energy just radiating off him. Vultures could take notes from him—he's hovering, waiting for the chaos to really go nuclear. And Elara? If her magic is what's keeping this whole circus from falling apart, yank her out and Damien's just a human Rorschach splatter on the sidewalk. Splat, no refunds.
Now, Henry and his late-night supernatural shenanigans? Finally, not a total waste. Apparently, there's a magical rave about to pop off at the haunted old apiary—aka Elara's ancestral dump. Henry's smile? Not "I just found twenty bucks" happy. Nah, more like "I just got away with murder and brushed after" kind of creepy. He calls up his so-called "elite" black-ops spell squad (translation: a pack of Craigslist mages who'd trade their grandma for a half-charged phone). Only one thing on the to-do list: snatch Elara and keep her breathing. She's worth more than Bitcoin in 2021, and he knows it.
Meanwhile, Isabella Rossi? Please. Like she's about to waste time sobbing into her overpriced lavender latte. The madder she gets, the sharper she gets. She spotted Damien's crash-and-burn from three counties over, minimum. It's open season now. Her connections? They've been around since before Henry's little crew learned how to spell "hex." Her "spies"—calling them that is generous, honestly, they're more like urban legends with WiFi—picked up the same rumors: Elara's hiding at the apiary. But here's the kicker—the magic's not just sparklers and cheap tricks anymore. Apparently, Elara's cooking up some Armageddon-level mojo. Isabella's not about to let that party happen without her RSVP. She calls her best shadow-runner—a dude who probably makes the Boogeyman sleep with a nightlight—and sends him off with a note for Elara. Full of cryptic riddles, ancient tea, "hey, we both hate the same people," and all that fate nonsense. It's bait. Maybe Elara's desperate or just out of brain cells enough to bite and show up at some "neutral" city hideout.
And Elara? She's full-on queen bee in meltdown mode. Part of her wants to drop-kick Damien into next week—who wouldn't? He nuked her life and now he's got the nerve to mope around with those sad-puppy eyes. Ugh, that look crawls right under her skin. Mira keeps humming the same old tune—love fixes everything, blah blah Sterling curse, yadda yadda. Like Elara's supposed to put Humpty Dumpty back together? Just thinking about it makes her want to ghost the whole planet. But some weird, tangled-up thing between Damien's wreckage and her own magic keeps her from bolting. Maybe, just maybe, she could break this curse. Not her dream superpower, but hey, the universe really loves its bad jokes.
So, there she is, stacking withered herbs in Mira's shop, wildly overqualified and massively underwhelmed, when—pow—this static buzz hits the air. Not her usual "knock your socks off" magic, more like someone just rubbed her soul with a balloon. She glances at Mira, who's elbow-deep in something that probably shouldn't be legal. Both of them freeze, listening. Something nasty's coming down the pipeline. And, spoiler alert, it's not just overdue rent.
"You feel that, Elara?" Mira's voice barely stirred the air. Seriously, it was like the wind itself was holding its breath. "A ripple. Not… not normal. Something's sniffing around for us."
Elara didn't even get a chance to answer before—bam—a slick, black limo, shiny enough to make a crow jealous, rolled up to the gate. Out here? On this busted-up dirt road with more chickens than people? Couldn't have stuck out more if it tried. The thing didn't make a peep, either. Not a tire crunch, not an engine hum. Just that skin-crawling, horror-movie silence. Windows blacked out so hard you could probably see your own fear in the reflection. That car? Yeah, it screamed trouble. The bad kind.
Door swings open and out steps this guy. Tall. Suit so crisp you could probably cut yourself on the crease. Not a speck of dust. I mean, did he just repel filth on principle? He moved weird, too. Too smooth. Like a jungle cat that had just gotten tenure at Evil University. And those eyes—way too bright. Not a single spark of warmth. He just stands there, not daring to cross the gate, scanning the whole scene like he's mentally redecorating it. When his gaze lands on Elara and Mira, it's like getting jabbed with an icicle—right in the ribs. Then he lifts this envelope. White as new snow, not a mark on it, sealed with some old-school wax stamp that looked like it belonged in a cursed castle or something. Just looking at it made Elara's skin want to run away.
Mira's hand shot to her little charm necklace, thumbing it like maybe she could bribe the universe for a little mercy. "That's not Henry," she muttered, jaw tight. "That's a whole new flavor of nightmare."
The guy? Not a word. Didn't even blink. Just kept holding out that envelope like a statue with a really bad attitude. Invitation? Threat? Both? Who even knew at this point.
That's when Elara felt it—like this magnetic pull, half curiosity, half oh-god-run. Was this Isabella's fault, or did the universe just hate them that much today? The air around the guy shimmered, like reality itself was trying to pretend he wasn't there. She glanced at Mira, who gave her that look—equal parts "don't you dare" and "you have to."
Mira nodded, lips pressed so tight they were basically turning white. "Go, Elara," she growled. "And don't screw up. You're walking a razor blade now."
So. Deep breath. Elara crossed the yard, heart banging away, old magic in her bones waking up like it just mainlined espresso. She grabbed the envelope. The guy's skin—colder than a tax auditor's handshake. She nearly flinched, but nope. He didn't get that satisfaction. He just ghosted back into the limo, and the car slipped away like it was never even there. All that was left was the tang of ozone and a creeping sense of "oh shit."
Elara tore open the envelope. Inside—one card. Fancy calligraphy. No name. Just a time, a place, and one line that knocked the wind out of her:
The truth awaits where shadows dance and destinies converge.
She looked at Mira, eyes wide, world tilting sideways. This wasn't just about the bees, or Sterling Enterprises, or whatever drama she'd been dodging. This was bigger—old magic, twisted fates, and a war knocking on her front door. She gripped the card. It was warm. Almost like it was alive. Like it was daring her to make a move.
Well, fine. Shadow's out of hiding. Elara? Not running anymore.