Elara's eyelids fluttered, struggling against the overwhelming weight of sleep that clung to her. Her body felt heavy as if the very act of waking was a challenge. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the steady pulse of her own heartbeat, a rhythmic thrum that seemed too loud in the stillness. The warmth of the morning light filtered through the curtains in soft, muted beams, but it couldn't shake the coldness creeping into her bones. The cold had nothing to do with the temperature; it was something deeper, something that seeped into her very skin, clawing its way through her veins.

For a moment, she simply lay there, eyes closed, holding onto the last remnants of her dream. The forest. The whispering voices. The overwhelming sense of urgency that had clung to her in her sleep. And, of course, the mark. The mark that hadn't left her even after she had awoken.

The memory of it—the twisted, intricate lines that had appeared on her wrist, the cold sensation when she first touched it—flooded her thoughts. It had felt like a warning then. Now, it felt like a curse, a presence that lingered even after she had risen from her bed.

She reached up to rub her face, but the sensation of her fingers against her skin sent a jolt of cold through her, sharper than any chill she had ever felt. It was as if her body had been touched by something far colder than the air in the room. As her fingers brushed against her face, they lingered on her wrist, and that was when she felt it.

The mark. It was there. Still there. Still alive.

Her breath caught in her throat, a quick gasp of surprise and fear. The cold was no longer just a sensation. It was something deeper, something that felt as though it had crawled into her very soul. Her eyes shot open, the room spinning around her as she sat up, trying to steady herself.

The mark on her wrist glowed faintly. The same mark that had appeared in her dream—the same symbol that had twisted itself into her skin in the dead of night. Her hand trembled as she reached for it, the faint light from the mark illuminating her skin in a soft, ghostly glow. It seemed to pulse with an energy all its own, responding to her touch as though it were alive.

No... no, no, no... The thought echoed in her mind like a frantic plea, but it was swallowed by the growing feeling of dread. She rubbed at the mark, trying to scrub it away, but it was no use. No matter how hard she pressed, no matter how frantically she tried to erase it, the mark refused to fade. It seemed to sink deeper into her skin with every attempt.

Her chest tightened, a lump forming in her throat as the weight of the situation pressed down on her. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. The mark—it wasn't just something she could wish away. It was part of her now, and it was drawing her in.

Shakily, she rose to her feet, her legs weak beneath her as she stumbled toward the mirror, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She stood there, staring at her reflection, but something was wrong. Something was... different. The air in the room seemed to have thickened, pressing against her like a physical weight. It was as if the very atmosphere had become dense, suffocating, with something watching her, something unseen but all too present.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out every other sound. She had to get a grip. Stay calm, she told herself, even as the panic clawed at her chest. She couldn't let the fear consume her—not now, not when the stakes were higher than ever. But the longer she stood there, the harder it became to ignore the feeling of unease settling deep within her. Her reflection seemed distant, almost unreal, like it wasn't her own. The mark on her wrist gleamed faintly, and with it, the growing presence of something dark, something ancient.

Her fingers brushed against the cool glass of the mirror, the sensation of her hand against it making her shiver. The whisper from her dreams—soft and distant, yet unmistakable—echoed in her mind once again.

"Find the truth... before it's too late."

The words rang through her skull, reverberating in every corner of her consciousness. The voice—it was unmistakable. She had heard it before, in her dreams, in her waking moments, and now it was here, like a constant companion, clinging to her thoughts. The voice was familiar, yet foreign, like a distant memory she could never quite reach. And there it was again: that sense of urgency, of something darker than she could comprehend, that threatened to swallow her whole if she didn't act.

What truth? Her mind screamed for answers. What is too late?

The mark on her wrist burned with a sudden, sharp heat, pulling her attention back to it. She gasped as an overwhelming surge of energy shot up her arm, a jolt so intense that it made her vision blur. The sensation was both painful and electrifying, a strange, biting warmth that spread from her wrist up her arm, through her chest, and down her spine. It felt as if the mark was trying to speak to her, trying to tell her something. But she couldn't understand it.

She gripped her wrist tightly, trying to steady herself, but the pressure was too much. The mark pulsed again, the light from it growing brighter, stronger. It was as if it were alive, thrumming with power, with a rhythm that synced with her very heartbeat. Each beat of her pulse seemed to send a shock through her body, a surge of cold, electric energy that rattled her bones.

A wave of dizziness hit her like a physical blow, and she staggered back, barely managing to catch herself before crashing to the floor. She gasped for air, but the room felt stifling, as if the very air itself had thickened, making it harder to breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing. What was happening? What was this mark?

A shadow in the corner of the room flickered, and she turned her head sharply. There was nothing there. But for a moment, she could have sworn she saw something—something darker than the shadows themselves, moving just out of the corner of her eye.

Her breath quickened, and she grabbed the edge of the bed to steady herself. The shadows seemed to grow longer, stretching across the walls, swirling around her like a storm of darkness. She could feel them pressing in on her, could feel them watching her, waiting. The air seemed to hum with an invisible presence, like something—or someone—was standing just behind her, just out of reach.

Her heart raced. She couldn't stay here. She couldn't let the fear consume her. Not now, not when everything depended on finding the truth. She had to find out what this mark meant. She had to understand why it had appeared, why it was calling to her.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, her fingers trembling as she typed out a message to Lila.

I need to go. I need answers. I don't know how much longer I can keep running from this.

She glanced around the room once more, the shadows still pressing in on her, and she knew—whatever was coming, whatever force was drawing closer—it was too powerful for her to face alone.

With a deep, steadying breath, Elara grabbed her jacket and pulled it on, her movements mechanical, as if the very act of preparing for the unknown had become a reflex. She turned toward the door, her hand gripping the handle. The whispers—soft, insistent—grew louder in her ears, urging her forward.

The truth was waiting for her. It was out there, just beyond her reach. And Elara knew, deep down, that she couldn't stop now. Not when she was so close. Not when the mark—the curse—was pulling her deeper into its grasp with every passing moment.

With one last glance at the room, Elara stepped into the unknown, the mark on her wrist glowing faintly as she stepped into the darkness that awaited her.