The sun had not yet risen, but the school grounds were already alive with a strange tension. The morning air felt heavier, as if soaked in anticipation. A storm had passed through the night, but it wasn't made of wind or rain—it had come from within the walls of the school, from the depths where secrets festered.
Amara walked slowly through the hallway leading to the oldest wing of the school. Her boots clicked softly against the tiles, echoing like footsteps in a tomb. Her eyes were sharp now, no longer dulled by fear. Something inside her had changed. The darkness that used to cling to her like a second skin had peeled away.
Elara followed her closely, her hands stuffed into her pockets, her eyes scanning every shadow.
"You're sure the book is under the floor?" Elara asked.
Amara nodded. "The dream gave me the location. Not just a vision—but a memory I had forgotten. Nyla said my pact with the witch had a binding mark. Something physical. That's what she was looking for. That's what this school has been built on."
They reached the door to the forgotten music room. Dust coated the doorknob, and the hinges moaned as Amara pushed it open. Inside, the air was dense and cold. Sunlight tried to force its way through the boarded-up windows but failed.
"I used to come here," Amara whispered. "When I first transferred. Before I became Madam. I used to hide here from the voices in my head."
Together, they cleared the old piano to the side, revealing warped floorboards beneath. The center plank had a faint mark scorched into it: a crescent moon with a single eye at its center.
Elara dropped to her knees and began to pry it up with a crowbar.
The wood creaked and splintered, revealing a small, velvet-lined box hidden inside.
Amara stared at it.
She hadn't seen it in years—not since the night she lay naked in the woods, whispering a plea to something older than the moon.
Elara opened the box slowly.
Inside was a single black book, its pages bound with thread spun from silver hair. Symbols crawled over the leather cover like insects.
The Witch's Grimoire.
"Burn it?" Elara asked.
Amara hesitated. "No. It holds the truth. Every name. Every mark. Every soul she ever touched. Including mine."
A sudden gust of wind blew through the room, even though the windows were shut.
And then they heard it.
A whisper.
So faint, it almost didn't sound real.
"He doesn't know you were never meant to carry a child."
Amara's face went pale.
Elara turned to her. "What was that?"
Amara looked at the book. "The witch. She's still bound to me. And she's speaking again."
Outside, thunder rumbled—not from the sky, but from beneath the ground.
Amara stood and closed the box.
"We need to show this to Nyla. If I'm going to end this, I need to know everything. Even the things I ran from."
Elara looked at her. "And your boyfriend? Damon? What if he finds out about the child you were carrying?"
Amara's face tensed. "Then he'll know who I really was. And maybe, just maybe… he'll still choose me."
They exited the room, but neither of them noticed the shadow that lingered behind.
A girl in a red sweater, her eyes glowing faintly silver.
Liora.
She had followed them.
And now she knew exactly where the truth was buried.