Elena felt Eliza's presence growing stronger every day—not as a mere whisper but as something profound and insistent. It became an awareness with weight and intention, like a second heartbeat pulsing beneath her own.
Initially, she had thought it was just her imagination—an echo of emotion brought forth by longing and stress. But now, she understood the truth.
Eliza wasn't simply part of her.
She *was* her—another facet of the same soul, divided not by conflict but by time and denial.
The dreams transformed as well. No longer fragmented or vague, they became strikingly vivid. Upon waking, Elena felt as if she had run for miles—the forest lingered in her senses: damp earth under paws, moonlight filtering through pine boughs, the scent of moss-covered stone mingled with ancient thyme blooming between roots older than memory.
And always… there was *the run*.
Every dream began uniquely—barefoot on dew-heavy grass, trapped in an old house where whispers slithered through shadowed halls—but they always concluded the same way:
Running.
Four legs instead of two.
Muscles coiling and releasing beneath thick gray fur streaked with silver—markings no ordinary wolf bore without magic.
Jaw open to the sky mid-howl—sound erupting from deep within, shaking loose leaves from branches—and then… silence.
A pause.
Then—
"You're ready," a voice resonated—not aloud but within. Hers? Yet… not solely hers.
That night, beneath a full moon, Elena returned to Whispering Pines—not alone this time. She came prepared: dressed in simple cotton clothes dyed green-gray like mist over hills, a leather pouch across her chest holding crushed wolfsbane for protection, salt for safety, and a small vial filled with sacred water from Blackthorn Spring to amplify her bloodline connections during rites of awakening.
Stefan followed at a respectful distance. He didn't speak much about what resided within his mate-to-be—not out of fear, but from a deep respect for its ancient nature.
They arrived at the clearing where she had awakened before—a sacred circle of stones shaped by time, covered in moss and lichen, known only to those who belonged. This place hummed gently with power, even as nature reclaimed it, revealing beauty truer than any throne.
Elena stepped into the center, slowly removing her shoes and socks, setting them aside. She touched her forehead to the soil, pressed her palm flat against the ground, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply, aligning with the rhythm of the earth. Energy flowed upward through her, connecting her to the universe—a language forgotten, written in bones and marrow, waiting for the right person in the right place to awaken.
"I'm here," she whispered—was it to herself? To Stefan?
No.
To *her*.
"Eliza."
At first, silence reigned.
Then the wind shifted, a sharp gust sending leaves spiraling upward, a crackling spark igniting invisible flames, the air smelled of change—a storm brewing, tension rising, preparing for the release of energy.
Her skin prickled—from the heat within or an unacknowledged warning?
Then—
Pain surged behind her left eye—a white-hot bolt searing into her brain. Yet, she remained standing, gritting her teeth, accepting the agony as necessary for the birth of new life—the death of old identities and illusions shaped by guilt, fear, and the weight of expectations.
She shed the husk of her old self like a butterfly emerging. Wings crumpled, they unfolded, stretching to catch the breeze, lifting off despite tremors of doubt.
Trusting the air to hold her, she leaped into the unknown, knowing that despite the gravity of her past, she would rise—battered but alive—transformed by the lessons earned. Water washed away her pain, and freedom became her rare, precious gift to embrace and defend fiercely, choosing to live boldly despite the dangers ahead.