"You're humming again, you know that?"
Elara jerked her head up. The customer—a tourist wrapped in a plaid raincoat and carrying a dripping umbrella—smiled awkwardly from behind a stack of Victorian porcelain dolls.
"Am I?" she muttered, adjusting the twisted ring on her finger. "Must be the shop. It gets under your skin."
The woman didn't laugh. No one ever did when she joked about the shop having a mind of its own.
"Whispers of Time" wasn't your usual seaside trinket trap. It was a place that breathed. It creaked like an old soul groaning in its sleep. The scent inside was a cocktail of forgotten perfume, dusty leather, and something saltier, older—like shipwrecks and sorrow.
And Havenwood? It wasn't a town. It was a secret wrapped in mist and tied in seaweed.
The bell above the door jingled as the woman left, the kind of jingle that sounded just a little...off. Hollow. Echoey.
Elara stood in the middle of the shop, hugging her cardigan tighter. A weird charge buzzed just beneath her skin again—like static trapped in her bones. Not pain, not exactly. Just...a hum. Like something about to wake up.
She glanced at the silver locket resting on the counter. It had warmed beneath her touch minutes ago. Now it sat cold and innocent, as if it hadn't just whispered a name—"Liam"—or flooded her head with tears that weren't hers.
"Stop it," she muttered. "Get a grip."
But her hands were shaking.
It wasn't new, these visions—these... intrusions. They were getting stronger. Sharper. She no longer knew which thoughts were hers and which were borrowed from the objects she touched.
"Elara," she said aloud, as if her name alone could anchor her. "You're fine."
The air shifted.
A cold gust slithered in from the backroom. The kind of chill that had intent. She stepped behind the counter, running her fingers across the wood surface—weathered, familiar. Solid. Real.
"Gran," she whispered. "What the hell is happening to me?"
No answer came, only the low moan of the wind snaking through the eaves. But it didn't sound like wind tonight. It sounded like murmuring voices. A conversation not meant for human ears.
Clang!
A crash from the back.
Elara froze.
No tourists back there. No deliveries today.
Another bang.
Her pulse stuttered. She grabbed the heaviest thing in reach—a silver-handled letter opener shaped like a miniature sword. Not exactly lethal, but the weight in her hand gave her a flicker of courage.
"Please be a raccoon," she whispered. "A very muscular, very clumsy raccoon."
She crept toward the backroom, heart pounding.
Another sound—low and guttural, like a growl wrapped in thunder. Her breath caught. That wasn't a raccoon.
She hesitated at the threshold, then peeked around the doorframe.
And froze.
A man—no, not a man, a presence—stood in the half-light.
He was tall. Too tall. Broad-shouldered. Draped in shadows like he wore them as armor. His back was to her, muscles rippling beneath a black shirt as he sifted through old crates like they were weightless.
He moved with the grace of something wild. Dangerous. Something that remembered what it was like to hunt in the dark.
"What the actual hell..." she breathed.
His head snapped toward her.
And their eyes locked.
Black. His eyes were black. Not brown, not dark—black, like an abyss. Like midnight in the depths of the sea.
And somehow, she didn't scream. Her mouth parted, but no sound came.
Because in that single glance, something ancient uncoiled inside her.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"You..." he said, voice low and rough, like gravel over velvet.
Elara gripped the letter opener tighter. "I don't know you."
"You do." He stepped forward.
She stepped back.
One more step and he'd cross into the light. She wasn't sure she wanted to see his face. She wasn't sure she could handle it.
"What are you doing in my shop?" she asked, trying for brave, ending up breathless.
His lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Looking for something that doesn't want to be found."
"And breaking and entering is your plan?"
"I didn't break anything. The door opened for me."
"Oh, that's not creepy at all."
"I don't creep, Elara Thorne. I arrive."
His voice struck something inside her. The way he said her name...like he tasted it.
"How do you know my name?"
Another half-step. "Because your name has echoed for centuries."
Her stomach dropped. "You're insane."
"And you're awakening."
She didn't understand what he meant—but her body did. Her skin buzzed with electricity. The air between them cracked, heavy and shimmering.
He tilted his head. "You touched the locket."
Her fingers twitched.
"You felt it, didn't you? The pull. The name. The memory."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I left it here. For you."
She blinked. "What?"
"You weren't supposed to find it yet. Not until the breach opened."
"What breach—?"
A sudden pressure pulsed through the room like the air itself was being sucked out.
He went rigid. "They're early."
"Who?"
"Stay behind me."
And before she could argue, the walls groaned—actually groaned—and from the shadows, three cloaked figures began to emerge from the far corner of the room.
Their eyes gleamed silver, inhuman. Their mouths moved, whispering in a language older than bones.
"What
the hell—" Elara backed up, hitting a crate.
The man—Kaelen, though she didn't know his name yet—stepped into the center of the room.
Silver light licked up his arms, markings glowing beneath his skin.
"Elara," he said calmly, without turning. "If you want to live, don't move."
And then—
The air shattered.