Days passed. Lila's mind grew increasingly aware of the hand's presence, always observing, always hungry. The academy itself seemed to conspire, hallways bending, shadows moving, whispers rising. The journals revealed a single possibility: the hand could be trapped by its own reflection, but the ritual required a personal confession, a secret fully revealed aloud.
That night, Lila led Ezra and Clara through the twisting corridors toward the abandoned chapel. Shadows slithered like living things, curling around the walls and floor, forming hand-shaped silhouettes that clawed at their senses. Each step felt heavier, as if the air itself resisted them.
In the center of the chapel, they positioned the mirror. Candles flickered violently, elongating shadows. Lila's heart pounded as the spectral hand appeared, massive, writhing, nearly reaching her. She whispered her secret aloud: her deepest fear, the shame she had carried, the guilt that weighed upon her.
The hand surged forward—but this time, it struck the mirror. Its elongated fingers pressed against the reflection. There was a high-pitched screech, shadows twisting violently. Then silence. The shadows collapsed, the whispers vanished. The hand was gone.