Chapter 4 - Blood on the Steps

Elara didn't remember how she made it home. The fog blurred everything - the streets, the gates, even the door to her house. One moment she was in the church with shadows whispering her name, and the next she was curled against her bedroom door, knees pulled tight to her chest.

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

When morning came, she almost convinced herself it had been a dream. But when she pulled her boots off, her stomach dropped. Mud clung to the soles, dark and wet - the same mud from the churchyard steps.

It had been real. Every word. Every whisper.

At school, she kept her head low. The halls buzzed with voices, but they felt far away, muffled by the memory of the notebook's crimson message: Choose quickly. Him, or me.

When she reached her locker, Adrian was already there, leaning casually against the metal doors as if he had been waiting for her.

"You didn't sleep," he said simply.

Elara froze. "How do you - "

"You have that look. Dark circles, shaky hands. Fear that clings to your skin." His eyes flicked to her bag. "You went back to the church, didn't you?"

Her chest tightened. "You followed me."

He didn't deny it. "I had to. You don't understand what you're walking into."

Elara snapped her locker shut. "Then tell me. What's happening? Where's Mara?"

His jaw tightened, as if weighing how much to say. Finally, he whispered, "She's close. Closer than you think. But she's not the same girl you knew."

The words cut like a blade.

That evening, Elara couldn't stop herself. She left the house again, notebook in hand. The fog was thicker, pressing against her skin like cold cloth. Every street seemed emptier than usual, as if the town had hidden itself away.

Near the bakery, she saw them.

Figures cloaked in dark coats, hoods pulled low, gathered in a half-circle around a lamppost. Their voices were hushed, chanting in a language Elara didn't know. And carved into the base of the post was the same symbol from Mara's journal - sharper now, glistening as though carved fresh with blood.

Elara's breath hitched. She took a step back, but her foot snapped a twig.

The chanting stopped.

One hooded head turned sharply toward her.

"Elara!" Adrian's voice hissed from the alley beside her. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her back into the shadows. She almost screamed but he covered her mouth, eyes flashing with urgency.

"Do you want to die?" he whispered harshly. "They would have dragged you straight to him."

Her pulse thundered in her ears. When the cultists finally moved on, Adrian released her, his face pale in the moonlight.

"What do they want with Mara?" she demanded.

Adrian hesitated, then reached into his coat. He pulled out a photograph - old, black-and-white, edges worn. Elara's breath caught.

It was Mara. Or someone who looked exactly like her, standing beside the ruined church a century ago.

"She's not the first," Adrian said softly. "And she won't be the last."

Elara's stomach twisted. "What are you saying?"

"That your friend is already caught in the blood debt. The same one that ties you to him."

Before she could respond, a sound split the night - a scream. High, sharp, cut short too quickly.

Elara and Adrian rushed to the corner, and what she saw made her blood freeze.

Mara stood beneath the broken lamplight, just as before. Her skin was gray, her lips dark with dried blood. Her eyes glowed faintly red as she smiled, too wide, too sharp.

"Elara," Mara whispered, voice cracking like broken glass.

And then she vanished into the fog, leaving only the blood dripping down the lamppost where she had stood.

Elara's knees buckled. Adrian steadied her, his grip tight.

"She's not your friend anymore," he said, his voice like steel.

But Elara couldn't stop trembling. Because somewhere deep inside, she knew he was wrong. Mara was still in there. She had to be.

And if the notebook's message was true, Elara would have to choose soon.

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