Hidden Truths - Elara

Hidden Truths - Elara
Elara didn’t wait for her breathing to steady before she moved.
Her hands were still trembling as she slipped up the stairs, every nerve in her body buzzing with the echo of Austin’s voice—It’s not me. She believed that. She had to. But belief didn’t stop the bruise blooming beneath her skin or the cold dread pooling in her stomach.
If something was influencing him—controlling him—then the dagger couldn’t stay where it was.
She moved through the hallway with practiced silence, counting her steps, listening for voices. The packhouse was alive with movement, but it was the busy, careless movement of people who felt safe. That made it easier to disappear.
The office door was unlocked.
That alone made her chest ache.
She slipped inside and closed it softly behind her, leaning her forehead against the wood for just a second. This room used to feel like home—maps spread across the desk, strategy scribbled in margins, late-night laughter when plans fell apart and were rebuilt better. Now it felt like a stranger’s space.
Elara crossed to the far shelf, her fingers brushing past old ledgers and carved keepsakes until they reached the small stone wolf statue tucked into the corner. Anyone else would think it decorative. Austin’s grandmother had always liked things that hid their purpose in plain sight.
Her thumb pressed into the faint groove at the statue’s base.
Click.
The shelf shifted with a soft grind, revealing the narrow compartment hidden behind it. Cold air spilled out, carrying with it a familiar, wrong kind of hum—like the dagger was breathing.
There it was.
The blade was wrapped in dark cloth, but she could feel it before she touched it. Power. Hunger. Memory.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered—not to Austin, but to whatever promise this represented. Then she reached in and pulled it free.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Elara froze.
Voices followed—male, familiar, close.
Austin.
Marcus and Leo with him.
Her heart slammed so hard she thought it might give her away.
She didn’t think—she moved.
The statue slid back into place as she turned, slipping through the office door just as the voices grew louder. She eased it shut behind her and slid into the narrow hallway closet next door, pulling the door closed until only a sliver of light remained.
She pressed herself against the wall, the dagger hidden beneath her jacket, her breath shallow and silent.
The voices faded past the closet door, their footsteps muffled by the thick rug in the hallway. I stayed frozen long after they were gone, my fingers clenched tight around the dagger’s hilt. My pulse thundered in my ears, each beat echoing the same truth I didn’t want to accept.
I waited until the office door closed and locked before I slipped out of the closet. The hallway felt longer than it ever had before, every shadow stretching like it might grab me. The packhouse I had fought to protect now felt unfamiliar, like the walls themselves were listening.
I pressed my back to the wall and forced myself to breathe.
You can panic later, I told myself. Right now, you think.
The dagger was warm in my hand—not hot, not burning—but alive. Like it recognized movement. Like it knew it had changed hands. I wrapped it carefully in a cloth from the linen shelf and tucked it beneath my shirt, securing it tight against my ribs. If Austin—or whatever was wearing him—found out where it was, everything would be lost.
I moved quietly, barefoot despite the ache still lingering in my body from heat and exhaustion. Every step reminded me how close I was to breaking—but breaking wasn’t an option.
Not now.
Not when Lima’s story was still unfinished.
The library door creaked softly as I slipped inside. The familiar scent of old paper and leather wrapped around me like a fragile shield. This room had always felt safe. Knowledge lived here. Truth lived here.
I locked the door behind me.
Only then did I let my knees buckle.
I slid down against the door, pressing my forehead to the wood as silent tears spilled free. My cheek still burned where his hand had struck me. My shoulder throbbed where his fingers had dug in. But worse than the pain was the poison his words had left behind—designed to shrink me, to make me doubt myself, to make me quiet.
Her place is under me.
My jaw tightened.
“No,” I whispered into the empty room. “My place is standing.”
I pushed myself up and crossed to the table where the book waited, exactly where I had left it. The cover looked innocuous—worn leather, no markings—but I knew better now. This wasn’t just a story. It was a warning. A memory. A spell.
And somehow, it had chosen me.
My fingers hovered over the pages as doubt crept in. What if this was the same magic? What if opening it again pulled me deeper into something I couldn’t escape?
Then I remembered Lima’s eyes.
Not fearful. Not weak.
Resolute.
I opened the book.
The pages fluttered beneath my hands before settling—not at the end this time, but somewhere in the middle. My breath caught.
The air around me shifted.
The library dimmed, colors draining at the edges as the vision took hold. I fought as it started to pull me into the story, because I needed somewhere safer than this. The dagger started humming in my grasp as the pages pulsed harder, drawing me in.
Taking all of my will power I shoved the book closed and grabbed it in my arms, running to the safe room, to keep me safe from the outside, or to keep the outside safe from me.