Chapter 2 SHADOW OF THE PAST

The rumble beneath Clara's feet grew into a tremor that rattled the dishes in her cupboard and sent a jar of preserves crashing to the floor. She stumbled back, her hand brushing against the egg on the sill. It was warm-unnaturally so-and the pulsing light within it seemed to quicken, as if reacting to her touch. Old Man Harrow grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly firm for a man of his age, and pulled her toward the door. "We need to get out of here, Clara," he said, his voice tight with urgency.

"That egg-it's waking something up." Clara's mind raced as she followed him outside, the egg clutched carefully in her hands. The air in Eldermoor felt different now, heavy with an unspoken tension. The golden sunlight that had bathed the village moments ago was dimming, swallowed by a creeping grayness that rolled in from the horizon. Villagers emerged from their homes, their faces etched with confusion and fear. Mrs. Tully from the bakery stood on her porch, apron twisted in her hands, while young Thom Carver, barely twelve, pointed at the sky with wide eyes. "What's happening, Harrow?" Clara demanded, her voice shaking as they hurried down the dirt path toward the village square. The egg in her hands pulsed again, the cracks glowing a faint, eerie blue. She wanted to drop it, to throw it far away, but something deep inside her-some instinct she couldn't name-kept her holding on. Harrow didn't answer immediately. He led her to the old oak tree in the center of the square, its gnarled branches stretching like skeletal fingers against the darkening sky. A small crowd was already gathering there, murmurs rippling through the group as they watched the unnatural storm brewing overhead. Harrow set his leather book on the tree's exposed roots and flipped to a page marked with a faded red ribbon. "Listen, Clara," he said, his voice low so only she could hear. "The Eldermoor Prophecy isn't just some old tale. It's real. My grandfather wrote this book, and he heard the story from his grandfather, who was there when the last broken egg appeared-over a hundred years ago." He tapped the page, his finger landing on a sketch of an egg, its shell fractured just like the one Clara held. "Back then, the egg brought disaster. Cracks in the earth, floods, fires... the village barely survived. And the one who found the egg-they didn't make it." Clara's stomach twisted. "Why me?" she whispered, staring at the egg. "I didn't ask for this." Harrow's eyes softened, but only for a moment. "The egg chooses, Clara. Always has. And now it's chosen you." Before she could respond, a sharp crack of thunder split the air, and the ground trembled again, stronger this time. The crowd gasped, some clutching each other for support. Clara looked down at the egg, the blue light now so bright it cast shadows across her hands. The shell was splitting further, tiny fragments flaking away, revealing more of the glowing core inside. It wasn't just light-it was moving, swirling, like a storm trapped in a fragile prison. "Harrow, what do I do?" she asked, her voice breaking. She felt the weight of the villagers' stares, their fear pressing in on her. She'd always been the quiet one, the baker's daughter who kept to herself, tending her hens and selling bread at the market. Now, she was at the center of something she didn't understand, holding a mystery that could destroy them all. Harrow closed his book with a snap and looked at her, his expression grim. "First, we need to know what's inside that egg. The prophecy says it holds the key to stopping the fractures-or unleashing them. But opening it... that's a risk. If you're not ready, it could break you, too." Clara swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the egg. "And if I don't open it?" Harrow glanced at the sky, where the gray clouds were now streaked with jagged bolts of lightning. "Then Eldermoor falls. Just like it almost did before." A shout from the crowd interrupted them. Thom Carver was running toward the square, his face pale as he pointed toward the eastern edge of the village. "The river!" he yelled. "It's rising-fast! And... and there's something in the water!" Clara turned, her heart pounding, and followed Thom's gaze. Beyond the village, the Eldermoor River, usually a gentle stream, was swelling, its waters churning with an unnatural fury. But what caught her eye wasn't the water itself-it was the shapes moving within it. Dark, shadowy figures, too large to be fish, gliding just beneath the surface. They moved with purpose, heading straight for the village. Harrow cursed under his breath, a rare sound from the old man. "It's starting," he muttered. "The fractures aren't just in the earth. They're in the past, too. Things that were buried... they're coming back." Clara's hands trembled as she looked down at the egg, its glow now almost blinding. The cracks were spreading faster, the shell barely holding together. She could feel it-whatever was inside was awake, and it was waiting for her to decide. Open it, and risk everything. Ignore it, and doom them all. The river roared louder, the shadowy shapes drawing closer, and Clara knew she was running out of time.