Chapter 5 Awakening the Core

Honestly, the cottage was vibing on a whole different frequency now. Used to be all sweet and storybook, right? Now, it felt like the walls were straight up watching her, just waiting for the next plot twist. Bees still buzzing, herbs dangling everywhere-witchcore aesthetics on point. But Elara swore the air was buzzing, too, like the whole place was waiting for something to snap. Mira's "hey, surprise, you're magic" reveal? That had settled in, and it wasn't just nerves anymore. It was sharper. Edgy.

Elara was done playing scared-she felt like live wire, barely contained, and dudes like Damien Sterling? He'd probably pay good money just to shut her down. Rossi and Carter? Same predatory vibe, different cologne.

"First things first-we lock it down," Mira said, all mysterious with that little glint in her eye. Next thing, the whole place got a supernatural security upgrade. Salt lines everywhere, candles melting into puddles, Mira muttering stuff that sounded half Latin, half secret code. She dragged Elara through these rituals that felt like weird déjà vu-grandma flashbacks, big time. All those years of "help me sprinkle the salt, honey"? Not just grandma being weird. Actual protection magic. Mira started with purification: sea salt, rosemary, juniper, the works. The bathroom was basically a sauna. Elara soaked 'til she was a raisin, watching all that Sterling Manor anxiety just spiral down the drain. She didn't come out feeling like Wonder Woman, but she at least felt like herself again, which was new.

Then came grounding, which sounded like something you'd hear at a fancy yoga retreat. Mira sat her down on this beat-up rug, surrounded by literal bowls of dirt and houseplants. "Connect, Elara," she whispered, full-on mystic mode. "Your family's roots are deep." Elara almost rolled her eyes, but whatever, she played along. And, weirdly, something clicked. She could feel this low thrum in the floor, like the house was breathing. She pictured roots crawling out from her feet, anchoring her down. Maybe it was placebo, maybe not, but for the first time in ages, her anxiety actually let go a little.

Days just started blurring together after that. Meditation. Herbal teas that tasted like lawn clippings and regret. Mira patiently walking Elara through basic spells, never losing her cool even after the third exploding candle. "Your mom's side is all about healing and growth," Mira said, watching Elara try to resuscitate a dying fern. "It's not just what you do, it's why you do it."

Pretty soon, Elara's hands-bee stings and all-would start tingling every time she touched something alive. Like she could feel the dirt's heartbeat. The first real "oh, damn" moment? Earth magic. Mira kicked her outside, right into the garden, bees everywhere. "Talk to the dirt," she ordered, dead serious. Elara felt ridiculous, but she went for it. Bam-her fingers prickled, the sad fern perked up, leaves all perky and neon green. That rush? She actually laughed out loud. Mira nearly fainted.

Then it was water's turn. Mira led her to this creek at the edge of the woods. "Water remembers," she said, all mysterious. "Let it move through you." Elara dunked her hands in, closed her eyes, tried to listen for... something. The water was freezing, but she pictured it rinsing away all the leftover fear. Later, monster migraine hit, and she tried channeling that water energy-splash, focus, hope for the best. The pain eased up. Not perfect, but enough to make her start believing.

Air was a pain in the ass. "It's the mind, secrets, intentions," Mira said, spouting fortune-cookie wisdom. Elara spent way too many mornings just breathing, trying to catch the wind's mood, waiting for some sign. Sometimes she'd get a tiny draft to waltz through the room, maybe make a feather float once or twice. It wiped her out, but every win felt like she'd just unlocked a new level.

So yeah, the cottage? Not just a safe house anymore. More like a forge, burning off all the leftovers of her old self. And Elara? She was starting to think-just maybe-she could become the weapon everyone seemed to be freaking out about.

Fire. Out of all the elements, Mira swore up and down it was the wildest-straight chaos, no filter. "It's creation, it's destruction, it's rage, it's lust. Show some damn respect, Elara. And don't let it slip." Mira wouldn't drop the subject, even though Elara wasn't exactly jazzed about playing with fireballs yet. Nope, Mira was relentless: "Feel it. Dig for that heat in your bones, let it burn up all your nerves." So, Elara did. She closed her eyes, hunted for that little ember inside-the bit that made her, well, her. And when she finally let it swell, it torched every scrap of doubt in her chest. What was left? Pure, raw voltage she never knew she had. No joke, it was kinda hot-like, literally. Her skin got this weird glow, and suddenly she was a space heater when her mood spiked. It was like she'd been carrying a live wire her whole life and just now found the socket.

Meanwhile, her head was a total dumpster fire over what she'd found on that cursed USB. Her dad-Mr. Bees and Bad Dad Jokes-had basically bartered her away to stay out of trouble. She kept seeing his hands, all sticky with honey, but now they were metaphorically smeared with something nastier. She understood, in that gross, "I wish I didn't get it but I do" way-parents do dumb stuff for love or fear or both. But man, it stung. First it was hot-angry, betrayed-then it cooled off into this icy, surgical focus. Time to ditch the fantasy that her life was just hers. Mourning who she used to be? Yeah, kind of essential. Like burning out rot so something stronger could grow back.

And Damien Sterling? That guy was a whole migraine. Jailer, sure, but also some gothic anti-hero with a curse gnawing away at his soul. That infamous security tape-him losing it, screaming, "I want her to pay!"-didn't rattle her anymore. Not after she realized Isabella wasn't even the target. Nope, he wanted Elara. Prophecy, curse, power-take your pick. And, somehow, knowing that didn't terrify her. If anything, it made her feel-yeah, not safe, let's not get wild-but powerful, like she'd stumbled into a game where she suddenly had cards to play. The forced-servitude thing was warping, turning into this weirdly intimate chess match that gave her a thrill she probably shouldn't admit to.

She couldn't help herself-she started psychoanalyzing him. The way he barely blinked, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Was that apathy, or just the curse eating him alive? She spotted the scar on his collarbone-definitely not the type you get from, like, falling off a bike. Mira had said it: he was drowning, and the only lifeline in sight? Her. The power balance was shifting, and she knew it. She was still technically a prisoner, but now she held the one thing he needed to survive. Yeah, that's leverage.

Beyond Mira's cozy, magic-proof cottage, the world was still spinning wildly. Henry Carter, corporate snake in a thousand-dollar suit, was basically doing jazz hands in his office, plotting like a Bond villain. Elara disappearing was a hiccup, sure, but he low-key thrived on chaos. He knew about her magic and, instead of blowing up her spot with the council, he wanted to weaponize her. Why snitch when you can own? So he started working the phones, hunting for anyone sketchy enough to sniff out a girl with a magic signature. He needed her back before Damien could reel her in again.

Isabella Rossi? Oh, she was not amused. Elara was the loose thread unravelling her blueprint for Damien's downfall. Henry's frantic "Where is she?" texts just made her more curious. She wasn't dumb-she'd heard all the stories about the Sterling curse, knew the kind of havoc bloodline magic could unleash. If Elara was the real deal, she was a wild card, not just some pawn. Isabella started stirring the pot, sending out feelers through her spooky Rolodex, tracking down any hint of magical static. She'd played this game before, and seriously? She wasn't about to let a clueless firestarter and a power-tripping sidekick steal her thunder.

Man, Sterling Manor felt cursed. Like, not in the "ooh, spooky haunted house" way-more like the air itself was stressed out, twitchy, ready to snap. Damien? Dude looked like he'd swallowed a live wire. Normally he's all Mr. Ice Veins, untouchable billionaire swagger, but now? Nah, the guy was unraveling. Elara had just... disappeared, and that was not part of the plan. She was supposed to be background noise, not the headline. And yet here he was, pacing holes into the carpets, snapping at anyone who so much as breathed wrong. You'd think he'd just lost a fortune on the stock market, not a single servant. But that curse of his-yeah, the one he always pretended didn't get to him? Now it's acting up big time, flaring under his skin, making him twitchy, mean, barely hanging on. Cops? Please, as if. Damien wasn't about to let the neighbors gossip about his "missing help." He had his own shadowy crew out there, digging, sniffing around for any trace of her. He needed answers-where, why, what the hell happened-and he needed them yesterday. Even the house itself felt weird, like it was holding its breath, waiting for something ugly to break loose.

Meanwhile, Elara's hiding out in some borrowed cottage, and let's be real, it was about as cozy as a root canal. The air was weird-heavy, watching her, making the hairs on her neck stand up. She kept catching these little flickers, like the manor was reaching out to her across the miles. Her magic? Acting up, big-time. Sometimes the shadows would slink away when she looked at them, or she'd get a freezing shiver for no damn reason. Mira had tried to help-gave her some rinky-dink spells, charms strung together with hope and a prayer, but honestly, they felt like duct tape on a sinking ship. She knew this couldn't last. Her connection to Damien and whatever prophecy had yanked her into this mess was pulling tighter every day, no matter how far she tried to run.

And then, that night by the creek. She's just sitting there, fiddling with the water, trying to calm herself down, when wham-vision hits her like a semi. Not some vague fever dream, either. This was full-on horror movie, surround sound. Damien, not in his fancy office, but trapped somewhere cold, stone walls covered in weird old symbols, looking like hell. Dude's screaming, fighting off these black snake things tearing out of his chest, wrapping him up. And then-snap-something inside him just breaks. The sound that comes out of him? Not even remotely human. By the time it's over, she's doubled over, soaked in sweat, hands burning in the stream. Nightmare fuel for weeks, honestly.

So what the hell was that? Old trauma? Something happening right now? That scream stuck in her head, chewing at her, like a splinter under her skin. She didn't exactly feel sorry for Damien, but it twisted something inside her. The curse wasn't just some gothic accessory-it was eating the guy alive. And now she couldn't stop thinking, how much longer could he actually fight it? Was he gonna lose, or was he gonna take her down with him when he finally snapped? Made her skin crawl, but she couldn't let it go. Whatever was binding them together was getting tighter by the second, and she knew, deep down-no escape. The real storm hadn't even hit yet.