Location: Asheville, North Carolina
The morning sun draped golden ribbons across the Blue Ridge Mountains, giving Asheville its usual mystic calm. For Clara Rothwell, the silence always buzzed with more than birdsong. It buzzed with whispers—tree roots, the heartbeat of old stone, and lately… something else.
Sitting on the porch of her hundred-year-old Victorian house on Montford Avenue, she stirred her bitter coffee and scanned the maple trees that enclosed her yard like quiet sentries. The trees murmured with voices—voices only she could hear.
"You're restless today," she said to one, brushing a fallen leaf from the railing. It trembled softly, almost guiltily.
Clara, 28, was a botanist at the North Carolina Arboretum, brilliant and introverted, the kind of woman who knew the Latin name of every fern but rarely answered her phone. Her mother called it being "odd." Her late grandmother called it being "gifted."
Since childhood, Clara could sense the emotions of living things—especially plants. She'd always thought it was some form of deep intuition, maybe a neurodivergence. It wasn't until she found the leather-bound journal in her attic a few months ago that she started questioning everything.
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Later That Day – Arboretum Greenhouse
"Clara!"
Dr. Jensen's voice cut through the thick air of Greenhouse Three. "Something's wrong with the ghost orchids."
Clara blinked. Ghost orchids didn't bloom in April.
She walked quickly into the chamber. And froze.
The orchids were in full bloom—white, ethereal, and impossible. Worse still, they were clustered tightly around the base of a cypress tree… and glowing faintly. On one bloom was a faint symbol—a seven-pointed star inside a circle.
The same symbol she'd seen etched into the journal.
She reached toward the flower—and the moment her fingers brushed the soft white petal, the world snapped away.
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A Vision – The Past Returns
Seven figures in cloaks stood in a circle under the pale blue moonlight. Each bled from their palms into a sigil drawn in earth and ash. The vision shimmered with energy, thick and old.
At the center stood a tall man with a solemn face—Elias Rothwell, her ancestor. His golden eyes glowed faintly. A tremor in the ground shook the forest. Beneath their feet, a black crack yawned, and deep within it, monstrous claws scraped upward.
The others looked to Elias. They didn't speak—but they were bound. By blood. By fear. By duty.
The circle pulsed with power, and the crack sealed slowly, violently—screaming as it shut. The power that did it wasn't just magic. It was sacrifice.
Elias turned, then—gazing straight at her.
He wasn't confused. He knew she was watching.
> "You are the last, Clara. It begins again. The gate weakens."
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Clara snapped back, gasping, face pressed against the damp greenhouse floor.
"Jesus, Clara!" Dr. Jensen crouched next to her, gripping her shoulders. "You fainted. What the hell just happened?"
Clara shook her head. "Just a dizzy spell. I need air."
But inside, she was panicking. This wasn't a hallucination. It was a message—sent through blood.
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That Night – Rothwell House Attic
By the time darkness fell, Clara had pulled out the journal again. Its pages crackled softly under her fingertips. And there it was—the sigil she'd seen on the orchid. The seven-pointed seal.
Her hands trembled slightly as she read the older entries—written in Elias's hand.
> "The gate must be protected by our blood. Seven lines. If one fades, the barrier may weaken. If all fall… the gate opens."
She flipped to a map tucked behind the back cover. Seven symbols across the U.S.—each marking a location:
Asheville, NC
San Francisco, CA
New Orleans, LA
Pendleton, OR
Baltimore, MD
And two near Boston, MA
Her finger paused on Asheville.
> One of them is me.
The realization was sharp. Clear. The power she'd felt in the orchids was real—and it wasn't just hers. It was shared, ancient, and it was waning.
Then came the final line scribbled in crimson ink:
> "To close the gate forever, the life of the seven must be sacrificed. We chose not to. Love for family made some of us too weak to give everything. So the burden passes on."
A chill passed through her bones.
She knew now: she wasn't meant to hold this power. She was meant to find the others. Unite them. Break the cycle.
And maybe—just maybe—find a way to end it without dying.
Outside, the wind hissed through the trees again, this time like a warning. And somewhere beneath the earth, something shifted.
Something hungry.
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