In the quiet town of Eldermoor, nestled between misty hills and dense forests, life moved at an unhurried pace. The townsfolk trusted one another implicitly; doors were rarely locked, and secrets were almost unheard of. Almost.

When Elara arrived, she brought a kind of light with her. Her auburn hair caught the sun like burnished copper, and her laughter seemed to infuse warmth into the coldest days. No one knew where she came from, but in Eldermoor, questions were rarely asked. She said she was a wandering herbalist, seeking solace and a fresh start. The townsfolk, especially widowed baker Ruth and her son Finn, embraced her without hesitation.

Weeks turned into months, and Elara became indispensable. She brewed potions that cured illnesses, crafted salves that soothed burns, and even revived the fading blossoms in Ruth's garden. Yet, there was something else, something unsettling. Every now and then, someone would catch her gazing toward the forest, her expression unreadable.

One evening, under a crimson sunset, Ruth's sister Clara visited from the neighboring village. As soon as Clara saw Elara, her face blanched. Pulling Ruth aside, Clara whispered fiercely, “She is not who she says she is.”

Ruth, initially startled, waved Clara’s words away. “Elara has been nothing but kind. You’re imagining things.”

But Clara’s warning burrowed into Ruth’s mind, unsettling her. That night, after the town’s lanterns dimmed, Ruth stayed awake. She watched from her window as Elara slipped out of the house, a shadow among shadows, and disappeared into the forest.

Driven by a gnawing curiosity, Ruth followed. The forest was a labyrinth of ancient trees and creeping vines, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth. Ruth trailed Elara at a distance, her heart pounding. Elara stopped in a clearing, kneeling beside a stone altar marked with strange symbols. Her hands moved deftly, scattering herbs and whispering words in a language Ruth didn’t recognize.

A gust of wind surged through the clearing, though the air had been still moments before. A faint glow emanated from the altar, and as Elara rose, Ruth saw her face—transformed. Her eyes gleamed silver, and her features seemed sharper, almost otherworldly.

Ruth stumbled backward, snapping a twig. Elara’s head whipped toward the sound, and her gaze locked onto Ruth’s. “You shouldn’t have come here,” Elara said, her voice layered with something Ruth couldn’t place—power, danger, perhaps regret.