The night was unusually still. The castle, which had once felt like a maze of endless halls, now seemed suffocatingly small, and Gwendolyn could feel the weight of it pressing down on her. Sleep had come easily enough, but it was far from peaceful.
Gwendolyn found herself standing by the lake again, the moon casting an eerie light over the water's surface. But this time, something was wrong. The reflection in the water shifted, twisting unnaturally, and a cold breeze swept through the air.
She took a step back, but it was too late—the water began to ripple, forming dark tendrils that reached out toward her.
Panic surged through her as she tried to move, but her feet felt heavy, as though they were being pulled down by invisible chains. The tendrils tightened around her ankles, yanking her forward until she was knee-deep in the icy water. She thrashed against the force pulling her, but it was as if the lake itself was alive, dragging her deeper into its depths.
