The city stretched beneath a hazy dawn, the skyline bleeding soft gold and silver as the first light crept into Ayla's room. She sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, her hands tangled in her hair. She hadn't truly slept. The dream had been too vivid—too real. She could still feel it etched behind her eyes like a scar. In it, she had become her mother. She felt her mother's fear, the tightening around her womb, the invisible pressure, and the suffocating energy. A voice, ancient and trembling with power, had echoed through her bones:
"The child must bind... or be consumed."
It wasn't a hallucination. She knew better. It was a message. And it had left something behind. Her body felt heavier since the night she'd bound Korel's spirit. Not tired—crowded. As though voices sat beneath her skin, whispering just low enough that she couldn't understand, but loud enough to drive a spike into her skull.
Corren stood near the window. Her great-great-great-grandfather's ghost was a silent sentinel as always, his form flickering in the shifting light. "You saw it too?" she asked him, her voice rough with sleeplessness. The spirit nodded solemnly. "The dream was sent. The bloodline stirs. It knows what comes."
Ayla's breath slowed. "Why now? I've been binding spirits for years. Why does it feel like the bindings are unraveling... me?"
Corren's translucent face darkened. "Because the fire awakens, child. The one your blood once sealed. And only your line remembers it exists."
She didn't ask for details. She didn't want to know—yet.
Later that day, she stood in front of her mirror, the silk robe slipping from her shoulder. Her fingers trembled as she turned slightly to get a better look at the mark beneath her collarbone. It hadn't been there before—the sigil. It looked ancient, like ink burned into skin, its edges glowing faintly whenever she stepped near one of her real estate buildings. It was reacting to something. Or calling to it.
Every part of her rebelled against the vulnerability of not knowing.
Across the city, Cassian Vale sat in his private study, poring over blacklisted scrolls and forbidden historical documents. He hadn't planned to dig into Ayla's bloodline—he respected her privacy. But the deeper he fell into her world, the more pieces he needed to understand her. What he found wasn't folklore. It was history. The Serin Line—a clan of blood-bound guardians once tasked with protecting the balance between the living and the dead. They weren't ghost whisperers. They were ghost commanders.
One entry chilled him to the core. "When the Mark of Binding returns, so too shall the Gate. If the heir is unanchored, the fire will spread." He sat back in his chair, his jaw clenched, the words echoing like a curse. And Ayla—strong, lonely, terrifying Ayla—had the mark now.
Without hesitation, he picked up his phone and called her.
Ayla picked up on the fourth ring. Her voice was quiet but edged with fatigue. "Vale."
"I need to see you. Now. Where are you?"
"At the estate. Come."
Minutes later, he arrived. Her office was dim, the curtains drawn, the air heavy with something he couldn't name. She sat at her desk, staring at a painting propped against the wall. A man's face stared back at him—dark-haired, commanding. And unmistakably like her. Cassian's eyes narrowed. On the back of the canvas, written in old ink, were the words: "You've awakened the fire. Find the tomb before the gates open."
"I didn't order it," Ayla said before he could speak. "It just... appeared."
"I know who he is," Cassian replied. "He's the Sealed Guardian. The one who once bound the Gate of Ash. It cost him blood—his own. Only his heir could undo the seal."
Ayla looked at him, something raw flashing in her eyes. "I'm tired, Cassian. Of being haunted by people who died long before I was born."
He stepped closer. "Then let's stop waiting for the dead to come to you."
She blinked. "You want to chase myths?"
"No. I want to protect you. Even if that means stepping into a myth and burning it down myself."
The way he said it, steadfast and certain, made something inside her shift. Ayla had always walked alone. Not by choice. By necessity. Now, here was a man with no spirit sight, no ancestral burden, but a will as immovable as hers.
"I don't know what's waiting in that tomb," she admitted. "And I don't know if I'll come back the same."
"Then I'll be the one to bring you back," he said.
She met his eyes, her heart beating too loudly in her ears. After a long moment, she exhaled. "Pack a bag. We leave at dawn."
That night, rain pattered against the windows. Ayla sat near the fireplace, cradling her mother's pendant. The stone was warm now, pulsing softly. Corren hovered nearby, watching her with quiet concern.
"You were never meant to walk alone," he said.
"I'm used to it."
Corren tilted his head. "Doesn't mean you have to be."
She looked into the fire, her thoughts spiraling toward the unknown tomb, the flame sealed beneath it, and the man now walking toward it with her, unafraid.
The fire would call. The gate would stir.
But this time, she wouldn't face it alone.
End of Chapter 13