The clock in Ayla's penthouse struck 3:12 a.m., though she didn't hear it. She lay motionless, breath shallow, in the cold pull of a dream far older than her own life.
In this dream, she was a child again—seven years old, barefoot, standing in a field of wild grass soaked with blood.
The sky above her was torn, like fabric pulled apart, revealing not stars—but eyes. A thousand, watching. Judging. And beneath her feet, the ground pulsed with veins of silver and black, like roots from something buried too deep to name.
She looked down.
In her small hands, she held something. A tiny bird.
Its wings were mangled. Its throat slit. But it still breathed.
"Fix it," whispered a voice beside her.
She turned—no one.
"Fix it," the voice repeated, now from within.
Ayla stared at the bird, heart pounding.
Her fingers twitched. Without knowing how, she pulled—not from her mind, but from her soul.
Black smoke poured from her fingertips.
It wrapped the bird like bandages, then sank into it, stitching flesh, restoring breath—but the bird's body changed. Its feathers turned mirror-sharp, its eyes bled gold, and when it took flight, the sky shrieked with it.
She had saved it—but she had also unleashed something unnatural.
The world around her trembled.
And then—
A scream, raw and hers, echoed through the dream. Her child form fell to her knees, hands clutching her head as voices thundered through her skull.
You see what must not be seen.
You walk where the dead still feed.
You do not belong.
The ground split beneath her.
A thousand corpses clawed upward, some familiar, some strangers, all chanting in unison.
"You bring light where there should be silence."
Then, one corpse crawled closer than the others.
A woman, face burned, hair white, her jaw hanging by one side. "You can cross the Veil," the corpse said in Ayla's own voice. "But every time you do, you leave something behind."
"I don't want this," Ayla gasped, tears burning.
"But you were born with it. And now… it grows."
Suddenly, Ayla looked down.
Her hands were burning. Not from fire—but from names.
Carved into her skin. Layer upon layer. Names of the dead. Names of those she'd helped. Names of those who'd touched her power.
It wouldn't stop. It never stopped.
Each name a scar.
Each scar a tether.
Each tether a gate.
And somewhere, behind those gates—something vast and ancient waited.
She screamed again—louder, deeper—and then…
She woke.
Gasping.
Soaked in sweat.
And for a second, the shadows in her penthouse moved.
Not just shadows.
Ghosts.
They hovered by the windows. Five of them. Unblinking. Watching. Waiting.
She sat upright and they vanished—but the pressure didn't leave.
Her charm ring had shattered in her sleep.
Ayla stared at it, heart pounding. It wasn't just a dream.
She had crossed again.
Later that morning, Ayla stood at her mirror, eyes sunken, lips pale.
Corren appeared behind her reflection.
"You're getting closer," he said.
"To what?"
"To the core of your power," he said. "To what lies behind the gift."
She turned. "Why does it hurt more now?"
Corren hesitated. "Because your soul is no longer a container. It's becoming… a channel."
"For what?"
"For the memory of the dead. For their unfinished will."
Ayla turned away. "I didn't ask for this."
Corren stepped forward. "But you never turned away either. That's why it's growing. You're not just seeing ghosts anymore, Ayla. You're making bonds. You're housing them."
She touched the jagged remains of the charm ring.
"I need a new one."
"You need more than that. You need balance."
Her phone buzzed.
Cassian's voice came through the speaker. "Riven Sol is at the Armoire Tower. He's waiting for you."
The Armoire Tower rose like a black needle above the skyline. Ayla walked through its mirrored lobby like a ghost herself, surrounded by steel, glass, and the weight of unseen things.
When she stepped into the top-floor suite, Riven Sol was already standing at the window.
He turned slowly, elegant in his navy suit, his silver cufflinks gleaming like polished ice.
"I dreamed of you," he said.
"I dream of many things," Ayla replied. "None of them pleasant."
He smiled. "Then we are kin."
She narrowed her eyes. "What do you want?"
"I want to show you something," Riven said, walking to the side and revealing a table set with photographs.
Ayla's breath caught.
They were all pictures of her—taken across cities, across years, entering haunted buildings, meeting with spiritualists, binding energy into stone.
"You've been watching me."
Riven nodded. "Because I needed to be sure it was you."
"Me?"
"The one the Gatebound fear."
Ayla's jaw tightened. "You know what I am?"
Riven leaned closer. "You're not just a Seer, Ayla. You're a Glassborn—one born between worlds, capable of binding soul to structure, memory to place. Your blood doesn't just see ghosts. It lets them live through you."
She backed away.
"No. I'm nothing more than a woman who survived."
Riven's eyes gleamed. "But you did more than survive. You inherited."
Ayla's hand twitched toward the blade she kept in her coat. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because soon, the last gate will open, and when it does, the world will need someone who can keep the dead from spilling into the living."
"And you think that's me?"
"No," Riven said. "I know it is. But whether you stand with us—or against us—remains to be seen."
He turned away again. "Your ancestors sealed the gates for a reason. They left the knowledge in your blood. And now, it's waking."
Ayla stared at her hands.
The names were still there.
Faint. But burned into memory.
She walked out of the Armoire Tower without another word, but her steps echoed with new weight.
That night, Ayla returned to the burned theater.
Only ashes remained, but beneath them, something still pulsed faintly.
A single name, hidden beneath soot:
Serin.
She traced the letters with her finger.
Corren knelt beside her.
"You saw your power, didn't you?"
"Yes," she whispered. "In the dream."
"And?"
"It's not a gift."
"No," Corren agreed. "It's a burden."
Ayla stared into the dark.
"But it's mine."
End of Chapter 11