The morning air carried an unnatural chill as Ayla arrived at the edge of the Old Quarter, where the city bled into a forest of forgotten architecture. Buildings too stubborn to fall leaned into the overcast sky, their windows boarded like closed eyes. This was no place for business moguls or real estate titans—yet Ayla walked with purpose, her black coat sweeping past ruined iron gates.
She had circled this building on her map the night before—a theater once known as The Vale of Echoes, burned down eighty years ago in what the city called "an unexplained inferno." Only the stone bones remained, but whispers still crawled around it like ivy.
Her charm ring burned faintly on her hand.
She stepped over the old fence, boots crunching on gravel, and entered through what remained of the lobby arch. Moss had claimed the marble floor, and the scent of burnt velvet still lingered beneath the damp. She could hear them already—spirits, faint and waiting.
One of the last gates is here, she thought. She felt it.
A whisper greeted her.
"Serin's blood returns."
Ayla turned. A small girl's ghost in a white dress stood where the ticket booth once was, her face smudged with ash. Her eyes were sorrowful. "You shouldn't come alone."
"I never am," Ayla replied quietly.
Corren appeared beside her, his form half-shadowed, his expression grim. "This place is wrong."
"What do you mean?" Ayla asked, scanning the air.
"It's not just haunted. It's feeding."
Suddenly, the air thickened. A deep groan came from below, beneath the foundation—a distant, rhythmic sound, like something breathing through stone.
Then a voice, ancient and disembodied, whispered through the ruins:
"You are not ready."
Ayla took a step forward. "Show yourself."
The little ghost backed into the dark. "He's waking," she said. "You must leave before the ashes move."
But Ayla didn't move.
She walked deeper into the hollow of the burned theater. Rows of scorched seating curled around a ruined stage where the moss had swallowed the boards.
And on that stage stood a mirror.
Twisted. Fractured. Covered in soot.
Ayla stepped toward it.
Corren hissed, "Don't. Something's coiled behind that glass."
She pressed her palm to the charm ring. "I have to see."
As her foot touched the stage, the mirror shuddered.
Black smoke spilled from the frame, crawling across the floor like a tide. Ayla drew her energy inward, just as she had in Deremont. But this time, the force clung to her.
The stage cracked—and from beneath the boards, a skeletal hand burst out, smoldering with embers.
Corren reacted instantly, throwing up a barrier of spiritlight as the creature emerged—a corpse-shaped thing, wreathed in smoke, its eyes burning like shards of mirrored glass.
"A Gatebound," Corren snarled. "One of the original guardians."
The creature shrieked.
The walls of the theater trembled.
Ayla drew her silver-bladed dagger—the one blessed by her great-grandfather—and slashed her palm.
"I mark this place as sealed!" she shouted. "In the name of Ayla Elira Serin, daughter of the lost!"
Her blood dripped onto the broken stage. The charm ring glowed fiercely.
The Gatebound froze mid-lunge.
Corren dropped to one knee and slammed his hands into the ground. "Now!"
A circle of burning script flared around Ayla's blood. The Gatebound screamed as the mirror behind it imploded, and the spirit vanished in a roar of smoke.
Then—silence.
The ruined theater groaned, like something had been holding its breath for decades and was finally exhaling.
The little ghost reappeared. "Thank you," she whispered. "We're free."
Ayla knelt. "What was that thing?"
"A guard," the ghost answered. "Left here after the fire to keep the gate buried. But it wasn't supposed to wake."
"Who lit the fire?"
The ghost lowered her head. "A man in silver robes."
Ayla's breath caught. Riven?
No… someone older. Connected. Watching.
Corren turned to her. "This was a test. Someone wanted to see if you could survive."
Ayla nodded. "And I did."
"But now they'll send worse."
That night, back at her penthouse, Ayla stood before her mirror.
Four gates remained. One had cracked. Two were stirring.
Her phone buzzed.
Cassian:"He wants to meet. Riven Sol. Personally."
She stared at the screen. Her mind raced.
What does he want?
What does he know?
She looked out at the skyline. Dozens of buildings—hers. Some are still haunted. Some clean. All earned through blood and bone.
And now…
A greater war was coming.
Ayla clenched her fist.
If Riven Sol thought he could use her—
He had forgotten what kind of queen she was becoming.
Not just one of glass.
But of flame.
And Flame remembers.
End of chapter 10