The sun barely crested the skyline as Ayla stood at the balcony of her uppermost tower, wind tearing at her coat. Her hands rested against the cold railing, still trembling from the dream—the truth—that had bled through her mind the night before.
Below, the city buzzed. Lives pulsed forward. But for Ayla, every motion was a layer of noise between her and something deeper. Something buried under stone, time, and blood.
"Still not sleeping?" came Cassian's voice behind her.
Ayla turned, barely surprised. "Did I ask you to come up?"
"No. But you looked like you needed a reason not to jump."
She smirked faintly, then looked back at the skyline. "Why do you follow me, Cassian?"
"Because you're the only one in this city whose empire wasn't bought, but earned. Through fire. Through death. Through something I don't understand."
She studied him. Cassian Vale—real estate tycoon, business genius, youngest head of the Vale dynasty. Always tailored, always poised. But now, his sleeves were rolled, and his eyes, usually steel-held, something warmer.
"You don't understand it," Ayla said, "but you're drawn to it."
"I won't lie," he admitted. "I've seen ruthless before. I've done ruthless. But you… You have a purpose. Even in silence."
Ayla's heart twisted.
She wanted to trust him. He had been loyal so far, even when he didn't know what she was. But trust, for her, was a ghost she hadn't dared speak to in years.
"Purpose is heavy," she muttered. "People admire it until they're crushed under it."
Cassian stepped beside her. "Then let me carry a little of yours."
Her eyes flicked toward him, sharp with skepticism.
"I'm serious," he said. "You've built an empire by buying buildings no one wanted. You walk into a cursed land and come out with keys. And I know—there's more to it than luck and contracts."
Ayla stayed quiet.
Cassian took a breath. "Tell me the truth. I won't run."
"You should," she whispered.
He smiled. "But I won't."
And Ayla felt it for the first time in years—that quiet, treacherous flicker of hope. She turned from the balcony and motioned him inside.
The penthouse was a fortress—floor-to-ceiling glass, black marble floors, a fire that danced behind a veined obsidian panel. Cassian followed her into the sitting room, where relics from old worlds—wards, charms, totems—lined the shelves like museum pieces.
"You think I'm haunted?" she asked.
"I think you're haunted and in control of it."
She shook her head. "Control is an illusion. Last night, my ring shattered. Do you know what that means?"
He shook his head.
"It means something's coming. Bigger than anything I've seen. And I'm not sure I'm strong enough anymore."
Cassian's jaw tightened. "Then let me stand beside you."
Ayla stared at him.
"You don't even know what I am."
"Then tell me."
She walked to the fireplace. Picked up an old family blade—etched in her great-great-grandfather's sigils.
"When I was born," she began, "my mother died protecting me from a curse. A spirit tried to take me from the womb. My family's guardian—an ancestor from centuries ago—intervened. But the moment I took breath, I saw what others couldn't."
Cassian listened, silent.
"I saw ghosts. Spirits. Not the gentle kind. The fractured, lost kind. I saw them die again and again. And when I tried to help them—" her voice caught, "—they clung to me."
Cassian moved closer, carefully. "They marked you."
"Yes. I carry them. Like echoes. And now, that power has changed. I don't just see. I bind. If I touch a haunted place long enough… it becomes mine."
"And that's how you built your empire," he said softly.
Ayla nodded. "I buy cursed buildings. Clear them. Not with priests, but with blood and binding. And every time I do, I feel them getting closer."
Cassian was quiet for a long beat.
Then he said, "You saved this city in silence. They worship your business, but they don't know they owe you their souls."
She turned away. "Don't romanticize it."
"I'm not." He stepped in front of her, holding her gaze. "I'm saying I see you."
And for a breathless moment, Ayla believed him.
Later that day, Ayla stood inside the cold vault of an unfinished high-rise—the next cursed property. She could already feel the energy shifting. The temperature dipped ten degrees, and the walls wept faint streams of water despite no plumbing.
Cassian was with her.
"I told you not to come."
"And yet I'm here."
They walked together through the skeletal structure. Shadows whispered between steel beams. There was a presence here—an old one. Angry. Sad.
Ayla pressed her hand to the wall.
Pain shot up her arm.
The vision came like a wave—flames, gunfire, a woman screaming. This wasn't a natural death. This was a massacre.
Corren appeared beside her, invisible to Cassian.
"This place was a trap," he said. "They killed to feed the stone."
"Why?"
"To build something cursed."
Ayla turned to Cassian. "There's something buried here."
"What do you mean?"
"They didn't just kill people here. They sacrificed them. The building itself is a gate."
And as she said the word, the floor beneath them shook.
Walls rippled with black veins.
Then—laughter.
From the shadows, a man emerged. Cloaked in smoke, his eyes gleamed with sick fire.
"Serin blood," the specter hissed.
Cassian drew a small dagger from his coat. Ayla blinked in surprise.
"I did my research," he said grimly.
The ghost lunged.
Ayla threw up a barrier—silver and crackling. The spirit shrieked and recoiled.
Cassian stepped beside her. "Tell me what to do."
"You're not afraid?"
"I am," he admitted. "But I trust you more than my fear."
Ayla's chest burned at that. She closed her eyes, focused her energy.
From within her palm, she called a glyph of sealing—ancient, cracked, but still potent.
"Speak your name!" she commanded the ghost.
It howled.
"NAME!"
Finally, it shrieked, "KOREL!"
Ayla cast the seal. Light burst through the floor. The ghost collapsed into smoke and salt.
Silence.
Cassian let out a slow breath. "You weren't kidding."
"No," she said. "I never do."
That night, back at her home, Cassian poured them both whiskey.
Ayla sat on the windowsill, watching the rain streak glass.
"You didn't have to come," she said.
"I wanted to," Cassian replied.
"Why?"
He hesitated, then said, "Because every time I'm near you, I forget how broken this world is."
Ayla looked at him. "And I remind you that the world is worse."
"No," he said. "You remind me that someone is still fighting to fix it."
Their eyes met.
Something shifted.
A breath too long.
A glance is too vulnerable.
But Ayla looked away.
"Goodnight, Cassian."
He nodded, stepping back—but not before brushing his fingers gently against hers.
For a moment, she almost let herself feel it.
Almost.
But she wasn't ready.
Not yet.
The dead were stirring again.
And Ayla Serin—The Ghost Queen—still had work to do.
End of Chapter 12