The letter lay on Ayla's desk like a dried leaf left behind after a storm—delicate, ancient, and full of secrets.
She hadn't spoken of it to anyone, not even Cassian. He would've ordered it burned, or worse, investigated. But she knew enough now to recognize the weight of spirits in ink. This wasn't a human message. It felt like it had been written in breath, not by hand.
"The halls remember. The glass does not forget."
The phrase echoed in her mind as she climbed the marble staircase of the abandoned Deremont Estate. Rain tapped the broken windows, and moonlight laced through the rot-wood frames like ghost fingers. This was where the letter had told her to go.
And this was no ordinary place.
The Deremont Estate had been sealed for two decades. Rumors said it was cursed, that a wealthy textile family had disappeared here overnight. Every buyer since had died within a year of entering. Yet Ayla came alone, dressed in black boots, wool, and a long coat, with her hair tied back like her mother once wore it.
As she passed the rusted gate, she could feel it. The weight of the dead.
They didn't show themselves, not yet, but they watched. She could sense their eyes in the corners, feel the tremor in her bones. It wasn't fear. It was memory. The estate remembered her. Or at least, it remembered her blood.
Ayla's fingers brushed over the doorframe. "Elira Serin," she whispered. "Let me in."
The door opened on its own.
Inside, silence reigned. The foyer was ruined, paint peeling like scabbed skin. A grand staircase curved like a ribcage. But it wasn't empty.
A woman stood at the far end of the hall.
She was translucent, draped in flowing 19th-century silks, her face stitched with sadness. Her feet didn't touch the ground, and her eyes bore into Ayla—not threatening, but searching.
"You've come," the ghost said. Her voice sounded like it had been borrowed from wind.
Ayla didn't move. "Who are you?"
"Evelyne Deremont. I am the keeper of what remains. The glass saw your mother. Now it sees you."
Ayla took a step forward, careful. "The letter—was it you?"
Evelyne nodded once. "Your power has stirred something ancient, child. Your bloodline carries what most silenced long ago. They fear what you may awaken."
"What do they want from me?" Ayla asked.
"Not what. Who."
Evelyne raised a hand and the floor shuddered. Books flew off shelves, and a panel in the wall cracked open. Behind it was a mirror—long, blackened with age, but untouched by dust.
"The Mirror of Breath," Evelyne said. "One of the seven gates. One of the last things your mother sealed before she died."
Ayla stared at it. The surface rippled slightly, like water disturbed by breath. A shiver ran up her spine.
"She protected you," Evelyne whispered. "And died sealing what hunted her. But you are not hidden now. Something else has seen you."
Ayla clenched her jaw. "The Glass Monarch."
"Yes." Evelyne's gaze dimmed. "And he remembers everything the mirrors ever saw."
A creak sounded behind them. Ayla turned sharply—but nothing stood there.
Not nothing.
The air had grown colder. Even Evelyne stepped back.
"He has sent something to test you," she murmured.
Ayla's breath caught. "Here?"
The mirror began to glow with a faint violet light. Cracks ran across its surface like veins. And from within, a figure began to push through—not flesh, not quite spirit, but something in between. Its eyes were hollow, mouth sewn shut, clothed in tattered silk robes soaked in ash.
Evelyne's voice trembled. "You must banish it. Claim the house, or it will be taken from you."
Ayla stepped forward. Her hands were shaking—but she remembered what Vellin had taught her. What her mother's memories had whispered in her sleep.
She reached into her coat and pulled out the silver charm: the crescent ring once worn by Elira Serin. She pressed it to her palm and spoke.
"By blood, by bond, by breath unbroken… I call the guardian."
The floor lit in a pale circle, and wind roared through the broken walls. From the darkness, a deep growl rose—and Corren Vale appeared behind her, his form more shadow than man, his old soldier's coat whipping in a wind only ghosts could feel.
"About time," Corren muttered. "You always find the messy ones."
The creature stepped from the mirror fully now, hissing, trying to speak through sewn lips. Ayla's ring burned hot.
Corren raised one hand, and the air thickened with pressure. "Back, mirrorborn. You trespass on Serin ground."
With a burst of violet light, the mirror cracked, and the creature let out a soundless shriek. Ayla stepped forward and raised the ring high.
"I claim this house by right of the dead. Let this be sealed under my name."
The creature dissolved into ash. The light faded. The mirror's surface stilled, though a crack remained, like a scar.
Silence returned.
Evelyne bowed slightly. "It is done. The estate is yours now."
Ayla nodded slowly. Her knees were weak, but she didn't fall. "Thank you."
Evelyne's form flickered. "Be careful, Ayla. Riven Sol is not what he seems. He is drawn to the broken. And the mirrors… they remember your name."
Then she vanished.
Ayla stood alone in the hall of ghosts, watching the mirror.
Her empire had just grown by one more haunted house.
And her war had just truly begun.
End of Chapter 8