Chapter 4 Blood, Paper, and the Man Who Didn't Knock
Damian didn’t move further into the room.
He simply stood there, as if he expected the space to arrange itself around him. Shadows seemed to bend slightly, the air sharpening—as though aware of whose presence they contained.
Ayla’s pulse pounded.
“Did I… say you could come in?” she asked, forcing her voice not to tremble.
“You didn’t,” he said easily. “But I’ve never waited to be invited anywhere.”
His eyes flicked briefly to the faint silver-black mark still glimmering on her palm. Whatever hunger stirred there was quickly tucked away behind civility, but not erased.
She curled her fist, and the shadow at her feet shifted—contracting, not obeying.
Don’t let him get close, Kade had warned.
“So,” Ayla said, lifting her chin. “Are you planning to welcome all the first-years personally? Or is this a special case?”
“Special,” Damian said without hesitation.
Her heart skipped. “Why?”
He didn’t blink as he said it.
“Because every domain remembers the return of its rightful heir.”
A chill rushed through her—one that had nothing to do with fear. Something in her chest tightened, like a door rattling on old hinges.
“I don’t know what that means,” she said.
“I know,” he murmured. “You will.”
He didn’t say it like a promise.
He said it like an inevitability.
Then, almost gently, “May I?”
She frowned. “May you what?”
He nodded at her wrist. At her closed fist. “See.”
She didn’t open her hand.
“It's just blood," she said.
“Is it?”
A beat of silence.
Then he stepped closer.
Not close enough to touch—just near enough that she caught the scent of something cool, metallic, and faintly sweet. Not cologne. Not human.
“You don’t feel it,” he said softly. “Not yet. But it’s waking. Every time your blood touches air, something old inside this place stirs.”
Her shadow trembled against her will—like it remembered something she didn’t.
She took a step back.
Damian watched. Not pursuing. Not apologizing.
Observing.
Not with curiosity.
But with certainty.
“Kade thinks you don’t belong here,” he said.
Her brows lifted. “You two seem to think a lot about me for people I met ten minutes ago.”
“He fears prophecy,” Damian said, ignoring the remark. “He’s afraid of what you might become.”
“And you’re not?”
His voice lowered.
“I’m not afraid,” he said. “I’m… waiting.”
The words shouldn’t have made her shiver like they did.
A knock echoed faintly somewhere down the hallway. Voices outside—laughter, footsteps, the squeak of suitcase wheels. Dorm sounds. Real, normal things.
She clung to them.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said again.
“That’s what you said,” he murmured. “But you didn’t ask me to leave.”
Her cheeks warmed. “I didn’t not ask.”
An almost-smile ghosted across his lips. Dangerous, but fleeting.
“I’ll go,” he said, stepping back. “For now.”
Relief loosened her shoulders—until he paused in the doorway and spoke without turning.
“But something is coming, Ayla.”
A shadow crossed the hall like a wisp of smoke at his words. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Something old. Something that remembers you.”
Her grip tightened involuntarily.
Damian looked over his shoulder. Just his eyes. Dark, but strangely bright.
“Do not bleed on this campus again,” he said softly. “Because what wakes… will not sleep again.”
Then he was gone.
She didn’t breathe for five long seconds.
Finally, she exhaled shakily and looked down at her palm.
It had already stopped bleeding.
But blood wasn’t what marked her skin now.
A thin ring-shaped stain—faint, silvery-black—wrapped around the center of her lifeline.
Not a wound.
Not a bruise.
A symbol.
She grabbed the welcome packet, pulled out the nearest page—a standard student rule document—and scribbled over the mark hard, trying to rub it away.
It didn’t fade.
She tried covering it with her sleeve.
It bled through—faintly visible, like moonlight through cloth.
She was still staring at it when her laptop screen flickered again.
This time, there was no welcome message.
Only three words.
Do not trust him.
Her stomach turned.
She typed with unsteady fingers.
Ayla:
Who? Kade? Or Damian?
The answer came almost instantly.
Unknown Number:
Both.
For different reasons.
She stared.
The reply followed before she could blink.
Unknown Number:
One wants your blood.
The other wants your future.
Her pulse quickened.
Ayla:
What do you want?
A pause.
Then—
Unknown Number:
To return what was taken from you.
Her hands turned cold.
Ayla:
What was that?
She waited.
And waited.
One last message.
Unknown Number:
Your memory.
And your name.
A sound echoed faintly from the hallway.
Heavy footsteps.
Not hurried.
Not casual.
Measured.
Constant.
They passed by her door and did not stop.
The shadow under her bed stretched—longer than it should.
Like it was looking.
She didn’t dare move.
Minutes later—she didn’t remember how—she found herself downstairs in the shared kitchen area. Light. Normal. People.
Students milled around, unpacking groceries, fighting over cabinet space, laughing loudly at private jokes. Someone spilled oatmeal. Someone swore creatively. Someone argued about laundry cycles.
Human chaos.
Normal.
She dropped into a chair, breath finally returning.
Lila slid a mug of something warm in front of her. Honey and spice scented.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” she said.
Ayla stared at the mug. “What if I did?”
Lila sipped her own drink. “Oh, we’ve all seen ghosts here. The trick is pretending you didn’t.”
Ayla opened her mouth to ask what that even meant—when a voice cut across the room, making several people look.
“Thorn is looking for her.”
Ayla turned.
Jonah.
His eyes flicked toward the far doorway, where Kade now stood.
His security jacket now buttoned, hair damp from the rain that had begun to fall outside.
He didn’t look at any of the other students.
He looked only at her.
“Come with me,” he said—not sharp, not soft.
Necessary.
Ayla hesitated. “Why?”
Lila gave her a look. Serious now. “If Kade asks you to go, you go.”
Ayla stood.
Kade’s gaze followed her movement. Not possessive. Not hungry.
But determined.
He led her out, down a corridor, away from noise.
When they reached the bottom of an unlit stairwell, she finally spoke.
“What’s going on?”
He stopped.
Faced her.
His expression held something it hadn’t before.
Not anger. Not warning.
But urgency.
“Tell me what Damian said to you,” he said quietly.
“I’m not sure I should.”
Kade stepped closer. Not too close. But close enough that she noticed he wasn't tense now.
Just resolute.
“Ayla,” he said. “I need you to trust me.”
She held his gaze.
“Why?”
His answer was not immediate.
But when it came—it did not feel like a line.
It felt like truth.
“Because,” he said, voice low—wounded somewhere—
“I saw you die.”
Something cold and ancient prickled at the base of her spine.
A voice deep, deep inside—
not quite hers—
whispered back.
Not yet.
