Chapter 5 The Vision You Can’t Unsee
Ayla didn’t feel the cold until she noticed her breath.
They stood in the dim stairwell—stone walls, no lighting except what trickled in from two narrow, barred windows. Daylight, but faint. Like even the sun was hesitant to cross this threshold.
She stared at Kade.
“You saw me die.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften it.
“I’ve seen it since I was thirteen,” he said quietly. “Not once. Not occasionally. Every month. Every semester. Every time I close my eyes too long.”
“How?” Her voice was barely there.
“My family,” he said. “Thorn line. First-borns… sometimes get fragments. Pieces. Possible futures. Possible ends.”
She swallowed. “Prophecy?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “Prophecy is fate trying to write a story. A Thorn vision is just… watching how that story might end.”
She exhaled shakily. “And you’re saying my ending is…?”
His jaw flexed.
“Bloody,” he said quietly. “And wrong. The kind that doesn't happen by accident.”
She didn’t back away—but she felt something shift in her.
Fear.
Not of him.
But of the way he said wrong. Like someone who did not fear tragedy, but injustice.
She folded her arms—not defensive. Just containing herself.
“Tell me,” she said. “What you saw.”
He looked at the wall behind her, not her face. Something about recalling it made his eyes darker.
“You’re running,” he said. “Across Blackridge quad. Not a peaceful day. The kind where magic is awake and… choosing sides.”
“Choosing—?”
“Then you stop,” Kade continued. “Turn. And someone is in front of you. I never see their face. Just their shadow.”
Her heartbeat quickened.
“Mine or theirs?”
“Both,” he said. “Yours… detaches. But it’s not just yours anymore.”
Her chest tightened. “And then?”
“You speak,” Kade said. “But it’s not English. Not modern. Something old. The kind that hurts to hear.”
She didn’t breathe.
“Then,” he said—so softly she almost missed it—“you bleed. From your eyes. Your palms. Not a wound. Like the blood is leaving you.”
Her throat closed.
“And then?” she whispered.
Kade met her gaze fully.
“You drop to your knees,” he said. “Shadow around you like ink in water. Like you’re drowning on dry land.”
Ayla’s pulse roared in her ears.
He swallowed.
“And then you scream,” he finished quietly. “And the entire ground of Blackridge… cracks open.”
Silence.
Not just between them.
The whole hallway had gone still.
Only the faint hum of something unseen. Awake.
Ayla realized her shadow was no longer flat beneath her.
It was behind her.
Up the wall.
Like a second silhouette—taller. Thinner.
Watching.
She stepped back, nearly stumbling.
Kade didn’t reach for her. That, somehow, helped. He just looked at her—steady, grounded, but shaken.
“It doesn’t mean it’ll happen,” he said, softer now. “Thorn visions flicker. They change. One choice, one step, one heartbeat—can rewrite it all.”
“And you’ve seen it change?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“When you showed up,” he said simply.
That landed.
Then he added, voice strained—not hesitant, but careful:
“Just not enough.”
Something in that hurt her—more than fear, more than prophecy.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
Kade shook his head.
“Not want,” he said. “I promised myself something before I ever met you.”
She waited.
He held her gaze, steady, raw.
“That if one day the girl from my visions came here,” he said, “I’d do just one thing.”
Ayla’s pulse thundered. “What?”
He answered without wavering.
“I would try to save her.”
Silence.
Just his breath and hers and the distant echo of footsteps somewhere above them.
Her fingers trembled.
She didn’t want tears.
She hadn’t cried in years.
She didn’t cry when homes changed.
Or when her file read: quiet. hard to place. unusual attachment patterns.
Or when that last foster house said she felt like “a room with no furniture.”
But now—
Now her chest felt too tight to hold her heartbeat.
“Why me?” she whispered.
He watched her like he wanted to say everything—but chose just one truth.
“Because destiny isn’t something that happens to you,” he said. “It’s something you face. Or run from.”
She almost laughed. “You sound like a prophecy yourself.”
He smirked. “Don’t ever insult me like that.”
She did laugh then—small, broken, real.
Tension eased.
But only slightly.
Because just then—
Something flickered at the end of the hallway.
A figure.
Too still.
Too pale.
White hair spilling down her back, almost glimmering in low light.
Skin like porcelain.
Eyes—
She couldn't tell.
Because they were closed.
She wasn’t walking.
She was gliding.
Her feet inches above the ground.
Kade stiffened.
“Don’t look at her,” he said quickly.
Ayla’s blood iced. “What—who—?”
“Don’t look,” he repeated. “She’s Evershade. She’s looking for something.”
“Looking for—?”
“Not someone,” Kade whispered.
The girl drifted past.
Not alive.
Not dead.
Something in between.
The air felt cold where she passed.
Kade kept his gaze averted. Ayla did the same.
They waited.
One breath.
Two.
Gone.
When the hall warmed again, Kade exhaled.
“They don’t show up unless someone new has… arrived.”
“New student?” Ayla asked.
“New presence,” he corrected quietly.
The silence that followed was not comfortable.
Not frightening.
Sacred.
And then—
“ROWAN?”
They both turned.
Lila stood at the top of the stairs, hands on hips, cheeks flushed.
“You were supposed to be at the first-year assessment room five minutes ago!” she groaned. “You’re officially starting your academic career by being hunted down. Congratulations.”
Kade’s jaw tightened. “Assessment? Already?”
“Schedule’s in her packet,” Lila said. “Rowan, did you even open it?”
Yes.
But she hadn’t looked at the back.
She flipped the folder open now.
Her name, student number.
Assessment Hall: North Wing.
Time: Today — after orientation.
Type: Special Evaluation.
Category: Bloodline Verification.
Her stomach flipped.
Lila peered at the note. Her eyes widened.
“Oh,” she breathed. This time, not playfully. “This is… a starred assessment.”
“Meaning?” Ayla asked.
Kade’s expression darkened.
“It means they think she doesn’t belong to any house,” he said.
“Or—” Lila whispered, eyes wider now—
“She belongs to one that hasn't existed in centuries.”
Silence.
No breath.
Ayla felt the halls around her—walls, windows, shadows—still.
Listening.
Waiting.
Something deep beneath the university’s foundations stirred.
Not threatening.
Not comforting.
Just…
Aware.
Kade’s voice was quieter when he finally spoke.
“I’ll take her.”
Lila nodded quickly, stepping back.
“Go,” she whispered. “They don’t delay these kinds of… evaluations.”
Ayla looked up at Kade.
“Will it hurt?” she asked, trying to sound brave.
He hesitated.
“It will feel like the truth,” he said.
And truth, she already sensed—
didn’t always feel like light.
Sometimes,
it felt like memory.
Like waking.
Like blood remembering itself.