Wraith

Chapter 1

One

I used to believe in fate.

That somewhere in this chaotic, uncaring universe, there was a force binding souls together, guiding them toward the love they were destined to find.

Turns out, fate wasn’t kind. It was cruel. And I was its favorite joke.

The university’s clock tower stood tall against the evening sky, its Gothic spires casting long, jagged shadows across the courtyard. I sat on the edge of the fountain, my psychology textbook open on my lap, though I hadn’t turned a page in over ten minutes. My focus was elsewhere—on Lucian.

He leaned against the ancient oak that had likely watched over students for centuries. Its bark gnarled with the passage of time, much like the complexities of human relationships I studied. His girlfriend’s arms were curled around him, her head resting on his chest. She laughed at something he whispered, her fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck—a light, carefree sound that knifed through my heart.

That should be me.

I clenched my fists. The bond thrummed beneath my skin, a constant, maddening reminder that we were connected, whether they wanted to admit it or not. Whether he wanted to admit it or not.

As my gaze drifted back to the book, the words blurring into obscurity, my mind wandered back to the first day of freshman year, when fate had cruelly tangled me in its web. I had walked into the orientation hall, my heart full of hope and nerves, only to feel it—the inexplicable pull, a magnetic force that tugged at my very soul. It wasn’t a voice, exactly, but it whispered all the same: Here. This is where you belong.

Then I saw him. His eyes met mine across the crowded room, sharp and unwelcoming, his expression hardening as though he could see straight into me. The frown that marred his handsome face felt like a slap, a declaration that whatever this connection was, he wanted no part of it.

But it didn’t stop there.

It happened again. And again. Five times in total.

Each time, the pull found me, stronger and sharper, anchoring me to someone new. The tall one who kept his distance, the one with the easy grin that never reached his eyes, the brooding figure who lingered in the shadows. And him—the last one—the one whose cold, calculated stare sent a chill racing down my spine.

I didn’t know their names then, nor did I understand what made them take one look at me and immediately reject me. I’d tried to stay away, to bury the bond, to pretend it didn’t exist—just like they did. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling of them.

Of him.

Lucian’s laugh echoed across the courtyard, rich and unguarded, sending a faint ripple through the air that I couldn’t ignore—even though I tried. It wasn’t just him, though.

Ciaran stood slightly apart from the group, his arms crossed over his chest. There was a quiet weight in his expression, something unspoken lurking behind the stormy blue of his eyes. He glanced my way briefly, his brows pulling together as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Aeron lingered at the edges, as he always did, observing like he was above it all. His dark eyes flicked between the others, sharp and assessing. Every so often, he’d adjust his glasses—a small, deliberate gesture that seemed to anchor him to his perpetual state of control.

Kael, always so effortless, leaned casually against the same tree as Lucian, flipping a coin with lazy precision. The smirk that curled his lips was equal parts charm and menace, a combination that was as charming as it was unnerving. He caught the coin with a flick of his wrist, his grin deepening, like he’d just thought of a joke he wouldn’t bother sharing.

And then there was Thorne.

He stood slightly apart from the others, his hands shoved into his pockets, watching me with the same cold detachment he always did. If the others had edges, Thorne was all sharp angles—cutting, deliberate, and impossible to miss. His gaze was steady and unflinching, daring me to look away first.

I gathered my things, willing myself to ignore the way his attention seemed to follow my every move. The chill of the evening crept in, a biting reminder to leave while I still could. I turned, ready to escape to the library and bury myself in studies, but I didn’t get far.

“Lily,” Thorne called out, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. He didn’t bother to move from his position, his presence commanding enough without any effort. “Where are you off to in such a hurry? Got more books to cry into?”

I froze, tightening my grip on my bag’s straps. The weight of his attention was suffocating. “Just trying to get some studying done,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steady even as my insides churned.

Thorne smirked, that cruel, practiced twist of his lips evident even from a distance. “Sure, because that’s worked out so well for you so far, hasn’t it? Why keep hanging around where you’re clearly not wanted?”

The sting of his words hit like a slap, sharp and unrelenting. My chest tightened, my cheeks burned, and for a second, I thought I might actually say something back. But what was the point? Thorne never let up. None of them did.

I dropped my gaze, swallowing the lump rising in my throat, and walked away, his disdain clinging to me like a shadow.

Instead of heading to the library like I’d planned, I found myself at the campus café. The buzz of students laughing, ordering drinks, and cramming for midterms felt like a better vibe than the one I just left. I ordered a coffee, hoping the noise and warmth would drown out Thorne’s words.

“Hey, Lily!” A familiar voice cut through the crowd, and I turned to see Jenna waving me over. Her smile was warm, inviting, a rare relief after the day I’d had.

“Rough day?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she took in my expression.

I managed a weak smile and sat down across from her. “Something like that,” I said, keeping my answer vague. Jenna knew about the tension between me and the guys—she’d heard enough snide comments in passing—but she didn’t know the full story. No one did.

She rolled her eyes as she sipped her tea. “Let me guess. Those assholes again?”

“It’s not…” I hesitated, sighing. “It’s complicated.”

Jenna snorted. “They’re not complicated. They’re just overgrown boys with superiority complexes. Why do you even let them get to you?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, stirring my coffee absently. “It’s not like I want to. I just… feel stuck. Like I can’t get away from it.”

Jenna leaned forward, her expression softening. “Look, Lily, I know it’s easier said than done, but you can’t let them live in your head rent-free. You’re here to get your degree, not to let a bunch of losers screw with your head.”

Her bluntness made me smile, just a little. “I know you’re right. It’s just… hard.”

“Of course it’s hard. They suck.” She grinned, her teasing tone making me smile even more as I relaxed into my seat. “But you don’t. Remember that.”

For a while, we talked about lighter things—midterms, our professor’s hilariously monotone lectures, and the chaos of group projects. Jenna’s laughter was contagious, and for a brief moment, it felt like the weight on my chest was just a little bit lighter.

But as the café started to close and the crowd thinned out, reality crept back in. The laughter faded, the warmth dimmed, and the quiet left space for the doubts and loneliness to return.

Jenna gave me a hug before she left, promising to send me her notes from today’s class. “You’ve got this,” she said with a wink. “Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

“Thanks, Jenna,” I said, managing a real smile. “You’re the best.”

Walking back to my dorm alone, I felt the familiar ache settle in again. The snippets of laughter and conversation I overheard from passing groups of students felt like echoes from a world I couldn’t reach, a reminder of everything I felt I was missing.

By the time I reached my room, the silence felt almost unbearable. The walls seemed to close in, amplifying the loneliness I’d been trying to push away all day. I dropped my bag on the floor, kicked off my shoes, and sat on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing.

I grabbed my journal from the desk, flipping to an empty page. Writing had always been my escape, a way to make sense of the chaos in my head. But now, the words wouldn’t come. My pen hovered above the paper, trembling with the weight of everything I couldn’t put into words.

What was I even trying to say? That I felt invisible? That I was tired of trying to fit into a world that seemed determined to keep me on the outside? That the ache of wanting to belong never went away, no matter how much I tried to ignore it?

The moonlight spilled through the window, casting a soft glow across the room. It made everything look peaceful, serene, in a way that mocked the storm raging inside me. I wanted to scream, to shatter the quiet, to do something—anything—that would make the world feel less empty.

Instead, I curled up on my bed, clutching the journal to my chest like it might hold me together. The clock on my nightstand ticked steadily, each second dragging into the next, until the hours blurred and sleep finally claimed me.

But even in my dreams, the feeling of isolation followed. It was always there, waiting for me, no matter where I went or how far I tried to run.