E Z R A

The hallways hum too loud the morning after Jess Morales’s death. Not mourning hum. Gossip hum. Hollowbrook High never waits long before it chews on tragedy and spits it back out as rumor.

By the time I step into History, half the class is buzzing. Mr. Voss drones about colonial debt pacts on the chalkboard, but nobody’s listening. The air feels colder than it should, and not because the radiator’s busted. Frost fingers linger along the windows, thin veins like the bell haven’t fully left us.

Then Ines Vale makes her entrance.

She doesn’t just walk into class, she struts. Ponytail swishing, designer bag swinging, that smug grin plastered like she owns the place. The whispers quiet for her, like they always do. And then she drops it.

“I heard the bell last night,” she announces, loud enough that even Mr. Voss stumbles mid-sentence. She lets it hang there, savoring every second before she adds, “And guess what? Nothing happened. Not a scratch.”

The room explodes.

Half the kids gasp, the other half argue if she’s lying. One guy mutters “witch,” another whispers “immune.” Someone near the back hisses, “She’s chosen,” like the cult rumors are already sprouting teeth.

Mara’s aunt once muttered that old families were ‘closer to the Bell.’ Nobody pushed her on it, because grownups never said things straight.

Ines soaks it up, perched on the edge of her desk like a queen in her throne. She shrugs, careless. “Guess the bell knows better than to mess with me.”

Pia Reyes is on her feet before I can react, phone rig already clipped to her shirt, cat-ear headphones glowing like a siren. “Breaking news, people!” She crows. “Queen Ines just confirmed immunity. This is going on my channel right now.”

A ripple of panic moves through the room, half excitement, half fear. Because if she posts, it won’t just be Hollowbrook whispering. It’ll be everywhere. Noise feeding the curse.

The second Pia taps her screen, her phone glitches. Static bursts across it, frost spiderwebbing over her glass like it’s icing from the inside. She yelps, nearly drops it.

The class gasps.

I’m already out of my seat, hand snapping her wrist before she tries again. “Delete it,” I say, low and sharp. My voice doesn’t shake. “You don’t get to feed it.”

Her mouth opens, ready to argue, but she must see something in my face, because she swallows the words instead.

The frost on her phone fades.

But the whispers don’t.

Lira hasn’t said a word since Ines started bragging. She sits two rows over, shoulders tight, her pencil digging into her notebook like she’s trying to stab her way out of the room. I know that look, her silence isn’t control, it’s survival.

I can’t stand it.

When Mr. Voss turns to scrawl another useless date on the board, I slip from my desk and slide into the seat beside her. Close enough that my arm brushes hers when I lean in.

“Don’t listen to them,” I murmur, low enough only she can hear. “Ines doesn’t know what she’s saying. She thinks immunity is a crown. It isn’t.”

Her hand stills on the page. She doesn’t look up, but I see the tremor in her wrist. “Jess is gone. And she’s bragging.” Her voice cracks on the last word.

I want to take her hand, but half the class is still watching us like hawks, and the wrong kind of rumor could get her killed faster. So I settle for pressing my palm flat to the edge of her desk, grounding. Steady. “Jess’s death wasn’t your fault. And Ines won’t save herself by pretending.”

The words feel like lies, but I force them steady anyway. Because she needs certainty right now, not the thousand ways my own theories are breaking apart.

Her eyes flick to mine, wide and wet at the edges. For a second, the rest of the room fades.

Then I feel it.

That prickle. That presence.

I glance past her shoulder, and there he is. Callen Roe, leaning against the back wall, hood shadowing his storm-gray eyes. Watching us. Always watching.

He hasn’t said a word since last night, but his gaze pins me like a blade. Like he’s daring me to slip up, to fail her, so he can swoop in.

I hold Lira’s gaze anyway. “You’re not alone in this,” I whisper.

Her shoulders loosen the tiniest bit, like she believes me.

But when she finally exhales, it isn’t me her eyes drift to. It’s the shadow in the corner.

Callen doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stays there, like the frost belongs to him.

And I hate how much gravity he carries in silence.

By lunch, the rumors leave the classroom and crawl onto every screen in the school.

Phones glow across the cafeteria, heads bent together like conspirators. Screenshots of Pia’s glitched video, blurry freeze-frames of Ines tossing her hair, whispers stacked under hashtags. #BellTruthers. #ImmuneQueen.

The noise makes my skin crawl. It’s not just gossip anymore. It’s fuel. And every post, every joke caption, feels like someone handing the curse a megaphone.

Ryke slams his tray down across from me, grinning like the panic is entertainment. “Dude, Ines is trending harder than promposals. Bet she milks this into a sponsorship deal.”

Mara shoots him a glare, camera already up, clicking shots of the crowd instead of her food. “It’s not funny. Look.” She turns her phone toward me. Her feed is crawling with comments: ‘Heritage ceremony will expose the fakes.’ ‘Old families know the rules.’

Heritage ceremony.

The words sink in like ice water. I’ve seen it in old council notes, slipped between bylaws and event planning. A “tradition.” A rally. But I know better. It’s not heritage, it’s a  ritual. A cover for another toll.

Across the table, Lira fidgets with her fork, silent, eyes darting toward the exit where Callen leans just out of bounds. Watching, always.

I force myself to focus. “Delete those posts,” I tell Mara. “All of them. The more noise out there, the faster it comes back on us.”

She hesitates, biting her lip. “It’s not just Pia. It’s everywhere now. Even people who weren’t on the bus are claiming they heard it. I can’t delete the whole town.”

My jaw tightens. She’s right.

The whispers spread like frost across glass, unstoppable once they catch.

And beneath it all, one thread keeps repeating. Students murmuring in hallways, typing it into group chats, laughing like it’s just another assembly on the calendar:

“Heritage ceremonies next week.”

They don’t understand that it’s not a celebration. It’s a trap.

And if the bell wants a crowd… the headmistress is about to hand it one.

The cafeteria speakers crackle.

“Students,” Headmistress Dray’s voice booms, sharp as chalk breaking on the board. “Attendance is mandatory at next week’s heritage ceremony. Council members will assist with organization. Details to follow.”

The room goes still.

Then the whispers ignite all over again.

I grip my tray hard enough the plastic bends. Because I know what this means.

She’s not scheduling a tradition. She’s delivering us to the bell.