E L L E

By morning, everyone knows.

It doesn’t matter that I crept back to my dorm before the bells, scarf pulled tight and throat raw from holding in the sound. They still heard it. Or maybe they didn’t need to, Ravenshade always finds a way to make whispers into truth.

“She was screaming.”
“In the east wing, after curfew.”
“Wrenwood, of course. Who else?”

The dining hall hums with it, every table feeding on the story like ravens tearing a carcass. Even the ones who weren’t there swear they heard claws, growls, the echo of something that wasn’t human.

My spoon shakes in my hand, broth sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the bowl. I keep my head down, pretending not to notice, scarf wrapped so high it almost covers my mouth.

Across the room, Maribel Crane makes sure I notice her smirk. She whispers loud enough for her little circle to giggle: “Maybe the east wing doesn’t want her either.”

Heat spikes in my cheeks, but I don’t bite. I never bite.

Luke does.

His tray slams down beside mine hard enough to make me flinch. He doesn’t sit he just leans forward, blue eyes burning, voice pitched low so only I can hear.

“What the hell happened last night?”

The whole table goes quiet around us. Every ear sharpens, waiting for my answer.

My pulse races. My mind flashes back to mist, frost, claws snapping inches from my face. To the boy’s hand between me and death, ice carving scars into his skin.

I grip my spoon tighter and lie with my silence.

Luke doesn’t let it drop. He never does.

When the whispers swell back into chatter, he finally slides onto the bench beside me, shoulders tense, hands curled like fists around his fork. His voice is low, but the sharpness in it cuts deeper than the gossip ever could.

“Elle, look at me.”

I don’t. I stare at the broth cooling in my bowl. My scarf feels too tight, my skin too hot. If I look at him, he’ll see the truth trembling under my ribs.

“Elle.” His tone hardens, not pleading now but demanding. “Don’t you dare tell me it was nothing. The whole hall heard you.”

My chest tightens. Even after I thought I’d swallowed the scream down, even after the fog closed in, it still tore out of me.

“It was just a bad dream,” I murmured. Weak. Cowardly.

He lets out a short, furious laugh. “A dream? In the middle of the east wing? After curfew?” His hand slams against the table, rattling spoons and drawing more stares. “You think I’m an idiot?”

My head jerks up at that, shame and frustration tangling in my throat. His eyes are storm-bright, blazing with the same protectiveness that once felt like sunlight. But now it scorches.

“I can’t protect you if you keep lying to me,” he says, voice breaking on the last word.

Something inside me twists. He doesn’t understand, I’m not lying to hurt him. I’m lying because I don’t have words for what I saw. How do I explain the fog that breathed, the claws that shouldn’t exist, the boy who stepped out of nowhere to stop it?

If I tell him, he’ll look at me the way the others do. Cursed. Crazy. He’ll stop seeing me as Elle, and start seeing me as something else.

So I swallow the truth like broken glass and give him nothing.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, softer this time. My eyes drop to my scarf, my hands knotted in the fabric like a shield. “Please, Luke. Just drop it.”

His jaw clenches, shoulders coiled so tight I can feel the heat radiating off him. For a moment, I think he’ll explode right there in the dining hall, giving them all the show they’re hungry for.

But then he shoves back from the bench, scraping the legs hard against the floor. The gossip roars to life again as he stalks out, muttering curses under his breath.

I’m left alone with the stares, the whispers, and the hollow ache in my chest.

The hall slowly fills with noise again, but it’s sharper now, gleeful. They smell weakness.

“Luke stormed off.”
“She won’t even tell him.”
“Maybe she really is cursed.”

I try to eat, but every swallow scrapes my throat raw. My hands tremble too much to hold the spoon steady. It’s not hunger gnawing at me, it’s the weight of everything unsaid.

I could chase after him. Tell him the truth, or at least the half of it I can admit to myself. That there was something in the mist, something that shouldn’t exist. That a boy I barely know stood between me and teeth sharp enough to crack bone.

But if I tell Luke, he’ll look at me differently. The way everyone else does. And if he believes me… worse. He’ll throw himself into it, reckless, protective, the way he always has. Except this isn’t a fistfight in Moonhollow or a duel with Cassian in the yard. This is something I can’t even name.

So I stay where I am, knuckles white around the spoon, staring at the cooling broth I can’t eat.

Juniper Vale scribbles notes at the far table, her sharp eyes flicking between me and the door Luke vanished through. Another headline for her little society papers. Another story I’ll never escape.

I pull the scarf higher, smothering the sound of my breath. If I can hide, maybe they’ll stop. If I keep the truth sealed behind my teeth, maybe it won’t be real.

Silence is the only shield I have left.

By evening, the whispers have shifted again. Not the students this time. The halls themselves.

I walk alone, scarf tugged high, trying to reach my dorm without crossing the east wing. But the corridors bend strangely here, leading me back toward it no matter which turn I take. My steps echo too loud, like the stones are listening.

Locker 237 waits. Frost still clings faintly to the grooves of its number, glowing in the candlelight. My chest tightens. I should keep walking. Pretend it isn’t there.

But I don’t.

My feet stop in front of it, breath caught in my throat. The silence stretches, heavy as a held breath.

Then it comes, soft, curling from the keyhole like smoke. A whisper, low and certain.

“He will never protect you.”

The words slither through me, colder than the frost, sharper than any gossip. I jerk back, scarf slipping loose, pulse slamming in my ears.

And still, the locker hums like it knows me. Like it’s waiting.