L U K E

I don’t make it far after storming out of the dining hall. Two corridors, maybe three, before the heat in my chest burns out and leaves something heavier. I press a hand to the stone wall and breathe hard, wishing I’d stayed, wishing I hadn’t.

The whispers follow anyway. Luke stormed off. She won’t even tell him. They coil in my head until I want to put a fist through the nearest window, but I didn’t leave because I was angry at her. I left because I couldn’t stand watching her shrink under all those eyes while I sat useless beside her.

I text her: You okay?
The dot spins. No reply.

Sleep doesn’t come but when it does, I jolt awake with the picture of her at that table, hands shaking around a spoon, trying to swallow down every word she wouldn’t give me. By morning, my jaw aches from grinding my teeth. I’m outside the girls’ dorms before the first bell, a granola bar in my pocket, pretending I’m just early for class. Truth is, I need to see her. Need to make sure she made it through the night.

She doesn’t appear with the first wave of students or the second. My stomach knots tighter with each group that passes. When the bell rings again, I finally move. If she wants distance, fine but I’ll be where she’s headed.

Alchemy with Professor Brielle. I got there early. The lab smells of damp stone and mint. Frost fogs the north windows, faint but wrong. Brielle is already unpacking a crate, muttering about samples. The door opens and Elle slips in at the tail end of the crowd, scarf tight, shoulders stiff. Relief hits me so sharp I almost forget to breathe. She doesn’t look my way but I’m already sliding onto the bench beside hers.

Professor Brielle claps her hands, sharp as snapped twigs. “Pairs. You’ll share a burner and a beaker and handle the samples carefully. Frost herbs bruise easily and only thrive in balance.” Chairs scrape, benches shift and Maribel swoops in two seats down, already whispering loud enough for half the class to hear. “Careful she doesn’t hex it.” Snickers ripple.

I keep my jaw tight and focus on lining up our beaker and burner. I set a clean cloth and extra tongs near Elle’s side, pretending it’s nothing but she notices anyway. Her fingers hesitate, then close over the tongs like she’s grateful for the barrier.

Brielle moves down the rows with her crate, and tweezers in hand. The herbs glisten pale-blue, veins glowing faintly like frost under moonlight. She sets a sprig in our dish, and the air chills instantly, little puffs of fog curling off the leaves.

“Observe carefully,” she says. “They should hold form for several minutes before reacting.” But the moment Elle leans closer, the leaves quiver. A shiver runs down the stem. Then, before anyone touches them, the edges blacken, curling in like paper held to flame. Gasps burst around us and Maribel’s satisfied little laugh cuts sharper than the frost. “Told you.”

Elle jerks back, eyes wide and her scarf slips lower, exposing the line of her throat, pale against the sudden dark wilt of the herb. My chest tightens, but she didn’t even touch it. She just looked. Brielle frowns, snapping her tweezers closed. “Interesting,” she mutters, but doesn’t remove the dish. Her gaze flicks to Elle with a glint that makes me uneasy, like curiosity outweighs concern.

The whispers start up again, low and sharp. She cursed it. Look how fast it died. I lean closer, keeping my voice low, just for her. “Don’t listen. It’s not you.” Her hands tremble as she grips the notebook tighter, but she doesn’t answer. Her eyes stay fixed on the wilted leaves, like she’s afraid they’ll start whispering too.

Professor Brielle doesn’t even remove the ruined sprig. She just keeps going, handing out herbs to the next table and muttering about “unexpected variables.” Elle stares at the charred leaves, knuckles white around the tongs. I want to steady her hands, take over for a second, but drawing more eyes to her would only make it worse.

“Focus on your mixture,” Brielle calls. “Powder the stems and add three drops of frostmelt. Ratios must be precise.” Burners flare to life while tudents crush herbs, measure out liquids, and the room fills with sharp mint and bitter smoke.

Elle forces herself to follow, lowering her gaze and copying each step. But she tips the vial too fast. Frostmelt hits the powdered stem with a hiss, and the beaker erupts, froth bubbling over the rim. She jerks back, bumping the table and the entire setup teeters and the burner tilts.

I move without thinking with my hand darts out, grabbing the stand just as liquid sloshes toward the open flame. The cloth beneath it soaks instantly, a pale puff of smoke drifting up.

“Careful!” Brielle snaps, spinning on her heel. Elle’s face floods with color, her shoulders curling in panic. I don’t hesitate, I yank the beaker away and let the potion spill harmlessly across the counter, ignoring the sting in my palm. Then I press a clean cloth into her hand.  “Here. We’ll fix it before she turns it into a show.”

Her fingers brush mine, light and cold before she grabs the cloth. We work in silence, blotting the spill together, our shoulders nearly touching. The closeness is sharp enough to drown out the whispers around us.  A strand of her hair slips forward as she leans in, the faint lavender from her scarf wrapping around me. She bites her lip, scrubbing harder, like she’s trying to erase more than just a mess.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, keeping my voice calm and steady. “You’re okay.”

For a single breath, she looks up. Her eyes meet mine, and something soft and breakable flickers between us, a quiet moment carved out of the chaos. Then a sound cuts through it. A sharp crackle and ice forming where it shouldn’t.

The cloth under our hands stiffens, att first, I thought it’s just dried potion, but then the damp fibers glazed pale-white, rimmed in ice. Elle jerks her hands back and the frost creeps outward, veins spidering across the wood. A spiral etches itself into the surface, delicate and deliberate, like an invisible hand is carving it there.

The nearest students gasp. One girl shrieks and knocks her stool over. Maribel’s voice cuts sharp and triumphant: “See? I told you, she’s cursed.” Whispers whip across the benches faster than fire. Look at the table. It’s spreading. Don’t touch it. She made it happen.

Elle presses her scarf tighter to her throat, eyes wide, breath shallow. She looks like she wants to vanish. I plant my hand flat over the spiral, ignoring the bite of cold that races up my skin and the chatter falters. “It’s just frost,” I say, steady and loud enough to cut through the noise. “Potion reaction. Nothing more.”

The truth is, I don’t believe my own words, but I’ll swallow frost itself before I let them tear her apart over it. The spiral pulses once under my palm, then stills. When I lift my hand, it’s fading, already melting back into damp wood. My fingers burn from the cold, but I don’t flinch.

Professor Brielle steps closer, eyes narrowed with fascination. “Most unusual,” she murmurs. “Reactive frost in a sealed room…” She trails off, tapping her quill against her lip like she’s discovered a new puzzle to pick apart. She doesn’t scold Elle or protect her either. The students don’t care because they’ve already decided what they saw.

“Did you see how it spiraled?”
“No herb does that.”
“She didn’t even touch it.”

Their voices churn, louder, and crueler. Elle’s shoulders curl in, scarf hiding half her face and her hands knot in her lap. I shift closer, blocking her from their stares. “Ignore them,” I whisper. “It’s not you.”

The back of my neck prickles. The room feels wrong, heavier, like the frost isn’t done, and when I glance toward the shadows at the rear of the lab, I realize someone else has been watching all along.

He’s there again, the new boy. Half-hidden by the frost-blurred windows, arms crossed, completely still. As if he’s been standing there the entire time, waiting for something only he can sense. No one else notices him; the room is still full of chatter and laughter but his presence pulls the air tight, sharp as a held breath. His storm-gray eyes aren’t drifting over the class instead they’re locked on Elle.

She doesn’t see it. Her scarf covers half her face, her shoulders curled in, trying to disappear while the whispers bite at her. A cold knot twists in my chest, I hate the way he watches her. Not cruel or mocking, just… focused, like he’s waiting.

I want to say something, ask him what his problem is but the words won’t come. There’s something about him that makes every other noise fade to nothing. Professor Brielle claps her hands. “Class dismissed.”

Chairs scrape and students spill out in groups, buzzing with fresh rumors. Wrenwood burned the herbs, Wrenwood froze the table. I slam our burner into the kit harder than I meant to. Elle doesn’t move until the room has nearly emptied, her movements stiff and small. When she finally rises, I want to step close, shield her from whatever waits in the hall, but I can still feel him across the room. Watching.

The door closes on the last voices and the lab feels colder and hollow but he hasn’t shifted at all. His stare holds her in place like frost on glass, and for the first time, I can’t tell if I should fear the whispers crawling through the walls… or the boy who refuses to look away from her.