A S H R I E L

The sparring hall reeks of sweat and metal, a scent that clings to the stone like memory. Students gather on the benches, restless with the promise of a fight. They’re always eager when blood might spill, even if the weapons are dulled.

I sit apart, shadowed by the high windows, hands folded loosely in my lap. It is not the fight that interests me. It is what will be revealed through it.

Cassian preens in the center of the ring, his grin wide, his arrogance louder than the clang of steel. His eyes cut to Luke, the taunts already spilling. “Careful, Hart. Wouldn’t want your little frostbitten friend to lose her protector.”

Luke’s shoulders tighten. His grip on the practice blade turns white-knuckled. He doesn’t answer because words are wasted on Cassian, but his silence speaks sharper than any insult.

Professor Korran, scarred and grim, steps forward with his staff thumping against the ground. “You want to duel? Fine. But it will be in the circle, under my eye. First blood, or until one of you yields.” His gaze sweeps the class, hard as iron. “If anyone interferes, they’ll face me.”

The wards flare faintly as the circle seals, shimmering across the sand floor. The hum contained magic slithers against my senses. The Rift presses too near to this place; it makes the boundaries fragile.

Luke enters the circle, jaw set. Cassian smirks, swinging his blade with easy mockery. The crowd murmurs, anticipation sharp in the air.

And then she appears.

Elle slips to the edge of the benches, scarf drawn high, her presence a stone dropped into still water. The whispers shift toward her at once, cruel and hungry. She ignores them, eyes fixed on Luke in the ring.

Her fists are tight against her sides, but her gaze is steady.

Luke sees her. His posture changes, firmer, stronger. It is for her that he raises his blade.

I should look away. Instead, I study the way her breath quickens, the way her lips part as if she might call to him. The boy fights Cassian, but the girl is the one who holds him.

Steel rings as the duel begins. Luke moves fast, sharper than I expected, his strikes driven by restraint at first. He holds his blade like he wants control, not victory.

Cassian laughs, meeting each blow with swagger. He fights for spectacle, not for the lesson, swinging wide so the crowd can cheer. Every strike of his blade sparks off Luke’s with more noise than substance.

The students lean forward, hungry for the show. They want Luke’s temper to snap. They want Cassian’s arrogance to land. They want blood.

I watch neither blade.

I watch Elle.

At first she’s silent, frozen on the edge of the benches, scarf drawn tight. Then Cassian feints close, his blade grazing Luke’s arm, and a small sound escapes her, a sharp inhale. Luke steadies, his stance firming, and her shoulders ease with it.

She doesn’t realize she’s moving with him. Each time he strikes, her body leans forward; each time he takes a hit, she flinches. And when he pushes Cassian back, she whispers encouragement under her breath, soft but certain.

Her loyalty burns bright, visible in every line of her face.

Luke hears her. I can tell. His movements sharpen, each swing heavier, more precise. It is not skill alone that drives him. It is her voice even though fragile, unsteady, but for him.

Something twists in my chest. Not anger. Not envy. A reminder. She does not yet know what she is, what role she must play, but already the world shapes itself around her. Already hearts anchor themselves to her without question.

Cassian sneers through gritted teeth. “What’s she worth, Hart? A curse on your hand for a kiss you’ll never get?”

Luke’s strike comes faster, harder, his temper snapping through.

The crowd roars, delighted.

Elle’s face tightens, fear and pride tangled together. Her voice rises, louder now, carrying across the ring: “Don’t listen,just finish it, Luke!”

The sound threads through the hall, stronger than the wards, stronger than the steel.

And still, my eyes never leave her.

The clash sharpens, steel biting against steel. Luke presses forward, blade carving clean arcs; Cassian parries, teeth bared in a grin too wide.

The crowd chants, stomps, and is hungry. They don’t notice the change in the air.

But I do.

A draft slides through the hall, unnatural in its chill. The wards hum louder, threads pulling thin. My senses tighten against the shift. The Rift presses near, its hunger always leaves the same taste: cold, sharp, inevitable.

Cassian jabs, driving Luke backward. “You think she’ll thank you for this?” he jeers. “You think she’ll ever look at you the way you want?”

Luke’s blade slams against his with sudden force, the sound cracking like thunder. Sparks scatter.

And then the frost comes.

At first, only a shimmer across the sand where their blades meet. Then lines spread outward, delicate veins racing too fast, circling the ring’s edge. The wards flicker, strained by the intrusion.

Gasps ripple through the benches. Students shrink back, feet scraping against stone. “It’s freezing, look at the floor!” someone cries.

Elle notices before the rest. Her scarf pulls high, eyes wide, breath quickening as her gaze locks on the spreading spiral. Her body curls inward, like she knows it is reaching for her.

The pattern widens. The frost curls into runes older than the walls, echoing the spiral on the mirror, on the locker, on the table. I feel the Rift whisper against my skin, urging me to let it grow.

Luke falters as his foot skids on the frozen sand. Cassian lunges, laughing as though this is his triumph. He doesn’t see the danger beneath his boots. He never sees what lurks beneath.

The wards pulse, dimming. The frost is no longer content with the ring. It spreads toward the benches, toward her.

Elle’s hands clutch the railing, knuckles white. Fear marks her face, sharp and certain. She feels it too, the call in the cold.

The Rift wants her.

Luke’s boot skids across the frost-slick sand. Cassian laughs and surges forward, blade swinging down in a brutal arc meant to humiliate, not win.

The wards strain with a high, keening whine. Frost erupts in new spirals, crawling fast across the floor, branching like veins in glass. The duel is seconds away from turning into a collapse.

No one else moves.

So I do.

I rise from the bench in silence and step into the circle. The wards flare at my passage, protesting, but they cannot bar me. The frost recoils as I cross the sand, shards hissing back into mist.

Cassian freezes mid-swing, his blade halted by something heavier than fear. Luke stumbles back, breathing hard, sweat sharp in the cold air.

The hall is silent. Every student watches, wide-eyed, as though they’ve seen a ghost. Perhaps they have.

I kneel once, palm pressing to the frozen sand. The spiral underfoot shivers, then breaks apart, shards melting back into the circle. The wards stabilize with a low hum, their glow smoothing like water gone still.

When I stand, the frost is gone.

I let my hand fall to my side. My blade remains sheathed; I never needed it.

Cassian swallows, his smirk shattered. Luke’s chest heaves with the weight of withheld words. Professor Korran glares, torn between outrage and relief, but even he does not step forward.

None of them matter.

My eyes find hers.

Elle.

She stands rigid at the rail, scarf clutched tight, breath clouding white in the air. Fear shines in her gaze, but something else too, recognition. She knows the frost answered to me. She knows I stepped into the spiral not for Luke, not for the duel, but because it was reaching for her.

The silence stretches, a held thread between us. The rest of the hall fades.

Her lips part, but no sound comes.

And still, I cannot look away.