L U K E

Her weight slumps against me, cold as stone. For a heartbeat, I think she’s gone, that the elm has stolen something I can’t give back. Then her lashes flutter, breath hitching against my chest. Relief punches the air from my lungs.

Around us, the courtyard is breaking apart. Students scatter in every direction, some screaming, some laughing like it’s just another spectacle. Gossip is already spilling into the air: Her name carved itself. She’s cursed. She’s dangerous.

“Inside. All of you!” Professor Korran’s voice cracks like a whip, cutting through the noise. Prefects herd the stragglers toward the archway, their eyes darting to Elle and me like we’re a scene they’ll retell tonight in the dining hall.

I tighten my grip on her hand, ignoring them all. Whatever just happened at the elm, whatever curse they whisper about, it won’t take her. Not while I’m breathing.

By the time we reach the History wing, she’s steadier on her feet, but her hand stays curled in mine. I don’t let go.

By the time we slip into History, the room is already buzzing. Students lean across desks, whispering too loudly, their voices chasing the chaos from the courtyard straight into the classroom.

“Did you see it?” a boy mutters behind us. “The tree wrote her name.”

“Cursed,” another hisses back. “I told you.”

I glare over my shoulder, but it only makes them smirk. If I throw a punch now, Calloway will have me scrubbing spirals in detention until graduation. Not worth it. Not when Elle is beside me, pale and silent, her scarf stiff with frost threads that haven’t thawed.

She lowers into her seat like her bones are made of glass. I slid into mine right beside her, shoulders squared against the stares. No one’s going to touch her. Not while I’m here.

Professor Calloway sweeps in with his usual flair, long coat swirling like he thinks he’s some kind of hero in an epic. He flashes that charming smile, too bright, too practiced. The girls in the front row straighten in their seats, eager.

But Calloway doesn’t waste time. He claps his hands once, and the noise dies. “Today, we revisit a grim chapter of our past: the Seal-bearers who failed.” His voice is smooth, persuasive, meant to lull you into believing everything he says.

My stomach tightens. Of course that’s today’s topic.

Elle doesn’t look up when Calloway starts pacing at the front. She just stares at her desk, fingers twisted into the fringe of her scarf. Her knuckles are white.

The whispers around us haven’t stopped. Maribel leans forward from her row, voice pitched low but sharp enough to cut. “Guess the tree wanted her name more than yours, Luke.”

Anya laughs softly, fake sweet. “Maybe it wanted to warn us.”

Heat flashes through me. My fist curls under the desk, itching to slam into something, anything. But then Elle shifts, pulling her scarf tighter, and the anger drains into something heavier. She doesn’t need me to start another fight. She needs me to be steady.

I slide my hand across the gap between us, fingers brushing hers. For a second she doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to notice. Then, slowly, her hand relaxes against mine.

Warmth sinks through my skin. My chest tightens with it, almost painful. She doesn’t look at me, not even once, but she doesn’t pull away either. That’s enough.

I squeeze gently, just once, the way I used to when we were kids hiding under the bleachers from storms. A promise, wordless: You’re not alone. Not ever.

Her lashes flicker. A faint breath escapes her lips, shaky. It kills me that I can’t fix whatever’s happening to her, can’t stop the whispers or the frost or the way everyone stares like she’s a curse. But I can do this. I can hold on.

At the front, Calloway’s voice rolls on, smooth as silk, talking about ancient Seers who lost themselves to spirals of frost. Elle stiffens beside me. Her hand trembles faintly in mine.

And still, she doesn’t let go.

Calloway prowls across the front of the room, his voice dropping low, dramatic, as though he’s weaving a story instead of teaching history.

“Not every Seal-bearer succeeded,” he says, and the air seems to tighten with his words. “Some tried and failed. Some resisted their duty. Some…” He pauses, lips curving into a smile that doesn’t belong in a lecture. “…were consumed by the very Rift they swore to close.”

A few students shift in their seats. Someone snickers nervously. Calloway doesn’t look at them. His eyes skim the room, lingering a heartbeat too long on Elle before sliding away.

I squeeze her hand under the desk. She’s gone rigid, staring straight ahead.

Calloway begins to list them, one by one. “Alaric the Silent. Veyra of the Ashen Coast. Selwyn, who turned on his own Circle.” His voice sharpens on the last name. “And Thalia Wrenwood, who saw the end and chose defiance instead.”

My heart stutters. Elle jerks as though struck, her fingers spasming against mine. I look at her, panic clawing my chest. Her face has drained of all color.

No one else reacts. The class scribbles notes, half-bored. They didn’t hear it, didn’t hear the whisper that slid through his words like a blade.

I did. Or maybe I only felt it through her. The name didn’t sound like Calloway’s voice at all. It was… colder. Wrong.

“Each Seal-bearer faced the Rift,” Calloway goes on, smooth again. “Each made choices that carved history as surely as any blade. Some were remembered as martyrs. Others..” His smile sharpens. “Others were remembered as warnings.”

Elle’s hand trembles harder. She’s barely breathing. I squeeze again, desperate to anchor her. I’ve got you. Stay with me.

But her eyes are unfocused, as though she’s hearing something none of us can.

The scratching of quills and the steady drone of Calloway’s voice blur together, but Elle’s grip on my hand keeps jolting tighter, sharper, like she’s bracing against something only she can hear.

I lean closer. “Elle?” I whisper, careful, but her eyes don’t flick to me. She doesn’t even blink.

Her lips part on a shallow breath. Then she flinches, shoulders curling inward, as if someone just leaned close to her ear.

I catch nothing. Only Calloway, still pacing, still spinning his stories about the Seal-bearers who failed. But the way Elle jerks, the way her head tilts, like she’s listening to something no one else can, sets every muscle in my body on edge.

Thalia.

The name brushes the air, not through Calloway’s mouth this time. I don’t hear it, not really, but the way Elle gasps makes my heart slam against my ribs.

Her mother’s name.

She presses her free hand to her scarf, clutching it tight at her throat. Her fingers are trembling, white-knuckled.

I squeeze harder, grounding her, dragging her hand flat against the desk so she can feel something solid, something real. “You’re here,” I murmur under my breath. “With me. Stay with me.”

Her eyes darted to mine at last, wide, glassy, scared in a way I’ve never seen. The sight guts me. I’d take every whisper, every cruel stare, every cursed word if it meant she never had to look like that again.

Calloway’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade: “And what do we learn from those who failed?” His smile gleams. “That history remembers weakness as clearly as strength.”

The class chuckles uneasily. Elle doesn’t move.

Neither do I. I just keep her hand locked in mine, vowing silently that no matter what she’s hearing, no matter what the hell is happening, I won’t let it take her.

The scratching of quills fades as Calloway stills at the front of the room. Silence ripples outward, unnatural, deliberate.

Slowly, his gaze sweeps the class. Row by row. Face by face. Until it lands on Elle.

And stay there.

Not a passing glance, not the way a teacher checks if a student is listening. His eyes sharpen, narrowing like he sees something the rest of us don’t. Like he knows.

My grip on her hand tightens. Her breath hitches beside me, body rigid, caught under his stare.

Calloway’s smile curves, thin and precise, a secret offered and withheld in the same breath.

The back of my neck prickles cold. He knows. Maybe not everything, maybe not why the elm carved her name or why frost follows her, but something. Enough to make my gut twist.

He clears his throat lightly, breaking the moment, and turns back to the board as though nothing happened. “Weakness,” he repeats, chalk sliding in looping script, “is always remembered.”

The rest of the class scribbles notes. No one else notices.

But I do.

And as I sit there, my hand locked around Elle’s trembling one, I make a silent vow: whatever secret Calloway thinks he’s keeping, I’ll tear it out of him before I let him use it against her.