E L L E

Luke doesn’t give me a choice. He scoops up my suitcase with one hand, grips my elbow with the other, and all but drags me down the corridor.

“Food first,” he mutters, voice firm but not unkind. “Then sleep. You’ll feel human again.”

I don’t argue, mostly because my throat is still raw. My skin tingles where the locker whispered against me, the hum echoing in my chest. Every step away from the east wing feels wrong, like I’m leaving something behind that refuses to let go.

By the time we push open the carved oak doors of the dining hall, my pulse still hasn’t settled.

The space is bigger than I imagined with vaulted ceiling, iron chandeliers dripping with candles, and long tables stretching wall to wall. Hundreds of voices rise and fall, bouncing off stone walls until the whole place feels alive.

Alive and hostile.

I can feel eyes before I see them. Heads tilt, voices drop. Forks pause midair. I’ve never been in a room so loud and so quiet at the same time.

“There she is,” someone whispers.

“Wrenwood,” another voice hisses like it tastes sour.

Heat floods my cheeks. The whispers aren’t new since I’ve lived with them all my life, but here, in this hall full of strangers, they burn sharper.

Luke notices. Of course he notices. He shoulders past a cluster of gawking boys, tugging me toward the far end of a table. “Ignore them.”

Easy for him to say.

I sit, spine rigid, clutching the scarf around my throat like it can shield me from every stare. Luke slides onto the bench right beside me, close enough his arm brushes mine. His presence should feel like armor. Instead, it feels like a spotlight.

Maribel Crane doesn’t wait long. She leans across from three seats down, blonde hair gleaming in the candlelight, smile sharp as glass. “Careful,” she says sweetly, loud enough to carry. “She might hex your cocoa if you look at her wrong.”

Laughter ripples. Not everyone laughs, but enough to let my stomach twist.

I duck my head, fingers knotting tighter around my scarf.

Luke glares at Maribel, jaw flexing, but she only bats her lashes at him, unbothered.

The hall buzzes again, louder now, gossip catching fire.

“Wrenwood.”
“She’s cursed.”
“No wonder her parents..”
“Bet she hexed the locker shut.”

Laughter snaps around me like twigs, brittle and sharp. One boy stage-whispers, “Careful, don’t sit too close or you’ll end up frostbitten.” His friends snicker behind their sleeves.

Another voice, softer, almost pitying drifts across the table: “She shouldn’t even be here.”

Luke leans in, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “Ignore her. She’s just jealous because her hair doesn’t have as much personality as yours.”

A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it. I cover my mouth, horrified, but Luke grins like he’s just won something important.

“That’s better,” he says softly. “You’re laughing feels normal.”

Normal. I want that more than anything. To sit in a crowded dining hall, eat soup, pretend I’m just another student instead of the girl everyone’s whispering about.

Luke grabs two bowls from the passing tray and shoves one in front of me. “Eat.”

I pick up my spoon, though my hands still tremble. My scarf slips a little, and I tug it back in place quickly, pretending not to notice Maribel watching like a hawk.

Luke bumps my shoulder gently. “Remember when you fell asleep on your math book back home and woke up with numbers imprinted on your cheek? You didn’t care what anyone thought then. Why start now?”

A tiny smile tugs at my lips. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

Warmth spreads through me despite the cold coil still lodged in my chest. Luke has always been like this, shielding me, steadying me, dragging me back into the light when I’d rather hide in the shadows.

For a moment, with the soup’s steam fogging my glasses and Luke’s shoulder pressed against mine, I almost believed him. I almost believe that whispers and lockers and frost can’t touch me here.

Almost.

Because even as I try to relax, the back of my neck prickles, like the air is shifting.

The heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall creak open.

The sound shouldn’t carry over hundreds of voices, but somehow it does. A shiver slides down my spine, and the hum under my skin stirs again, faint but undeniable.

Conversations falter. Forks pause. Heads turn.

A boy steps inside or at least, he looks like one. Tall, dark hair falling in careless waves, storm-gray eyes sweeping the room as if measuring every soul inside. His expression doesn’t shift. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown. He just… is.

The air seems to bend around him, too still, like the candle flames hesitate before flickering again.

“Who’s that?” someone whispers.

“Transfer student?” another guess.

“He doesn’t look like any student I’ve ever seen.”

I try not to look. Really, I do. But my gaze drags to him anyway, caught as surely as if an invisible thread tugs at my chin.

He moves with an elegance too deliberate to be casual, each step soundless despite the stone floor. When he passes a table of upperclassmen, even Maribel’s mocking smirk slips. She watches him with wide, calculating eyes.

He doesn’t sit with anyone. Doesn’t reach for food. He chooses a shadowed corner instead, folding into it like he belongs there more than anywhere else.

And yet, he doesn’t look at the hall, or the food or the gossiping students.

He looks at me.

The weight of it steals my breath. My spoon clatters against the bowl, loud in the sudden hush, but I can’t tear my eyes away. His stare pins me to the bench like frost settling over glass, sharp and cold and inevitable.

I force myself to look away, back down at the soup cooling in front of me. My pulse is a runaway drum, every beat louder than the chatter resuming around us.

Get a grip, Elle. He’s just a boy. Just another student.

But I know that’s a lie. Nothing about him feels ordinary.

“Elle?” Luke’s voice is tight beside me. His hand brushes my sleeve, grounding, but even his warmth doesn’t cut through the chill crawling across my skin.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, though the word doesn’t sound like mine.

Luke’s gaze flicks toward the corner table, then back at me. His jaw sets, protective in that way I know too well. But I don’t dare follow his eyes.

I can still feel the stare. Cold. Certain. Unblinking.

My fork slips against porcelain, clattering too loud. Dozens of heads turn. I duck, cheeks burning, but curiosity gets the better of me.

Just one more glance.

I lift my eyes and freeze.

He hasn’t moved. Not one inch. But his storm-gray gaze is locked on mine, unwavering, like he’s been waiting for me to look back.

The air around me chills, a fog blooming faintly over the surface of my soup.

I can’t breathe.