E L L E

They called me a witch.

Even after the corridor emptied, after the frost sank back into the walls, I could still hear Maribel’s voice in my skull, sharp, certain, echoing like it belonged to everyone. By dawn, it does.

Whispers follow me through every hallway, from the dining hall to the library steps. She cursed Juniper. She made the frost bite her. No one says it to my face, but I can feel their stares. Doors close when I pass. Conversations snap shut like traps.

Luke tries to keep close, but even his hand around mine can’t stop the tremor in my chest. I don’t know if I’m more afraid of what they think, witch..or of the way the frost had leaned toward me like it recognized its master.

The summons come before breakfast is over. A prefect in Raven-grey, eyes cold, voice clipped: “Elle Wrenwood. Headmistress Draven requires you.”

The room goes quiet. Every gaze lands on me. And just like that, rumor turns to trial.

By morning, the whole academy knows.

Whispers trail me through every corridor, sharper than the frost spirals that haunted the dorm. I keep my scarf pulled high, fingers clamped tight in the fabric, but it doesn’t muffle their voices. Even professors stare too long, though none of them speak. The summons hangs heavy over me like a weight I can’t shake, each step dragging me closer to judgment.

Luke bristles beside me, protective as ever, but I don’t argue. What else can I do? Refuse? Pretend the frost isn’t following me everywhere I go?

So I follow the prefect through the main hall, each step echoing too loud. The stone walls seem colder today, spirals etched faint in the mortar if you look closely enough. I don’t know if they’ve always been there or if I’m only just noticing them now.

Draven’s office looms at the end of the wing. The door alone makes my stomach knot, black oak reinforced with iron bands, the wood carved with sigils I don’t recognize. It feels like standing before a trial.

The prefect knocks once, then pushes it open without waiting for a reply.

Headmistress Draven sits behind a massive desk, her posture regal, hair bound in silver coils that gleam like steel. Her eyes, pale as frost, lift from the parchment in her hands and settle on me. Cold. Measuring.

“Wrenwood,” she says. Not Miss Wrenwood, not Elle. Just my name, flat and heavy with judgment.

Luke moves to step inside with me. Her gaze flicks to him, sharp as a blade. “Only her.”

My stomach lurches as the door shuts behind me, sealing me in with the headmistress and the weight of her silence.

Draven doesn’t waste time.

“You’ve been present at every disturbance this term,” she says, voice calm but cutting. “The frost spirals in the Combat Hall. The Elm incident. And last night, Juniper Crane nearly lost her hand.”

Her pale eyes hold mine like iron shackles. “Explain yourself.”

My throat goes dry. “It wasn’t me.” The words sound thin, even to me. “I didn’t..”

“You didn’t?” Her brows lift, a razor of disbelief. “Students witnessed frost spiraling from your touch. Your name carved itself into the Elm. And now? Frostbite.”

“I didn’t cause it!” My voice cracks. The air in the office feels too thin, my scarf too tight around my throat. “It follows me, but I don’t control it..”

Draven leans forward, hands folding atop the desk. “Then what are you, Wrenwood? Victim, or danger?”

The question slams into me, heavy as the word Maribel screamed in the corridor. Witch.

The door bangs open before I can answer.

Luke storms inside, ignoring the prefect’s protests. “She’s not a danger,” he snaps. “You can’t sit here and act like this is her fault when she’s the one who keeps getting attacked by it!”

Draven’s eyes narrow, ice-cold. “Mr. Hart. You will remove yourself immediately.”

“No.” He plants himself at my side, fists clenched. “You want answers? Then stop acting like she’s the problem and start asking why frost keeps breaking into the academy.”

Silence drops, heavy and unnatural, pressing against my ears.

My chest aches, torn between gratitude and fear. Luke is breaking every rule to stand here for me, and I know he’ll pay for it. But I can’t look away from him. Not when his voice shakes with anger on my behalf. Not when his hand brushes against mine again, wordless, steadying.

Draven doesn’t flinch at Luke’s defiance. If anything, her expression hardens, like ice setting in water.

“You presume to lecture me on wards?” she asks. Her voice is calm, but it cuts deeper than shouting ever could. “Sit down before you earn yourself expulsion.”

Luke’s jaw locks. He doesn’t move.

I grip his sleeve under the desk, desperate to keep him from pushing further. My pulse is racing so fast I almost miss it.

The sound.

A faint crack, like ice splintering underfoot.

I glance down. The polished wood beneath Draven’s desk is frosting over, delicate spirals etching themselves across the floorboards in silence. The patterns pulse faintly, alive, curling outward with every second.

“Luke,” I whisper, too soft for anyone but him to hear.

His eyes flick down. His face goes pale.

Draven notices us staring. Slowly, she lowers her gaze, and for the first time, something shifts in her composure. Not surprise. Not confusion. But recognition.

She rises from her chair, hands braced against the desk as frost climbs its legs. The spirals glow faint blue, pulsing with the same wrongness that had chased me from the café, the courtyard, the dorm.

Luke grips my hand under the desk, steady, grounding. “Headmistress..”

“Silence,” Draven says.

Her eyes lock on the spreading frost. Her lips press thin, the faintest tremor in her voice when she speaks again. “So it begins.”

The spirals flare brighter.

The frost spreads faster, veins of white racing under the desk and up the carved iron bands that brace it. The air grows sharp, cold enough that my breath fogs. Luke squeezes my hand tighter, but it barely steadies me.

Draven doesn’t move to stop it. She doesn’t even reach for the wards embedded in the walls. She just watches, eyes pale and unblinking, as though the spirals are telling her something none of us can hear.

“Headmistress?” My voice shakes despite me. “What’s happening?”

Her gaze snaps to mine, and for an instant, the mask of control cracks. Not fear, not anger but resignation.

“It begins again,” she murmurs.

The words land heavy, like a prophecy spoken aloud.

Luke frowns. “What begins again? What do you mean?”

But Draven doesn’t answer him. Her focus remains on me, sharp and unyielding. “You cannot run from it, Wrenwood. The spirals have chosen. Just as they always do.”

The frost flares brighter, light pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. The sigils carved into her desk glow faintly, answering the spirals as though the two are linked.

My skin prickles. “I don’t understand..”

“You will,” Draven cuts in, her tone flat, final. “Soon enough.”

The spirals lash outward, cold searing the soles of my boots. Luke yanks me back just as the frost snakes across the floorboards toward our chairs. Gasps echo faintly from outside the office, students gathering at the door, hearing what we cannot hide.

Draven straightens, her voice carrying like a sentence delivered. “Class dismissed.”

But her eyes never leave mine, and in them I see it: the weight of history repeating, the shadow of every failure that came before me.

And I know with a sick twist in my stomach that whatever she meant, it’s already too late to stop it.