E L L E

Outside the office, the whispers spread faster than the frost had. By the time Luke pulls me toward the dining hall, I can already feel the eyes on us, the muttered words darting from lip to lip like sparks catching fire. Wrenwood. Cursed. Chosen. Every step grinds the weight of it deeper into my chest.

Luke keeps his hand firm at my back, as though he can shield me from a storm that has already swallowed me whole. But when we step into the hall and Maribel Crane’s smile sharpens across the table, I know the storm is only just beginning.

The dining hall hums with its usual chaos where laughter bouncing off stone walls, forks scraping, rumors sharper than knives. My tray wobbles in my hands as I follow Luke to the far end of the table, trying to ignore the eyes that follow me everywhere.

I should be used to it by now. Wrenwood. Witch. Whatever they whisper, the words always stick.

Maribel leans forward before I even sit, her golden hair catching the candlelight like she planned it that way. “Wrenwood,” she purrs, voice loud enough to silence half the table. “We’ve been talking about traditions.”

That alone makes my stomach drop. At Ravenshade, traditions are never harmless.

Tobias Kade grins from across the bench, his usual smirk a little too eager. “Mirror Vigil.”

A ripple of excitement rolls through the students around us. Even the upperclassmen turn their heads.

I set my tray down carefully, trying to keep my hands from shaking. “What about it?”

Anya Lark, fake-sweet as always, props her chin on her hand. “It’s simple. Midnight. Frostmark Mirror. You stand in front of it for sixty seconds.” Her eyes flick over me, sharp and assessing. “If you’re not cursed, nothing happens.”

The smirk on her lips says she doesn’t believe that for a second.

My chest tightens. I’ve heard the stories. Reflections that don’t move when you do. Faces that aren’t yours. Whispers that sound like people you’ve lost. Some students never come back the same. Some don’t come back at all.

Luke is on his feet before I can speak, his tray clattering against the bench. “No. She’s not doing your stupid dare.”

“Oh, come on, Hart,” Tobias teases, though his voice wavers like he’s not as confident as Maribel. “It’s tradition.”

“It’s bullying,” Luke snaps. His hand finds my shoulder, firm, steady, like he can shield me from their eyes.

The laughter around us sharpens. “What’s the matter, Elle?” Maribel tilts her head, her smile all glass and cruelty. “Scared to look in a mirror? Maybe you’re afraid of what you’ll see.”

Heat burns across my cheeks. Every pair of eyes feels like a weight pressing down, waiting for me to crumble. If I refuse, they’ll whisper louder. If I accept, I’m walking into a trap.

I open my mouth, but Luke cuts in first. “She’s not doing it. End of story.”

The air shifts. A silence spreads as if pulled taut.

The air shifts. A silence spreads as if pulled taut.

Because he’s there.

The boy in the shadows.

He leans against the column at the edge of the hall, as if he’s been there the whole time. Storm-gray eyes fixed on me, unreadable, unblinking. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move to stop them, but his presence alone sends another ripple through the room.

Maribel notices. Her smile falters just a fraction, then sharpens again. “Unless she wants her mystery boy to hold her hand through it.”

Snickers ripple like broken glass.

Luke bristles, ready to lunge across the table, but I put my hand over his. My heart hammers too fast, my throat dry, but I manage to lift my chin.

“I’ll do it.”

The words scrape out of me before I can think better.

Luke turns to me, horror flashing in his eyes. “Elle..!”

But it’s too late. Tobias whoops, Maribel’s smirk blooms victorious, and the whole hall erupts with whispers.

Frost prickles at the edge of my tray, spiraling outward.

And the boy in the shadows?

He doesn’t look surprised at all.

Midnight comes too fast.

The dorms creak with sleep, faint snores and shifting blankets muffled by stone walls. I should be in bed, wrapped in Nan’s scarf, pretending Draven’s words didn’t claw under my skin. Instead, I’m standing barefoot on the cold floor, heart pounding, listening to the clock in the hall tick closer to twelve.

A soft tap rattles my door.

I don’t have to ask who it is. Luke’s whisper follows immediately, urgent but hushed. “Elle. Open up.”

I tug the door a fraction. His hoodie is pulled tight over his head, eyes blazing in the flicker of a lantern he must’ve stolen from the common room. He looks furious. And terrified.

“You’re not going,” he hisses.

“I have to,” I whisper back, clutching the scarf tighter.

“No, you don’t. They’re just trying to humiliate you. Every time they drag you into one of their stupid dares, something goes wrong. You know it..”

His hand grips the edge of the door like he could hold me here by force of will alone. “Please. Don’t give them what they want.”

The plea slices deep, but the truth is heavier. “If I back down, the whispers only get worse. They’ll never stop.”

“They’ll never stop anyway,” he shoots back, voice low and fierce. “But I can.”

The way he says it,  like he could fight frost and fate and every prophecy barehanded if it meant sparing me,  almost undoes me. But when I glance past him down the corridor, the air already feels colder, like the choice has been made for me.

“I’ll be fine,” I lied.

Luke’s jaw clenches. His hand twitches like he wants to pull me into his chest, hide me there. Instead, he shakes his head and steps back, fury and helplessness etched in every line of him.

“I can’t watch you walk into that,” he mutters. Then louder, harsher: “If you go, you’re on your own.”

The words sting like frostbite, but I turn anyway. Because he’s wrong.

I’m not alone.

The east wing waits like a shadowed throat, swallowing every sound. My breath fogs the air as I pad down the corridor, each step pulling me deeper into silence.

And then he’s there.

The boy in the shadows,  leans against the stone arch at the hall’s end, half cloaked in darkness, as if he’s been waiting all along. His gaze sweeps over me once, steady, unreadable. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

I want to tell him I don’t need him. That Luke’s right, this is nothing but cruelty dressed as tradition. But the truth knots in my throat, because when his storm-gray eyes hold mine, the cold feels less suffocating.

“Why are you here?” My voice is soft, shaking more than I want.

His answer is simple. Final. “Because you are.”

The words coil through me like a tether. I should resist. I don’t.

We walk in silence, the lantern in my hand flickering against the damp walls. The further we go, the more wrong the air feels. Mirrors line this wing, warped silver dulled with age, but every reflection lingers a heartbeat too long. Sometimes my scarf shifts when I haven’t moved. Sometimes his shadow moves wrong, stretching ahead of him even when the light shouldn’t allow it

When we reach the Frostmark Mirror, my chest tightens so hard I almost can’t breathe.

It towers against the end wall, its frame carved in spirals of black stone, frost threading every curve. The glass glimmers faintly, pale light pulsing like it’s alive.

His hand hovers near mine, not touching, but close enough I can feel the cold humming from his skin. “If you hear it, don’t answer,” he warns softly.

“Hear what?” My voice barely makes it past my lips.

“The Rift always whispers through mirrors.” His eyes are steady on mine. “It will sound like someone you want to believe.”

A shiver rakes through me. My scarf tightens, the lavender-scented fabric suddenly too fragile against the icy air.

Behind us, laughter echoes faintly from far down the corridor, students who dared me, waiting to see if I’ll return.

In front of me, the mirror waits.

And when my reflection blinks a half-second too late, I know it’s already begun.

The mirror breathes.

At least, that’s what it feels like as frost blooms across the glass in spirals, each curve tracing itself in pale light. My reflection wavers, then steadies, pale skin, scarf at my throat, wide eyes staring back. Except it doesn’t quite match. Her blink is late. Her chest doesn’t rise when mine does.

I grip my scarf tighter, nails digging through the wool. Behind me, he is silent, steady as a shadow at my back. I want to draw strength from him, but the mirror holds me frozen.

“Elowen…”

The voice is soft, coaxing. Familiar. I choke on a breath because it sounds like my mother.

My knees almost give, but he shifts closer, his presence a cold wall bracing me. “Don’t listen,” he murmurs. “It isn’t her.”

The reflection tilts its head, lips curving faintly. Then the whisper shifts, threading deeper into my bones.

“Kiss him.”

The words hit like a blade of ice. My lips part, my pulse lurching.

I know what it means. I don’t want to know, but I do. Because the reflection’s gaze flicks, slow and deliberate, toward him.

Heat crashes through me, wild and wrong and undeniable. My breath clouds against the glass as my hand trembles at my side, aching to reach for him.

He  notices. His storm-gray eyes lock on mine, sharp, searching, as though he feels the pull too. His jaw tightens. He takes half a step closer, close enough that the air between us turns electric.

“Elle,” he says quietly, warning and plea tangled together.

But the whisper coils tighter. Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him.

My scarf slips loose against my throat as if it even wants to fall away. My heart pounds so loud it drowns everything else,  the cold, the silence, the weight of every watching shadow.

I sway forward, every thought unraveling under the whisper’s command, under the impossible gravity pulling me toward him.

His breath brushes mine. His hand twitches, caught between pushing me back or pulling me closer. His restraint is a blade’s edge, one he might not hold much longer.

And just before I close the space..

The mirror ripples.

My reflection grins, sharp and triumphant, as frost spiders out across the glass. The whisper sighs one last time, low and satisfied: “Chosen.”

The sound snaps me back, shoving ice through my veins. I stumble, gasping, the spell breaking, but only barely.

He catches my arm, steadying me. His touch burns colder than frost. His storm-gray eyes burn hotter than fire.

The choice I almost made hangs between us, heavy and dangerous.

And I know, with a sick twist of my stomach, that whatever haunts this place just got what it wanted.