A S H R I E L

Morning light at Ravenshade never warms. It only glances off the stone before fading, turning everything gray again. I feel the Rift stir before the first bell, thin, restless, coiled beneath the east wing like breath behind glass. Whatever brushed against her last night hasn’t gone back to sleep.

It lingers. Waiting.

By the time classes end, the hum has spread to the library. Pages rustle when no one turns them. Dust floats like ash in the air. The mirrors along the north wall breathe, their surfaces trembling with faint light.

And she is there again, Elowen Wrenwood, scarf wrapped tight, pretending to study beside the boy who believes he can keep her safe.

The library hums with the illusion of peace. Long tables stretch beneath iron chandeliers, each candle flickering slow and low, their light barely touching the corners. Students murmur over open books, ink-smudged fingers dragging across parchment, laughter too soft to echo.

And there she sits.

Elowen leans over a stack of Folklore notes, dark hair falling forward, scarf brushing the edge of her notebook. The boy beside her, Luke Hart reads aloud from his own text, voice low, warm, grounding. His presence is sunlight on a frozen window. It doesn’t thaw the cold, but it tries.

Her pen trembles once before she steadies it. I see the fatigue in her posture, the faint frost clinging to the sleeve of her uniform, unnoticed by anyone else. Whatever haunted her last night still breathes against her skin.

Luke nudges her arm, smiling. “You’re actually taking notes this time. Miracles happen.”

She laughs softly, the sound small but real, and something tightens in my chest.

From the mezzanine above, Juniper Vale watches them with an expression halfway between curiosity and thrill. She pretends to write in her journal, but her quill hasn’t moved for minutes. The Ink Society always feeds on moments like this, ordinary warmth in places meant to be haunted.

But I can feel it. The Rift hum beneath the marble floor. The mirrors along the far wall vibrate faintly, almost imperceptible, like breath caught before a scream.

Luke doesn’t notice. Few ever do.

Elowen’s fingers brush the frost edging her book’s corner, and the air around her shifts. The page ripples slightly though there’s no breeze. She frowns, glancing toward the movement, but Luke distracts her again, saying something about lunch plans and cocoa.

She smiles for him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

The hum grows stronger, pulsing once beneath my ribs like a warning.

She shouldn’t be here. Not today. Not with the Rift awake and watching through glass.

I move from the mezzanine soundlessly. Shadowstep carries me between shelves, the scent of dust and old paper thick in the air. A mortal might call this stalking; I call it vigilance. The Rift doesn’t sleep, and where she walks, it follows.

Down below, Luke leans closer, pointing at something in her notes. She smiles, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t ache.

The hum tightens behind my ribs, pulling me toward her table.

She doesn’t sense me until I’m standing beside them. Luke startles first, the scrape of his chair against the stone too loud in the quiet. He recovers quickly, frowning up at me. “You need something?”

“No,” I say simply. My voice is even, low. It makes the candlelight flicker. “Only quiet.”

Elle looks up then. Her gaze meets mine and holds, just for a breath too long. The shadows under her eyes are darker today, her pulse visible at the base of her throat. She blinks fast, glancing down, pretending to turn a page.

“There are other tables,” Luke mutters.

“I prefer this one.” I slide into the empty seat beside Elle, not across from her. Close enough that the hem of her sleeve brushes mine when she exhales.

Her breath catches almost imperceptibly. I feel the shift in the air, the faint tremor of frost spiraling from her wrist where our sleeves touch.

Luke stiffens. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”

“Am I?” I tilt my head, studying her. “You can tell me if I am.”

Elle swallows, her eyes flicking between us. “It’s fine,” she whispers. “We’re just studying.”

The word fine is a lie. Her hand trembles faintly over the parchment, and the ink freezes mid-letter, spreading a thin frost bloom across the page.

Luke reaches out, laying his hand over hers. “Elle..”

I catch the movement, the human softness of it, and something in me coils sharper. “You shouldn’t touch her,” I say quietly.

He looks up, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“The Rift notices when she’s touched,” I answer. My tone stays calm, but the hum beneath the floor spikes. “It responds.”

A faint crack echoes through the shelves, paper tearing somewhere, or perhaps glass. Elle flinches.

Luke’s chair scrapes again as he stands. “If you’re trying to scare her..”

“I don’t need to.”

The frost along the edge of her book pulses once, bright as lightning. She stares down at it, whispering, “It’s happening again.”

And I know then that I was right to come.

The air fractures before sound does.
A subtle distortion, like heat shimmer over snow. It starts near the northern mirrors, the ones no one ever polishes because their surfaces never truly clear. Dust rises, pages flutter. A current of cold moves through the room that no one feels, no one except her.

Elle’s hand hesitates above her notes, fingers tracing frost that wasn’t there a moment ago. She glances toward the shelves, brows pinched. “Luke,” she whispers, “do you hear that?”

He frowns. “Hear what?”

She doesn’t answer, because the whisper that answers her isn’t human.

Elowen.

The voice threads through the aisles, low and glassy. The lamps dim in a slow wave as if a breath passes over their flames. Candles gutter out one by one, plunging half the library into shadow.

Students look up, uneasy murmurs rippling. Juniper Vale leans forward on the mezzanine rail, her quill forgotten, eyes wide with fascinated dread.

Luke straightens beside Elle. “It’s just the wind. There’s..”

The mirror at the far wall groans. A thin crack snakes across its surface, silver light leaking through like veins under skin. The temperature drops sharply; my breath mists.

“Not wind,” I murmured.

Elle flinches at my voice but doesn’t look away from the mirror. Her scarf flutters in the sudden draft, lavender threads catching the faint light. She rises slowly from her chair, as though drawn toward that crack.

“Stay where you are,” I warn.

But she doesn’t. Her steps are small, entranced, each one trailing a line of frost across the marble. Luke catches her wrist. “Elle, don’t..”

She hesitates between us, torn, the reflection of her face warping in the mirror’s surface until it isn’t hers anymore.

A figure stands behind the glass now, tall, eyeless, its skin like cracked porcelain. When it tilts its head, fissures splinter wider across its face.

The first Mirror Shade.

Gasps ripple through the room. Juniper’s journal slips from her grasp, hitting the floor with a hollow slap. The sound seems to trigger something, an invitation.

The Shade steps forward, half its body sliding through the glass like ink poured into water. Each movement makes a sound like breaking bones and distant rain.

Students scream. Chairs scrape. Luke shoves Elle behind him, but I’ve already moved.

The air hums with Rift energy, raw, electric, wrong. My vision sharpens to a single point: her. She stands frozen, eyes locked on the creature, as if it wears her face.

“Elowen,” it croons in her voice this time, perfect mimicry. “You called me.”

“No,” she whispers. “I didn’t..”

It smiles, if the splitting of glass can be called that.

I draw the blade from the air itself, frostlight gathering into a thin arc of silver. The motion burns down my arm; the Rift always demands its price.

Luke’s shock is audible behind me. “What..! what are you..?”

“Get her out,” I snapped.

He doesn’t move fast enough. The Shade’s reflection ripples, and dozens of ghostly copies shimmer across the other mirrors, each one mouthing her name in eerie unison.

The library erupts into chaos. Books fall. A mirror shatters, raining shards that hover in the air instead of falling.

I take a step forward, blade raised, heart pounding in the rhythm of the Rift’s hum.

The creature tilts its head again, and then lunges.

Time fractures.

The Shade lunges, body unraveling into ribbons of glass and mist. Every mirror in the room flashes at once, each reflection showing a different version of her, Elle crying, Elle frozen, Elle reaching for someone unseen. The air tastes like metal and frost.

I move before thought. The Guardian’s oath surges through me, burning and binding.

My blade meets the creature mid-strike, slicing through its chest. Shards scatter like sparks, each one whispering her name as it spins through the air. But the Shade reforms instantly, its cracked face smoothing into something almost human again, my face this time, eyes the color of storms.

Elle gasps. “Ash—” She stops herself, because she doesn’t know my name yet, not truly. Only the sound her soul remembers.

The Shade turns toward her, drawn by the flicker of recognition. Its body ripples, arms lengthening like molten glass reaching for her throat.

Luke grabs for her, too slow.

I’m already there.

My hand closes around her wrist, pulling her hard against me just as the creature strikes. The impact throws us both sideways; her shoulder hits my chest, her scarf brushing my jaw. Frost spirals up my arm where our skin meets, glowing with the same blue that burns in the Shade’s cracks.

Her breath hitches. My wings strain beneath the surface, aching to unfurl, but I force them still. Not here. Not yet.

The Shade’s voice distorts into a scream that’s half echo, half laughter. The mirrors around us tremble violently, their reflections fragmenting into shards that hang in midair. Each one shows a different world, a thousand versions of her face, her fear, her reaching hand.

I tighten my grip. “Don’t look,” I tell her, voice low, raw. “No matter what you hear.”

She turns her face into my shoulder anyway, trembling. “What is it?”

“Something that shouldn’t exist outside the glass.”

Luke’s shout breaks through the noise. “Get her out!”

“I can’t,” I bite out. The Rift is too strong, the Shade feeding on every heartbeat in the room. “It wants her reflection. It wants to replace her.”

The creature shrieks, lunging again, faster this time. I swing the blade upward, but the air splits before I can strike, mirror light exploding into a blinding flare.

Her cry cuts through it, small and sharp.

Then silence.

For one impossible instant, everything stops, the falling glass, the voices, the hum of the Rift. My grip on her wrist is the only thing real.

The silence breaks with a single sound: the echo of her name, whispered from every reflection in unison.

Elle.