E L L E

I woke up cold.
Not the usual chill that clings to Ravenshade’s stone walls, but something deeper. Like frost curled inside my ribs. The sheets are damp, my scarf stiff with half-melted ice. There’s a thin spiral traced across my wrist almost fading, but still there.

No one speaks as I walk the corridor.
But I feel them watching.
They know.

The second I step into the dining hall, the silence hits.
Not complete but spoons clink, and porridge slops into bowls. Every motion slows. Every whisper sharpens.

Wrenwood.
Luke Hart said her name like a vow.
And she didn’t say it back.

I grip my tray tighter.

Luke sits across the room, hoodie up, cocoa cooling in front of him. He doesn’t look up. But I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand curls around the mug like it’s something to hold onto.

There’s an empty seat beside him.

I don’t take it.

Instead, I slip into a far corner booth,  half-hidden by an arch and flickering sconce light. 

“She froze,” someone whispers.
“Didn’t even look at him.”
“Or maybe she was looking at someone else…”

That last voice stings more than it should.

Maribel’s tone cuts through the murmur like sugar-laced venom. “Poor Luke. Imagine pouring your heart out to someone with ice in her veins.”

Laughter ripples. Not all of it is cruel. Some of them are just nervous. Some laugh because they want to fit in.

I stare into my porridge, hands clenched in my lap. My scarf feels like a noose. Luke’s voice echoes in my head, from yesterday  saying “I’ve always felt it. You and me.”

And I said nothing.

Not because I didn’t care.
Because part of me realized I did , just not in the way he wanted.

I spend the rest of the day pretending.

Pretending I’m focused during Professor Calloway’s lecture on the Sovereign Order. Pretending I don’t feel Luke’s eyes on me from two rows back. Pretending my hands aren’t trembling when I lift my pen.

I don’t sit near him. I don’t speak to him.
And worst of all, I don’t explain.

Because what would I even say?
You’re safety, Luke. You’re warmth. But something inside me freezes when you get too close.
It would hurt him more than silence does.

He leaves a cocoa on my desk during study period. My favorite.
I don’t touch it.
By the time I come back, it’s gone cold.

During lunch, I wait until the hall’s half-empty before slipping in and grabbing a roll. Anya Lark spots me and smirks like a cat that knows where the mouse hides. Careful,” she purrs. “Keep juggling boys and the Rift might start whispering about you.”

Her voice isn’t loud, but it doesn’t have to be.
A nearby table bursts into stifled giggles.

The burn behind my eyes sharpens. Frost tingles in my fingertips like it’s trying to escape. It feels like more than just emotion,  like something inside me waking up. Something I don’t understand yet.

Across the dining hall, Luke sits with Cassian of all people, saying nothing.

And beyond the tall windows, where the shadows gather thickest, I swear I feel him.

The boy from the frost.

The one the Rift won’t let me forget.

A name stirs in the back of my mind, Ashriel, maybe. I don’t know where it comes from.

But when I turn toward the corner where he usually haunts

He’s not there

The hum starts during the last period.

At first I thought it’s the old radiator in the back of the classroom. But then the teacher stops speaking midsentence, brow furrowed, and a few students glance around like they feel it too, not with their ears, but under their skin.

Low. Constant.
Like bees in the walls.
Like breathing behind the stone.

I already know where it’s coming from.

Locker 237.

I fake a headache after class. Professor Maelor barely looks up from his notes before waving me off, distracted by a frost-smudged page in an ancient volume. Outside, the hallway is half-empty with  students rushing to dinner, heads down, eyes forward.

But the east wing waits.

Every step closer makes the air thicker. The hum pulses with the rhythm of my heartbeat. The corridor is colder here, shadows stretching longer even with the sun still clinging to the horizon.

Locker 237 sits at the end of the row, untouched. Unopened.
But it’s not silent.

The hum is louder now, like it’s responding to something inside me or maybe something I’m too scared to admit. Like the part of me that wanted him to catch me again.

The boy with the wings. The one who didn’t flinch when I shattered.

And the worst part? When Luke reached for me, I didn’t reach back. I stop in front of the locker. My breath frosts.

The metal vibrates softly under my fingertips. Not violently like before. Not dangerous.
Not yet.
Just… alive.

I press my palm to it. A spiral of frost blooms instantly beneath my hand. It’s delicate, perfect, and echoing the same shape that burned on my skin yesterday.

Something shifts.

A click. A slide.

And then, softly, something falls out of the narrow vent slit. It’s fluttering to the floor like a dead leaf.

A folded piece of parchment.

No name. No seal. Just one line, scrawled in spiraled ink.

“Choose or be chosen.”

My hand shakes as I pick it up.

The parchment is rough beneath my fingers, the ink still wet enough to smudge. My thumb brushes the spiral at the corner and it glows faintly before vanishing, like it was never there.

“Choose or be chosen.”

It’s not just a warning.
It’s a command.

The words vibrate through me, low and cold, like they’ve settled behind my ribs. My breath clouds in the air. I stumble back, but the locker stays still, humming softly. Calm. Like it’s watching me wait.

“Who wrote this?” I whisper to no one.

The note doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t. But the hum deepens, almost like laughter. It’s soft, echoing, and layered with voices that don’t belong to anyone real.
Luke’s voice: “You’re not alone.”
That other voice that’s dark and distant saying “You’re mine to guard. No one else.”
And my mother’s: “Elowen, listen.”

“No,” I whisper, pressing the parchment to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut.

But the thing behind the frost… it doesn’t stop just because I want it to.

The hallway darkens at the edges, like a storm clouding the ends of my vision. My scarf tightens. Frost curls across the floor, blooming out from where I stand. I back away too fast, the paper crumpling in my grip.

The spiral frost shapes form beneath my boots, climbing the stone like ivy. My heartbeat staggers, the hum inside the locker matching its rhythm.

This isn’t just a note. It’s a response.
To what Luke said.
To what I didn’t say.
To what he did.

And whatever this is ,  it’s listening.

I shove the note into my coat and turn to run. But the hallway warps behind me,  for just a second, the mirror hanging on the wall beside the exit doesn’t reflect me at all. It reflects the other Elle.

The one from the mirror.
The one who smiled last time.
The one who waited.

She raises a hand. Palm out. A frost spiral burning silver.

I bolt.

I don’t stop running until I slam into my dorm door. The warmth of the room feels fake, too sudden, like stepping into a lie.

I lock the door, double-check the latch, draw the curtains. I don’t light a candle.

The note still burns in my coat pocket.

“Choose or be chosen.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, clutching the fabric of my scarf like it’s the only thing keeping me real. My fingers are cold. Too cold.

The frost spiral on my palm hasn’t faded.
It pulses once.
Twice.

Then silence.

No voices.
No whispers.
Not even the hum.

Which might be the worst part.

Because I can still feel it, beneath everything, like the Rift is waiting.
Watching and Ready.

I curl onto the bed, eyes fixed on the shadows dancing across the cracked ceiling. The note’s weight presses against my ribs, heavier than it should be.

The frost spirals aren’t done.
And neither is whatever this is.