A S H R I E L

The Folklore chamber breathes cold tonight. Candles gutter in their sconces, wax dripping like melted bone down the walls. The air tastes of iron and old ash—heavy enough to press behind the eyes. Only those tied to the Rift can feel the hum beneath it.

I do.

I take my usual place in the far corner, one foot in shadow, back to stone, eyes on the door. Habit. Old wars never leave their ghosts. My hands fold loosely in my lap, but my focus sharpens the moment she enters.

Elle.

Her scarf is wound too tight, color high in her cheeks. Shadows bruise the skin beneath her eyes. Luke walks beside her, carrying her books like it might save her.

It won’t.

She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at anyone. But I see it, the faint tremor of her fingers on the notebook, her fleeting glance toward the window where frost clings like a secret.

She’s still hearing it.
The Rift hasn’t let her go.

Luke leans close, murmuring something low. She nods by reflex, tilting toward him out of comfort, not warmth. He believes he grounds her. Maybe once, he did.
Now, the Rift does.
And me.

I don’t blink as she sits. Don’t move. But the pull between us draws tighter, silent, unseen, and impossible to resist. 

The door creaks. Professor Maelor sweeps in, black robes whispering across the flagstones. His gaze drifts slowly over the class, sharp as the edge of a blade.

“Today,” he says, voice soft as falling snow, “we speak of a dance lost to time and the price of forgetting it.”

Something inside me stirs. A memory shifts, waiting.

Maelor crosses to the slate board. Chalk glides beneath his fingers, not scraping but singing.
He draws a spiral.

The room stills. The chalk line glows faintly, frost-light flickering before it fades.

“This,” he murmurs, “was once the first movement in the Seer–Guardian Dance. A rite never written but only lived. Each step, a vow. Each turn, a shield.”

Notebooks rustle. Even Cassian stops pretending to be bored.

Maelor continues, voice calm but heavy with knowing. “The Seer bears the vision. The Guardian bears the weight. Together they circle the breach, turning the spiral inward until the Rift quiets.”

My throat tightens.

He pauses, letting the silence breathe.

“The dance was not performance, but intent. Synchronicity. The spiral is not merely a symbol but a command.”

Another curve, another glowing line.
A seal.

“It only worked,” Maelor says, “if their hearts moved together. Not just their feet.”

My fingers curl against my knee. I remember that dance and how it ended.

It rises, unbidden.
Not a dream. Not vision.
Memory.

Her hand in mine, warm and trembling.
Stone beneath our feet, etched with living frost.
Wind screaming through a broken sky.

We moved together, her eyes never leaving mine. It wasn’t fear it was defiance. Power surged where our hands touched. At that moment, I knew her.. her name, her heart.

 And then..
I failed her.
The spiral faltered. My step broke.
The Rift screamed.
She burned.
And I—

Ashriel.

I jolt back. Chalk clicks against stone.

Across the room, Elle’s head bows. Her knuckles whiten around her notebook. She doesn’t know what she’s remembering, but I do.

Frost creeps from her fingertips. At first, a shimmer then curling lines that form deliberate, perfect spirals.
The same pattern Maelor just drew.
The same steps burned into my bones.

Gasps ripple through the room. Juniper’s pen stops mid-sentence. Maribel stares, pale.

Luke reaches for Elle’s arm.
She flinches.

The frost pulses once, then settles silently  and lethally.

Maelor’s gaze narrows.
He sees it.
The spiral.

And I see the moment he understands.

Luke’s hand stays on her sleeve, tightening, desperate. He thinks she might disappear.
Elle doesn’t look at him. Her eyes lift, and find mine.

The world falls away.

My pulse stutters. It’s her. It’s always been her.
Not just this life. Every one before.

The frost glows faintly between us, binding the air.

Luke shifts, breaking the spell. Her jaw tightens; her gaze drops to her notebook. The spiral gleams still, her magic answering even when she looks away.

Maelor stills.
The chalk hovers mid-air, caught in place. The temperature drops.

He turns, eyes sweeping past the spirals, past every student, until they rest on her.

“Remain seated,” he says, voice stripped of warmth.

No one moves. Chairs creak, uncertain.

Maelor steps forward, slow and measured, until he stands at the front row. The air itself feels brittle.

He touches the spiral he drew. It glows beneath his fingertip.
“The Spiral answers only to truth,” he murmurs. “It reveals what has been hidden.”

Thunder without sound rolls through the room. Candles flicker.

His gaze drifts across us, row by row, until it lands on Elle.
And stays.

“The Seal-bearer,” he says quietly, “is already among us.”

The floor shivers. Air ripples.
Candles die.

Darkness swallows the chamber.
Gasps. A chair topples.

Elle doesn’t move. Luke’s whispering her name, frantic, but her stare is fixed on the frost spiral glowing faintly on her page.

Maribel looks ready to scream. Cassian swears under his breath.

Maelor says nothing more. He turns, robes whispering, and slips through the side door like smoke drawn backward.

And then silence.

The spiral on Elle’s notebook still pulses, soft and alive.

I rise, unnoticed. All eyes are on her.

She doesn’t look up. But I feel it, the old thread between us, tightening.

The prophecy stirs.
The dance begins again.