E L L E

I don’t sleep much. Not after what we saw.

Luke doesn’t say it, but I know he’s shaken too. The frost spirals are gone, yet the silence they left behind feels heavier. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

So I do the only thing that ever helped back home after nightmares or bad news.
I pretend it’s a normal day.

Library. Notes. Study until my brain forgets how to tremble.

The library smells like dust and old parchment, which is exactly what I need. Safe. Familiar. Quiet. No frost spirals. No flickering candlelight. Just Luke and me at our usual table by the stained-glass window, sunlight filtering through faded blues and golds.

Luke props his boots on the chair across from mine as if he owns the place, flipping through his textbook with zero urgency. “Did you know Professor Maelor assigned an essay on Reflection as Truth or Deceit in Folklore?”

I look up. “Yeah. Got the prompt yesterday. I already outlined mine.”

He groans dramatically. “Of course you did.”

I try not to smile, but it happens anyway. He sees it and grins like it’s a personal victory.

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, though my voice sounds lighter than it has in days.

Around us, the library hums with quiet energy. A few first-years whisper near the herbology section. Maribel Crane and her clique haven’t shown up yet or maybe they’re bored of me today. A miracle.

Luke tosses a pen at my notebook. “Hey. Earth to Elle. We’re supposed to be studying.”

“I am studying. You’re the one pretending to read the same paragraph for twenty minutes.”

“It’s called reflection,” he says, smirking. “Like the essay.”

I roll my eyes but don’t tell him to stop. His teasing makes the silence feel human again, not haunted.

For the first time in a while, it feels like a real study session. No whispers from books. No reflections that move when I don’t. Just a normal day with my best friend.

And maybe that’s enough. For now.

After we escape the library and by escape, I mean Luke finally admits he wrote exactly one paragraph, we step into the courtyard.

The cold has softened, though fog still clings to the corners of the stones. The elm tree in the center is shedding silver-tipped leaves, glittering faintly before they fall. I pause to watch one drift onto the path.

“You okay?” Luke asks, nudging me with his elbow. “You went full silent monk in there.”

“I’m fine.” I tuck my hands deeper into my sleeves. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t push, and I’m grateful. Instead, he kicks a pebble down the path. “Draven posted the Harvest Ball announcement this morning. Big parchment. Gold lettering. Very subtle.”

I snort. “Let me guess. Everyone’s already freaking out about who’s going with who?”

“Obviously. Maribel practically claimed the east wing just to make her entrance.”

“Shocking,” I say flatly.

He grins. “So… are we going?”

My breath catches, but I keep my tone casual. “To the ball? I thought you hated things like that.”

“I do. But you don’t. And someone has to make sure you don’t spike the punch with ghost frost or whatever.”

I laugh, surprising both of us.

He slows his steps, brushing his fingers against mine. The touch is light. Not a grab. Not a claim. Just a question.

I don’t pull away.

For a moment, the courtyard feels golden and still. Like maybe Ravenshade isn’t all ghosts and frost.

But then a chill brushes my neck.

I glance up toward the dormitory windows, half expecting to see someone watching.

Nothing. Just glass.

Still, I feel it. That pull. That pressure. Like eyes I can’t see.

I shake it off. “Let’s go into town,” I say. “Spiral Café?”

Luke brightens. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The Spiral Café is already warm when we step inside, its windows fogged from too many mugs and too many secrets. The scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar wraps around us. Old wood floors creak, and the same string of witchlight bulbs flickers overhead like they’re trying to wink.

Luke waves at the barista like he comes here every day. He probably does. “Two cocos,” he says, then glances at me. “Extra cinnamon.”

I blink. “You remembered.”

He shrugs. “Hard to forget. You used to dump half the spice jar in Nan’s kitchen.”

We slide into the corner booth near the window where the spiral etching catches the light in strange ways. I tug off my gloves, soaking in the warmth.

“So,” Luke says as our mugs arrive. “If I promise not to embarrass us at the ball, will you go with me?”

I stare at the cocoa. Steam curls upward, catching the light. “Are you asking me out?”

His grin falters just slightly. “I’m asking you not to go alone. Or with some creep like Cassian.”

My lips twitch. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Is that a yes?”

I don’t answer. Not yet. Not because I don’t want to. Because something in me still hesitates, a shadow of a voice that doesn’t belong to Luke at all.

Then he reaches across the table and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and for a second, that voice vanishes.

Luke leans in slowly, giving me every chance to move.

I don’t.

The café noise fades around us, spoons clinking, whispers floating until it’s just him and me and the space between us narrowing.

His breath is warm. His eyes are steady. I close mine.

Our noses almost touch.

Then a chill skates across my fingertips.

I flinch.

My cocoa mug is frosting over. A delicate spiral blooms under my thumb, frost responding to pulse.

Luke doesn’t notice. He’s too close.

But I see it. I feel it.

And I can’t pretend anymore.

“Luke,” I whisper, but don’t say anything else.

His eyes open.

I look past him.

Into the glass.

My reflection is still.

Too still.

It lags, just half a second behind me.

And it’s watching.

The reflection doesn’t mimic me.

It stays frozen, lips parted, eyes locked on mine with an awareness that makes my skin crawl.

Luke shifts, glancing toward the window. “What is it?”

I blink and the reflection blinks too. A beat late.

“Nothing,” I lied, pulling my hands into my lap. The frost on my mug melts, dripping onto the table.

But I still feel it. That awareness. Like the girl in the window is watching even when no one else sees her.

Luke’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I think I’m just tired,” I manage. “Long week.”

He nods and leans back, but I don’t relax. The unease doesn’t lift. It sharpens.

Because the glass begins to fog.

It starts at the edges with a soft mist curling across the pane behind Luke’s shoulder.

I watch, heart pounding, as the fog thickens and blurs the spiral etching.

Then letters begin to form.

One stroke at a time. Backward, drawn from the other side.

L.
I.
A.
R.

LIAR.

The word hangs there, smeared into the fog like a curse.

My breath catches.

I grip the edge of the table hard.

Luke follows my gaze and turns but it’s gone. Vanished. The window cleared again. Ordinary.

“Elle?”

I don’t answer.

Because in that brief flash before it vanished, I swear I saw my own eyes glaring back at me.

Not scared. Not confused.

Accusing.

The warmth inside the café doesn’t touch me anymore.

Luke says something soft, steady and  meant to comfort but I can’t hear it over the pounding in my chest.

Because the word doesn’t go away.

It’s in my head now, branded behind my eyelids.

LIAR.

Not a scream. A verdict.

And the worst part?

I don’t even know who it’s meant for.

Luke, for believing in something safe between us.

The shadow, for stealing every breath I pretend doesn’t matter.

Or me, for trying to want one and forget the other.

I blink hard, forcing myself to breathe, to smile, to act like everything is still normal.

Luke reaches across the table again, brushing the back of my hand.

I let him.

But deep down, something cold and ancient curls around my ribs and whispers:

You can lie to him, Elle.
But the Rift knows the truth.