They called it a disruption. That’s what Headmistress Draven said when the frost sigils lit up the combat hall and the lights died. When the air tasted like ash and my hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Luke tried to defend me. Korran barked something about control. And him.. Ashriel, if that’s really his name, stood silent, eyes like stormlight caught in ice.
Now the frost mark hides beneath my sleeve, pulsing faintly. And for our disruption, we’ve been given detention. Together.
Caretaker Silas waits in the west corridor with two metal buckets and a look that says he wants to be anywhere else. The hall smells of polish and old smoke, the kind of place time forgets.
“Buff the rails,” he mutters, sliding one bucket toward me, the other toward him. “All the way to the mirror landing. No magic. No talking.”
I almost laughed. No talking, as if that’s ever been his problem.
He takes the rag without looking at me. His sleeve brushes mine, cool through the fabric. The mark under my skin stirs.
Light from the fixtures pools unevenly along the corridor, glinting on brass rails and tall wall mirrors. My reflection flickers on each surface, too pale and too still.
When Silas leaves, silence deepens. I kneel to the first rail and dip the rag into cloudy wax. The scent of lemon and metal stings.
He starts at the other end, movements quiet and practiced. Not human. Even the way he polishes feels learned rather than lived.
The corridor hums faintly. Or maybe it’s just my pulse, knocking against the mark hidden under my sleeve.
The west wing has always felt different; it seems older. The stone here holds cold even when fires burn. And the mirrors are always too clean, as if someone polishes them at night.
Dust drifts in slow spirals. Our steps echo longer than they should, like the hall is listening.
I glance toward the far end, where the mirror landing waits. The Frostmark Mirror once hung there before they moved it. Only a ghost remains where frost stains in the shape of a frame.
A whisper threads the air, soft as cloth sliding over glass. For a moment, I think it’s just wax hissing. Then it shapes into sound.
“Elle.”
My hand freezes.
The voice is warm. Familiar like Luke’s.
I turn. The corridor is empty except for him, still polishing and shoulders tense.
The whisper returns, closer. “Elle, don’t trust him.”
My pulse spikes. Wax drips onto the stone, hissing, then freezing to frost.
He looks up. “You heard it,” I whisper.
He nods. “The Rift likes to imitate what you love most.”
We fall into silence again, but it’s uneasy. Each time his sleeve brushes mine, the air tenses. Frost webs along the rail under my fingers, vanishing when I blink.
I tell myself it’s just the wax reacting to cold stone. But the mark in my skin answers with every beat.
He moves with the same quiet precision as before, but I feel him watching just at the edge of my focus. Words press into my throat.
“You didn’t have to take the blame,” I say softly.
He doesn’t look up. “I didn’t.”
I frown and scrub harder at a tarnished spot. “Draven said you started the frost surge.”
“I did,” he says. “You finished it.”
The words slide through me like a blade wrapped in silk. I glance over. His face gives nothing away, except the glint of frostlight in his eyes.
Our hands meet at the same rail. Skin touches skin. The mark flares cold, and frost blooms in a ring where our fingers touch.
He pulls back. “You feel it too.”
I don’t speak. My breath clouds.
The corridor hums lower now, like the building is breathing. The frost fades, leaving a silver sheen.
I wiped it away. My heart won’t slow. The whisper returns, no longer in Luke’s voice, but using its warmth.
He’ll ruin you. Choose the light, Elle. Before it’s too late.
I whisper, “Stop.”
He glances at me. “It’s speaking to you again.”
I nod. I can’t look away from the mirror. My reflection lags behind.
He steps closer, shadows breaking over his face. “Don’t answer it,” he says. “Every word you give the Rift, it keeps.”
His voice is gentle, almost tender beneath the warning.
The whisper vanishes. The silence that follows feels heavy.
“You’ve heard it before,” I say.
“I have.”
“And?”
“It never tells the same lie twice.”
The sorrow in his voice catches me off guard.
We move again, slower. My rag squeaks. His hand moves beside mine. The space between us shrinks.
“I don’t understand you,” I whisper. “Sometimes you act like you hate me. Then you…” I trail off. He’s close, shoulder brushing mine. “Then you save me.”
His gaze finds the mirror, not me. “It’s not a choice.”
“Everything is.”
“Not for me.” The words are quiet and sharp.
I straighten. “You sound like someone who’s done something awful.”
He finally looks at me. I see it then the exhaustion, the regret.
“I was made to protect the Seal,” he says. “What happens after… that isn’t written for me.”
“The Seal,” I repeat. “You mean me.”
He doesn’t deny it.
I step closer. “Then tell me what you were before that.”
He pauses. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
His hand twitches. Shadow flickers at his wrist. “Both.”
The mark under my skin answers.
We reach the end of the corridor, where the mirrors grow tall, floor to ceiling. The light wavers in them, stretching into endless copies.
He sets his bucket down. “This is far enough.”
I nod, but my eyes catch on our reflections. They lag, just slightly. When I move, mine is slow. When he straightens, his keeps going.
His reflection unfolds. Shoulders rise with unnatural grace. Wings bloom with black steel edged in frostlight spanning the full mirror. The metal breath of them echoes down the hall.
I stagger back. My heart slams. He doesn’t move.
The other version of him with wings wide turns its head. Its eyes glow silver. Then it folds the wings and stills.
“Ashriel,” I whisper. “Did you see..”
“Yes,” he says. “You weren’t supposed to.”
The mark in my skin burns, echoing the frostlight fading in the mirror. The air tastes of metal.
I step closer. “Don’t pretend that was nothing.”
“Reflections lie,” he says. But his voice is thin.
“Not this time.” My voice rises. “You say you’re protecting me. But from what? From you?”
His face shifts with raw, almost broken. “You shouldn’t ask questions you already feel the answers to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He exhales. “I wasn’t born to walk your world, Elle. I was forged for it. Bound to it. To you.”
The word lingers between us. Bound. The mark pulses in time.
I feel it now, a thread between us. The weight of it makes me sway. “Bound how?”
“By oath. By sin. By chains older than the Rift itself.”
The mirrors tremble. Frost veins spider across their surfaces.
The lights go out all at once. Darkness floods in, broken only by frost shimmer along the rail.
In the dark mirrors, our reflections glow faintly. Mine opens its mouth first.
“Choose,” it whispers.
The voice is ours, his and mine.
I step back, clutching my arm as the mark flares. “Ashriel..”
He reaches for me, calm, eyes lit from within. “Don’t answer it.”
Frost cracks between us, lighting his face.
For the first time, he looks afraid.
“What are you?” I breathe.
His voice is quiet and final. “Bound.”
The word echoes like a heartbeat. The mirrors flash white.
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