E L L E

By the time I reach the girls’ dormitory, my head still buzzes with Professor Maelor’s words. The Guardian saves or dooms her. The echo won’t leave, even as I climb the creaking staircase and push into the long corridor lined with carved oak doors.

The dorm hums with life. Laughter, hairbrushes clattering on vanities, ribbons being tied into braids. Warm candlelight softens the stone walls, but it doesn’t soften the voices.

“That’s her scarf,” someone says as soon as I pass through the common room. “Her mother wore it the night she died.”

Another voice, sharper: “She wears it every day, like it’s cursed too.”

Heat climbs my throat. I tug the scarf higher, fingers white-knuckled around the fabric.

The girls don’t stop.

“Maybe it hides something. A mark.”

A pause. Then soft laughter, like knives behind curtains.

I grip the strap of my bag tighter and walk faster, ignoring the open stares. At the end of the corridor, my assigned room waits. Second from the corner, beneath a drafty window. The least wanted space, of course.

I push inside and shut the door quickly, muffling the noise. The air is colder here, the plaster walls cracked, the single lamp flickering. A narrow bed waits under the window, sheets thin as paper.

At least it’s mine.

I drop my bag with a thud and sit on the edge of the mattress, tugging the scarf loose at last. The fabric pools in my lap, smelling faintly of lavender and smoke. My chest aches, but I draw in a long breath.

The girls’ voices still filter through the stone.

“Wrenwood.”
“Curse-blood.”
“No wonder she keeps to herself.”

Each word seeps under my skin, familiar as the scarf itself. I should get used to it. I tell myself I don’t care.

But I do. I always do.

Curling onto the mattress, I clutch the scarf like a shield. The room is too quiet now, their laughter a dull thrum beyond the wall. Here, I can almost pretend I’m safe. Almost.

Because at Ravenshade, even silence carries whispers.

A knock comes after lights-out. Soft, hesitant. Three taps against the door.

I freeze, clutching the scarf tighter. No one should be here. Prefects patrol at night, and the girls would rather die than risk being caught sneaking into my room.

Another knock. Quieter this time.

“It’s me,” Luke’s voice whispers.

Relief loosens my shoulders before I can think better of it. I hurry across the creaking floor and crack the door just wide enough to see him. His hood is up, damp with mist, eyes bright in the sliver of candlelight.

“Luke,” I hissed. “You’ll get caught.”

“Relax. Prefects are busy scolding Cassian for setting fire to his own homework.” His grin is quick, conspiratorial, like we’re twelve again sneaking cocoa from Nan’s kitchen.

Still, I step aside to let him in. He slips through the gap and closes the door, tugging the hood back. The tiny room shrinks with him inside it, his warmth filling the space.

“You should be asleep,” I tell him, trying sternly, but my voice sounds tired even to me.

“So should you.” He studies me, frowning at the scarf still tangled in my hands. “They were awful tonight, weren’t they?”

My throat tightens. “I’ve heard worse.”

“Doesn’t mean you should have to.” His jaw works like he wants to say more but reins it back. That’s Luke, always wanting to fight my battles, always holding the line.

I try to smile. It wobbles, but it’s real. “You risked getting detention just to hover over me?”

He shrugs, boyish and stubborn. “Worth it.”

Something warm stirs under my ribs. I’m so used to bracing against cold, against whispers, that his presence feels like stepping into sunlight. Exhaustion presses at my bones, but for the first time all day, I don’t feel alone.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

Luke softens at that, all the sharp lines easing. “Get some sleep, Elle. Don’t listen to them. They don’t know you like I do.”

I nod, even though sleep feels far away.

When he slips back out, the room chills again. My smile lingers, faint but steady, even as the silence presses in thicker than before.

For a moment, warmth wins.

The quiet settles heavier after Luke leaves. I blow out the candle, but the draft sneaking through the window keeps the flame sputtering, refusing to die. Shadows crawl long across the cracked plaster.

I should lie down. Pretend to sleep until it comes. Instead, my eyes keep tugging toward the tall mirror bolted to the wall opposite the bed.

It’s nothing special, just old and the silver backing spotted, frame chipped. The kind of thing you barely notice. But tonight it feels… expectant.

I sit up straighter, pulling the scarf back around my shoulders. The air tastes faintly metallic, like frost on iron.

“Elowen…”

The whisper shreds the silence.

My chest seizes. I know that voice. Not Professor Maelor’s soft cadence. Not the cruel lilt of gossiping girls. Not Luke’s warmth.

My mother’s.

“No,” I breathe, clutching the scarf tighter. My pulse hammers so hard it aches.

“Elowen…” The mirror fogs, just a faint bloom at first, like someone breathing against the glass from the other side. My name again, tender, coaxing.

I scramble to my feet, heart clawing at my ribs. “You’re not real,” I whisper back. “You’re gone.”

But the fog spreads, spiraling in delicate frost patterns across the glass. Lavender drifts into my memory, her hands, her voice, the scarf she wrapped around my neck the night before she died.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t listen. Don’t answer.

The whispers crawl through the cracks anyway. “My sweet girl. You can’t hide.”

A sob catches at the base of my throat. Every instinct screams to run, to rip the mirror down, smash it until nothing can look back. But I can’t move.

When I finally force my eyes open, the frost spirals glimmer faintly, curling in the same shape I traced earlier in Folklore class. The same pattern that burned under my palm.

“Elowen.” Softer now. Almost a lullaby.

I stumble back against the bedpost, breath ragged. My hands shake so hard the scarf slips from my grip, pooling at my feet.

She’s gone. I saw her grave. I’ve lived without her for years. And yet..

The mirror hums faintly, like a note held too long.

I press both hands to my ears, trying to drown it out. “Stop.”

The whisper sighs once more, fading like smoke through cracks. The frost lingers.

I don’t know if I’m shaking from fear or longing.

Maybe both.

At last, I can’t take it anymore. I tear my gaze away and drop onto the bed, yanking the blanket up like that flimsy fabric can shield me from ghosts.

The room is still. My breath rasps too loud in the quiet. After a moment, I force myself to glance back, just to prove it’s over, that I imagined it all.

The mirror waits. Frost clings faintly to the edges, but the glass is clear now. Empty.

My reflection stares back, pale and shaken, scarf slipping loose around my shoulders.

Relief tumbles through me so fast I nearly laugh. See? Just me. Just a girl too tired, too haunted by whispers that don’t belong in the living world.

I sink onto the mattress, pressing both palms over my face.

Don’t cry. Don’t break. Just sleep.

When I lower my hands again, my breath catches.

The reflection hasn’t moved.

I blink. My body shifts forward on the bed, but in the mirror, I’m still sitting stiff and upright, scarf tight at my neck, eyes locked on me with a cold patience that isn’t mine.

Every drop of warmth drains from my skin.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head hard. “That’s not.. ”

The glass fogs again, only behind the mirrored version. Frost curls from her mouth like a breath of winter air.

She smiles.

I lurch backward so fast I nearly fall from the bed, heart battering my ribs. My hands claw at the blanket, at the scarf, anything solid to prove I’m here, I’m real.

The reflection doesn’t follow. It just watches, calm, steady, waiting.

The draft through the cracked window swells, snuffing the candle at last. Darkness swallows the room.

But even in the black, I feel her eyes.

Waiting in the glass.