E L L E

Draven’s words still echo in my head as I cross the courtyard toward the seamstress hall. You will attend the Ball, Miss Wrenwood. It is necessary.

Necessary. Not optional. Not a suggestion. A command.

I told myself I’d forgotten the way she said it, calm like she was already tired of knowing the ending. But I can still feel it. That slow certainty in her eyes. That quiet edge under her voice.

The frost under my palm hasn’t faded. Even hours later, it’s there, hiding beneath my gloves, pulsing against my skin like it remembers.

And him. The boy who stood in the corner while she spoke. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even move. Just watched. Now every time I think of him, it feels like standing too close to a storm.

“Attend the Ball,” I whisper, pulling my scarf tighter. “Smile. Pretend.”

But pretending doesn’t come easy when your heartbeat feels like it’s made of ice.

The hallway outside the seamstress room hums with noise, fabric rustling, laughter bouncing off stone walls, scissors clicking too fast. Students rush past carrying half-finished gowns, ribbons spilling behind them like comet tails.

Candlelight glints off the tall mirrors and for a second, my reflection lags, half a heartbeat behind me. I blink and it catches up, too fast, like it’s pretending nothing happened.

Everything smells of starch and nerves. The Ravencrest seamstress hall only opens before big events, the Harvest Ball, Founder’s Week, graduation. The kind of days everyone pretends mean everything. Tables overflow with ribbons and gemstones, while upperclass girls brag about who’s escorting them and who’s brave enough to dance with a prefect.

I wish I could disappear into the floor.

Instead, my name slides through the noise again, a whisper traveling like static: “Wrenwood.” “Her frost again?” “Maybe she hexed her locker.”

I keep walking, even though my throat burns. My breath fogs the glass beside me.

“Next group!” The head seamstress barks, voice sharp enough to cut thread. “Line up by height, please!”

The line shifts, and of course Maribel Crane claims the front. Her gown shimmers rose-gold under candlelight, catching every eye like it’s a spotlight just for her.

She doesn’t bother looking at me when she says, “Careful not to trip, Wrenwood. You wouldn’t want to freeze the fabric again.”

Soft laughter flutters through the room. I stare straight at the mirror. My reflection looks steadier than I feel.

“Did you hear?” someone nearby whispers. “Draven made her go to the Ball. Probably felt sorry for her.”

“Or maybe it’s punishment,” another girl says. “Maybe the frost likes parties.”

The seamstress tightens the pins around my waist. Her hands shake when they brush the fabric.

Across the room, Maribel’s laughter rings again, too loud, too pointed. “She’s lucky she wasn’t expelled for what happened in Draven’s office. I’d have melted if that new boy looked at me like that.”

My stomach twists. My pulse turns cold.

A shadow stretches across the floor. For a second I think it’s him, the boy from Draven’s office but then Luke’s voice hits me, warm and solid.

“Caught you playing dress-up,” he says, leaning on the doorframe like he owns the place. His hair’s a mess, uniform jacket half unbuttoned, grin just crooked enough to make everything feel a little lighter.

“You’re supposed to be in class,” I tell him.

“Got out early,” he says. “Korran’s in one of his moods again. Figured I’d rather risk being stabbed by a pin than a wooden sword.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping lower. “You okay? You look… pale.”

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t buy it, I can tell. He picks up a pin from the table and twirls it between his fingers. “You’ll look amazing, you know. Just, promise me you won’t hide all night. I’ll be there. Where you can see me. Dance or not.”

His words are simple but they land somewhere deep. Familiar. Safe.

And still, the cold under my skin doesn’t melt.

“Oh, how sweet,” Maribel says, stepping closer. Her tone is light but her eyes are sharp. “Relax, Wrenwood. I’ll only borrow your Luke for the first dance.”

The whole room goes quiet.

Luke stiffens beside me, but I answer first. “Do what you want, Maribel. I’m not his keeper.”

Her mouth curls. “No, you’re just the curse that keeps following him around.” Laughter again, quick and brittle.

I keep my smile small and sharp. “Careful,” I tell her. “Curses tend to stick.”

For once, she hesitates. Just long enough for it to feel like I’ve won something before the heat drains from my face. I don’t want this kind of attention. But it’s too late, the air is already colder.

The seamstress gasps. “Oh..”

Everyone turns. Frost creeps over the silver trim of my dress, curling like lace, delicate and glittering under the lights. The design spirals outward, perfect and impossibly intricate.

“She’s doing it again,” someone whispers.
“Look, on her hands!”
“It’s spreading!”

The seamstress jerks back, nearly dropping her pins. “Drafts,” she says too fast. “These old halls are full of them. Mind your footing, girls.”

No one believes her. Not really. Even Luke stares, eyes wide, the warmth gone from his face. I back away, heart hammering, the hem of the gown whispering against the floor. The frost shines brighter, like it’s breathing.

My breath fogs the mirror beside me. For a second, through that thin mist, I see a shape behind my reflection. Tall. Still. Watching.

When I blink, it’s gone.

“Let’s move you to the back for finishing,” the seamstress says tightly. She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She just grabs the edge of my sleeve and pushes me through a curtain into a smaller alcove.

It’s quieter here. Colder. The moment the curtain falls, the hum in my chest steadies, like the frost itself is listening.

I run a hand down the bodice. “It’s just stress,” I whisper. “It’s nothing.”

“Then why are you shaking?” The voice comes from the far corner.

I forget how to breathe for a second. He’s there, the same boy who’s been shadowing the edges of my days since the first week. The one who pulled me out of the frost spiral in the east hall. The one who never stays long enough for anyone else to notice.

Dark hair, gray eyes, that stillness that makes the air feel too thin.

“You shouldn’t ignore it,” he says quietly, gaze flicking to the frost curling along the hem. “It hurts more when you do.”

I swallow hard. “You… again.” His mouth almost curves. “You sound surprised.”

“I thought..” My voice cracks. “I don’t even know your name.” Something shifts in his expression, unreadable. “Maybe it’s better that way. For now.” The lights flicker once, and when I blink, he’s gone. Only the curtain sways.

The seamstress comes back, pale as parchment. “Hold still, dear,” she murmurs. Her fingers tremble as she lifts the skirt. Then she freezes.

The frost pattern glows faintly now, spiraling just like the strange symbol Draven traced on her desk earlier.

“Oh my god!…” she whispers, crossing herself. Then, quieter: “Seer’s child.”

My pulse jumps. “What did you just say?”

She shakes her head fast, pretending she didn’t speak. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just… the air’s cold tonight.”

Her eyes won’t meet mine. When she finishes, she hurries away without touching me again.

The room feels smaller, like the mirrors are crowding in. Through the curtain I can still hear voices, Maribel laughing again, Luke’s steady murmur. The world goes on like nothing’s happened. Inside me, everything hums wrong.

Seer’s child.  The words echo in my ribs.  Draven’s voice twines with it. It is necessary. Maybe that’s what she meant. Maybe the Ball isn’t about tradition, it’s a test.

The frost crawls higher, brushing my wrist. My fingers burn, then go numb. I press them to my lips and taste metal. I don’t know if I’m more afraid of what’s happening to me… or what it wants.

When I finally look up, the mirror’s different. My reflection stands there, but she’s not in sync. Her lips move a breath after mine, her eyes colder, sharper.

Choose, the reflection whispers. The word threads through the room, soft and thin, like someone tearing fabric. I stumble back into a rack of gowns. Silk and pins scatter across the floor. The reflection doesn’t flinch. She only smiles.

Outside, Luke calls my name. I can’t answer. My throat’s locked tight. Because in the frost-clouded glass, behind the other girl’s shoulder, there’s a shadow.
Tall. Still. Waiting, and this time, I don’t think it’s my imagination.