A S H R I E L

Minutes after the mirror cracked, the silence pressed close as breath. The mirror finally stops humming, the kind that makes air sting your lungs. I pull her back, one step, two, until the cracked glass fades behind the shelves. Frost crunches under our shoes, faint as breath. She’s still trembling,  I can feel it through the sleeve between us, through the pulse under her wrist. My palm burns where it touched her, a bright, living ache. The Oath never lets contact slide, it reminds me, every time, what I’m not allowed to want.

The lights flicker once, then die again and somewhere a bell tolls curfew. I move first, guiding her deeper into the library’s belly, where dust blurs everything human. Books lean like graves, the hum of the Rift quiets, but it isn’t gone. It’s following.

“Stay close,” I whisper, she doesn’t answer, only nods, eyes wide, reflecting the faint blue shimmer crawling across the floor where frost tried to follow us.

Footsteps echo, a prefect, maybe two, flashlights sweeping the main aisle. Light washes over the shelves, bright-white, sterile, before sliding away. I press her into the shadow between rows. My back catches the cold stone; her shoulder fits just under my arm. I can smell the paper and the faint soap from her hair.

The guards’ voices drift closer. “The whole floor is short again.”
“Draven says it’s another surge. Keep moving.”

Their boots crunch past the beam of light and hits the cracked mirror at the corridor’s end; for a second it flares like a living thing, then goes still. When silence returns, I exhale slowly. She looks up at me like she’s trying to figure out if we survived something or caused it, maybe both. The air still smelled faintly of cocoa, Luke’s warmth, fading now.

The hum inside my ribs won’t quit. The Oath reacting, proximity always does this. It thinks I’m about to break it. Maybe I am. Her breath hits the space between us in small clouds. Each one rises, fades, rises again. She presses a hand over her scarf, steadying herself. I can see the tremor in her fingers.

“You’re cold,” I say. It comes out rougher than it should.

“I’m fine.” Lie, soft but stubborn. Her lashes are still damp from fear, she’s pretending control, but the frost on the nearby spines gives her away, tiny feathers of ice blooming wherever her focus slips. I reach out before thinking, then stop halfway. The air burns against my palm; the Oath’s warning flares, a static hum crawling down my arm.

She notices. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.” The truth tastes like iron. “But not enough to matter.” It’s quiet again, except for our breathing and the faint rustle of pages turning somewhere deeper in the dark. No wind, no rats, just pages moving, like the library itself is restless.

Another sweep of light flashes through the stacks. Instinct takes over, I lean in, caging her between the shelves. My hand braces the wood beside her head; she presses back against the books, eyes wide, lips parted.

The beam glances off the metal edge near us, and for a second I catch our reflections, ghosts in the glass of a framed map. We look wrong together: her brightness dimmed by fear, my shadow swallowing the rest. The footsteps fade,  I don’t move right away. Her pulse drums against the quiet.

“You shouldn’t keep saving me,” she whispers finally. I shake my head. “I’m not saving you. I’m..” I stop. There’s no word for what this is. Guardian, jailer, fool. Something tightens in her throat. “Luke would’ve told me to run.”

“Luke isn’t here.” I mean it flat, not cruel, but it hangs between us like a confession. Her breath brushes my chin, she doesn’t step back. The frost on the nearest spine begins to crawl again, thin white veins tracing the leather. I should step away but I don’t.

Her eyes lift to mine, steady now. Not brave exactly, just deciding.  The air between us changes. The frost stops crawling, even the hum in my bones hesitates, waiting. I could lie and say it’s only duty that keeps me here, but that would break the Oath faster than touching her ever could.

She whispers, “what happens if I..”

“Don’t.” My voice cracks; too much heat, too much truth.

The words hang there, trembling with everything I’m not saying. My hand slides closer on instinct, until my fingers brush the fabric of her sleeve. The burn hits instantly, sharp and electric, she jerks a little but doesn’t pull away.

Her breath catches. “You’re shaking.”

“So are you.”

I want to step back but I don’t. The world narrows to the rhythm of our breaths syncing, hers quick, mine held like a confession. She leans in, almost imperceptible, like gravity made the choice for her. If I kiss her, the Oath will tear something out of me. If I don’t, it already has.

My forehead finds hers. Just that, forehead to forehead, no air left between. The frost on the books sighs and melts. For one heartbeat, the entire library feels alive, pulsing with us. Then the hum drops lower, darker and the air smells of metal. Something wakes.

The temperature plummets, my exhale fogs white and the hair on my arms lifts. The sound starts soft, pages turning, one after another, faster, until it’s a shiver running through every shelf. She stumbles back, eyes unfocused, like she’s hearing something I can’t.

“What is it?” I demand, already knowing.

Her lips move, barely a breath. “It said my name.”

The hum inside me surges, defensive, painful. The Rift always knows names; that’s how it finds you.

“Elle..”

“No.” Her voice breaks. “Not Elle. Elowen.”

The name slides through the air like a blade, the frost under our feet fractures, spreading outward in a spiral pattern. She clutches the edge of a table; the wood frosts under her palm. I reach for her but stop an inch short. The Oath snarls through my veins, threatening fire if I disobey.

“Don’t listen to it,” I say, stepping closer anyway. “It lies.” Her eyes fill, not with fear but recognition. “That was her voice.” A chill punches through me. “Your mother’s?” She nods once. Then every light in the library flares out.

The sound is small, just a thud behind us, but it cuts through the dark like thunder. We both turn. A single volume has slid from the shelf, heavy, dust clouding up around it. No wind, no reason. Elle kneels, hesitant, her fingers trace the spine; frost follows, sketching faint spirals over the leather. I see the sigil carved into its corner, the same shape branded into my wing armor. Old Lucent script. My stomach drops.

“Don’t,” I start, but she’s already opening it. The pages breathe out cold air, scattering a few pale flakes. She stares down, motionless, then lifts the book slightly so candlelight from the hall spill catches the ink.

“Look,” she whispers. Her mother’s handwriting crawls across the first page, dark and steady, like the words were written yesterday.

Elowen Wrenwood — Final Seal.

Her breath hitches, the sound raw, almost a sob. I move to her side before I think better of it. The Oath burns so hot I taste blood, but I stay there, because she’s reading the next line aloud, voice trembling:

If you find this, the Rift already knows your heart. The frost on the floor flares blue.

When I let go, my hand smokes faintly, skin seared in the same pattern as the sigil on that book.

The words blur, her hand trembles on the page; mine itches to pull her back, to do anything but watch the light drain from her face. The book hums, low and steady, same frequency as the Rift, same rhythm as her pulse. Blue frost leaks from the ink, crawling over her fingers.

“Elle..”

“It’s her,” she says, voice breaking. “She wrote this for me.”

Her gaze drifts down the margin, reading what I can’t yet see. The frost thickens, hardening to glass. I can hear the Oath pounding in my ears, warning me to stay back, but the floor itself starts to groan. Shelves tremble, and the spirals on the tiles spin faster.

I grab her shoulder anyway. The heat that slams through me feels like a blade under my skin.

“Let it go!”

She doesn’t, she’s crying now, quiet, furious tears, as if she’s afraid to blink and lose the last of her mother’s voice. “She knew, she knew about the Rift, about you.. about me.”

The final line on the page brightens until it’s almost white-hot:

Choose what to keep. Or what to burn.

The frost explodes outward. Pages whip free from their bindings, spinning like snow caught in a storm. Her scarf lifts in the current; I throw my arm over her, shielding her as shards of paper slice the air.

When it all settles, the ink is gone. The page blank, she looks up at me, breathless, frost dusting her lashes. “It took her words.”

“No,” I whisper. The hum in my chest spikes. “It took her warning.”

Somewhere beyond the shelves, something answers, a voice, faint but clear, rising through the cold:

“Choose.”

The frost spirals light up again, reaching for her hand, and before I can stop her, she reaches back.