E L L E

I don’t realize I’m shaking until I see the frost dust lifting off my sleeves, rising like breath in winter. I close my fists so hard my nails dig into my palms, but that only makes the cold pulse harder. It feels like something under my skin is trying to get out.

Luke’s face won’t leave my head,  the way he looked at me, like I was something he didn’t recognize anymore. The way he walked away. The way I couldn’t say the one thing he needed.

I keep replaying it with every step. Frost crackles along the edges of my boots, tiny white hairs of ice fanning out behind me. I try to stomp it down, pretend it’s not following, but it keeps forming anyway. The hallway looks brighter than usual, too sharp, like the lights are reflecting off the cold bleeding out of me.

Students stare. Some turn the corner too fast. One girl actually backs into a doorway as I pass. Someone whispers my name and the word unstable in the same breath. Ravenshade rumor metabolism: seconds to circulate, minutes to ruin you.

Maribel probably already has a full-blown novel drafted about what she saw. My throat aches. I keep swallowing but it won’t go away. The invitation card from the frost spiral is still in my pocket, burning and freezing at the same time.

By the time I reach Draven’s office, my hands feel numb. Her door is already open, like she knew I was coming. Of course she did.

“Miss Wrenwood,” Draven says without looking up. Her voice is too calm. Too sharp. “Close the door.”

I freeze for a second because I swear the air in her office is colder than the hallway. Not naturally cold—controlled. Like she adjusted it on purpose. I shut the door. The click sounds loud.

Draven lifts her gaze, and for half a second something flickers in her eyes, something like calculation, like she’s counting the pieces of me that are out of order. Her office is spotless, not a single paper out of place, everything dark wood and metal edges that shine like they’ve been polished by some unseen assistant.

She obviously notices the frost clinging to my clothes, but she doesn’t comment. That almost makes it worse.

“Sit,” she says.

I do, because you don’t argue with Headmistress Draven unless you want to combust on the spot. As soon as I lower myself into the chair, a thin line of frost creeps along the corner of her desk, moving slow, like a cautious animal sniffing its way forward. I want to brush it away, hide it, something—but Draven doesn’t even flinch. She doesn’t look at it. She just keeps watching me.

“Something happened in the North Wing,” she says. Not a question. “Two first-years reported a disturbance. Cryomantic residue. Whisper echoes.” A pause. “And… a summons.” My heart free-falls. She already knows.

“I’m not..” I start, but Draven lifts a hand and I shut up instantly.

“You will attend the Harvest Moon Ball tonight,” she says, like she’s discussing my class schedule. “No arguments.”

A quiet laugh escapes me, except it’s not really a laugh. More like something breaking sideways. “You… you can’t be serious. After what happened..”

“Especially after what happened,” she corrects. “Your presence is required.”

I shake my head because this feels insane. My chest hurts. “Students are literally running away from me. Luke..” My voice catches before I can stop it. “Everyone thinks I’m dangerous.”

“They will think many things,” Draven says, folding her hands. “But hiding would confirm all of them. Showing your face tonight is non-negotiable.”

Cold climbs up my spine. “I don’t feel safe.”

Her eyes sharpen. “And do you think you will be safer in the halls? Alone?” She leans back slightly. “The Hollowed have been sighted twice this week. Patrols are stretched thin. The Ball is the most heavily monitored location on campus. Containment, security, faculty oversight.” Her voice softens by a fraction. “It is the safest place for you to be.”

A bitter pressure builds behind my eyes. “So I’m… what? Being managed?”

“You are being protected,” she says. “And, if I’m honest, so is everyone else.” A crack runs through the frost on her desk, spreading like a web. Draven still ignores it.

“It is essential that the academy sees you tonight,” she continues. “Calm. Present. Upright. If you do not appear, the whispers about you will become something far more difficult to contain.” I feel like I can’t breathe. Draven exhales once, quietly, like she’s preparing herself to say something she doesn’t want to.

“The disturbance in the corridor,” she says. “The echo you heard. The frost manifestation. The… summons.” Her fingers press together. “It is all connected to a node within this academy.”

My pulse stutters. “A what?”

“A Rift node, Miss Wrenwood.” Her voice drops lower, colder. “A dormant point of convergence. And it is no longer dormant.” The words hit me like cold water poured straight down my spine.

I shake my head. “I don’t.. I don’t understand. What does that have to do with me?” Draven finally, glances at the frost inching toward her. Just once. Then back to me.

“Everything.” My stomach twists. She rises from her chair, walks to a shelf behind her desk. Her fingers brush the spine of a thick, leather-bound logbook—old, cracked, familiar in a way that makes my throat tighten.

“That book.” I start.

“Yes,” Draven says. “Your mother’s research was more extensive than you realize.”

It feels like the room tilts. “My.. my mother studied here?”

“She studied many things.” Draven’s tone gives nothing away. “And she came closer than anyone to understanding the nature of that node.”

I grip the chair arms so hard my knuckles ache. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Because you were not ready,” she says simply. “And because understanding it may destroy you.”

My breath snags. “What does that mean?” Draven closes the logbook slowly. Deliberately.

“It means,” she says, turning back toward me, “that whatever awakened in that hallway tonight… recognized you.” My whole body goes cold.

I don’t realize I’ve gone silent until Draven studies my face like she’s waiting for me to admit something I haven’t even understood yet. Her eyes soften, not kindly, but knowingly. The way a surgeon softens right before cutting.

“You’re unraveling,” she says quietly.

“I’m not..” The words scrape. I swallow hard. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the word. “Or heartbroken?”

My breath jerks. “That’s not.. It’s none of your..”

“Miss Wrenwood.” She steps closer. Not threatening, but precise. “You cannot afford emotional fractures right now. You cannot afford divided loyalties.”

My cheeks burn. Luke walking away flashes behind my eyes again. His voice. Tell me he means nothing. The way silence was my only answer. I look down at my hands because looking at her feels like being pinned to a dissecting table.

Draven leans a hip against the desk, posture smooth and unshakable. “You stand between two forces,” she says, “and both are pulling you in opposite directions. One toward warmth.” A pause. “One toward shadow.” I hate how the words land exactly where my chest is weakest.

“This choice you’re avoiding..” she continues softly, “it will shape everything.”

My throat feels too tight. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Draven murmurs. “But refusing to choose is still a choice.”

The frost on the desk suddenly jumps like it heard her. A thin crack races outward, splitting across the surface in branching veins. I flinch, instinctively pulling my hands into my lap. The frost doesn’t reach for Draven.  It reaches for me.

It curls around the edge of the desk, then stops, just a few inches from my knee. A perfect, trembling line.
Waiting.

Waiting for what I decide. What I admit. What I choose. My breath fogs the air, and for a heartbeat it feels like the whole room is holding still, listening to something under my skin. I curl my fingers into fists and look away. I pretend I didn’t see it. Draven watches me like my denial is an answer in itself.

“History is unkind on this subject,” she says softly. “The Final Seal never survives the closing. It is a truth written across every record we have.” My breath stops completely. Cold blooms across my chest, sharp and painful.

I manage, barely, “Are you saying I’m supposed to..”

“I’m saying,” Draven interrupts, stepping in front of me again, “that the choice in front of you is not merely romantic. Or academic. Or personal.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “It is catastrophic. If you choose the wrong path, if you align with the wrong force…”

The lights flicker overhead. Once. Twice. A soft hum ripples through the air, like a whisper just beneath hearing. The frost on the desk splinters outward in a sudden rush, blooming in a fractal burst across the wood. Draven lowers her voice to almost a whisper.

“Walk into that ballroom tonight with your head high. Because if you choose wrong, Miss Wrenwood…” She leans in.

“…we all pay.”

The lights snap once more, sharp enough to sting my eyes. And from somewhere deep in the office, too close, too real, a single word echoes in a hollow, cold voice that is almost mine:

“Choose.”