A S H R I E L

The library holds its breath after dusk. Lamps burn low. Dust hangs in the air like thin fog. Shelves make narrow lanes that swallow sound.

She is here.

Elowen Wrenwood sits at the end of an old oak table in the east alcove. Notes spread everywhere. Her scarf has slipped down, like she forgot she’s wearing it. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, flips a page, and mouths a line as she reads. She is trying to stitch sense out of scraps.

I stay in the stacks, one aisle over, where I can see the curve of her cheek through the gap between books. I should not be close. I am always too close.

We have not spoken.

She has only seen me, a still figure in a crowded hall, a shadow at the edge of class, the silent boy on the training yard wall. A weight in the room she could not name. That is enough for now.

Juniper Vale watches from two tables back. Her notebook is open, pen rushing. She pretends to copy a paragraph, but the angle of her wrist is wrong. She is writing about Elowen. About the scarf. About the boy who keeps showing up where the Wrenwood girl goes. Soon, the whole dining hall will know she studied after curfew and a dark-haired stranger sat too near.

The mirrors along the aisles quiver. Only a little. Enough for me to feel it in my bones.

Mirror Shades.

Their faces press against the silver as if from water. No eyes. No breath. Hungry patience. If a student checks their hair in that glass, they will see nothing but themselves. I see the other thing as well, the thin stretch of world between.

Elowen’s pen slows. She rubs her wrist, frowning at nothing. The Shades lean closer. They like the way her name sounds inside the Rift. They like the crack already in her life.

I wrap cold  through my palm and let it seep outward. A warning across the glass. The nearest mirror stiffens, frost webbing the corner for a heartbeat, then fading. The Shades retreat a hand’s width, annoyed.

Elowen glances up. Not at me. At the aisle. Her eyes catch the lamp-glow and search the dark. Careful. Sharp. She feels change even when she can’t name it.

This is the moment to leave.

I do not leave.

I step out from the stacks, quiet as falling ash, and take the long way around the table so she will see me coming. So she will know I did not appear from nowhere. So the first word she hears from me will not be a whisper in her ear. I stop one chair away and wait for her to look up.

She is startled when she finally notices me. The pen slips from her fingers, rolling across her notes.

Her eyes widen with recognition, not familiarity. She knows my face, the shadow at the edges of her days, but not me. Not yet.

“You..” she says, breath catching. “From class. From the hall.”

I incline my head once, silent acknowledgment.

Her scarf shifts as she squares her shoulders. “What’s your name?”

For a moment, I let the question hang. The lamps hum, the mirrors quiver faintly, the Shades pressing nearer. She doesn’t even realize they stir whenever she speaks.

“Names have weight,” I say.

Her brow furrows. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get tonight.”

Before she can argue, I lower a book onto the table between us. Black leather, sigils etched faint along the spine. Rifts and Reflections.

Her gaze drops, curiosity sparking despite her suspicion. She reaches for it, fingers hovering just above the cover. “That’s not from this section.”

“It’s the one you were circling toward.” My voice sounds rough from disuse. “You search from the edges. This is the center.”

Her lips part. “How would you know what I’m searching for?”

Because I’ve been watching. Because the Rift bends toward you. Because I am bound.

But I only say, “Patterns leave trails.”

Behind us, Juniper Vale’s pen scratches faster, capturing every glance, every breath. Soon this moment will belong to the dining hall whispers.

Elle’s fingers finally brush the cover. The sigils glimmer faintly under her touch, as if greeting her. She shivers but doesn’t pull away.

“Careful,” I murmur.

Her eyes flick to mine, sharp with defiance. “Of what?”

Of me. Of the book. Of the prophecy already tightening around her throat. But my oath knots the truth behind my teeth.

I lean back slightly, letting my hand rest on the table, close to hers but not touching. The distance between us is a knife’s edge.

She notices. She always notices.

The air shifts. Not loudly, not enough for Juniper to notice, but I feel it like a tremor through the mirrors, like a ripple in deep water.

The candle nearest us gutters sideways, flame bowing toward the shelves.

Elle frowns, pen half-lifted. “Did you see that?”

Juniper perks up at the sound of her voice. “See what?” she calls, too sweet, pretending she isn’t straining to hear every word.

Elle swallows and shakes her head, dropping her gaze to the book again. But her pulse stutters, fast and uneven, and the Rift hums in my chest in answer.

The Shades lean closer, pressing against the silvered glass. Faces without eyes, hands without lines. Some are blurred, others sharp as bone. They are hungry, and she draws them like flame draws moths.

My hand curls under the table. I will frost into my veins, let it seep out in a thin ring. The mirrors stiffen, their surfaces snapping taut, frost webbing across the corners for a breath.

Elle shivers violently and rubs her arms. “Why is it so cold here?”

“Old stones,” I say. The lie leaves ash in my mouth.

She doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. She forces herself to keep reading, lips moving as she traces the words. Brave. Too brave.

Juniper’s pen is relentless, angled so she can sketch Elle’s profile, the forbidden book between us, maybe even me. The page will carry tonight’s story to every corner of the academy before dawn.

I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Your watcher behind us, she writes to you more than she studies you.”

Elle glances back, quick and sharp, and catches Juniper mid-scribble. Color rises in her cheeks. “She’s not my friend.”

“She watches like one.”

“She watches like everyone,” Elle mutters, quieter now. “Like I’m the villain in some story they can’t wait to see unravel.”

Her words slice sharper than any Shade’s hunger.

I meet her eyes before I can stop myself. “You are not the villain.”

For a moment, she forgets the book, the mirrors, even Juniper. Her gaze holds mine, startled, searching. There’s suspicion there, but also something softer, something that shouldn’t exist yet and  a thread pulling tight between us.

The Shades shift again, as though tasting the tension. In the mirror just behind her, one leans forward. Its head tilts at an impossible angle, mouth peeling wide in silence.

Elle doesn’t see it. But I do.

I stand suddenly, the chair legs scraping against stone. Her eyes follow me, wary, confused, as I step to the shelf. My hand brushes the cold frame, sigils crawling across my skin. Frost races outward in a hiss, and the Shade recoils, slamming back into shadow.

The glass stills.

When I return to the table, she’s watching me like she’s finally glimpsed the edges of what I am.

“What was that?” she whispers.

“Nothing you need to worry about.” My voice is sharper than I intended.

Her suspicion lingers, but so does the spark. She doesn’t look away.

And she doesn’t run.

The library grows too quiet. Even Juniper’s pen slows, pausing mid-scratch as though the air thickens around us.

Elle’s hand hovers over the page, her brows furrowing. “It feels.. wrong,” she whispers.

The lantern above sputters. Shadows jump across the glass at the end of the shelf. For a heartbeat, her reflection stares back at us, ordinary, matching her every move.

Then it doesn’t.

The mirrored Elle straightens while the real one stays bent over the book. The reflection’s hands fold neatly in her lap. Her scarf sits perfect against her throat. Her mirrored eyes lift to mine with a patience that chills me.

Elle blinks at the page, confused, unaware. Her reflection does not blink.

My blood runs colder than frost. “Don’t move,” I say softly.

Her head jerks up, startled. “What?”

In the glass, her reflection lifts one hand and presses it flat against the silver. Frost blooms outward in a spiral, delicate and deliberate.

Juniper gasps, but when I glance back, I realize she sees nothing. Her mortal eyes catch only the ordinary: Elle staring at me, a forbidden book open between us. She will write about that, not the Shade.

The mirrored Elle smiles.

It’s not her smile. Too sharp at the corners, too sweet to be real. A girl’s smile borrowed by a thing that has never been a girl.

Elle notices now. Her body goes rigid. “What.. what is that?”

Her voice cracks, fear roughening the edges. She looks at me like I have answers she’s not sure she wants.

The lantern dies. Darkness falls like a curtain.

I seize her wrist to pull her back,  and feel cold fingers close over mine from inside the reflection.