L U K E

I keep telling myself tonight will fix things. Or at least… soften them. Elle walks beside me under the lanterns, her red dress catching the light, but she looks like she’s barely holding herself together. Her hand in mine is cold — not normal cold, but the kind that makes my fingers ache.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says, but her voice sounds paper-thin. I squeeze her hand gently, pretending it helps. Pretending my warmth still means something to her body, to whatever has been twisting her up these last few weeks.

The woods are quiet behind us, the square glowing ahead, students laughing as they head inside. It should feel good, all this normal noise. But Elle’s shoulders stay lifted like she’s waiting for something to fall. I pretend I don’t notice. I need tonight to matter.

The ballroom is ridiculous in the best way with chandeliers dripping light, glitter everywhere, music looping like a warm blanket. Everyone else walks in smiling. Elle stops just inside the doorway like the brightness stings.

She scans the room, not admiring anything, just… checking. Shadows, corners, mirrors. Like the danger isn’t out in the woods tonight — it’s here, with the string lights and cupcakes.

I move closer, blocking a few staring juniors. “Hey,” I murmured, nudging her shoulder. “One normal night. Deal?” Her lips twitch. Not a smile, but close.

“Deal,” she whispers. I breathe a little easier. If I can keep her focused on me..  on us.. maybe things won’t spiral again. Maybe the cold in her hands is just nerves.  Maybe I can still be the warm place she comes back to.

We don’t make it ten steps before Maribel pounces. Maribel fans herself with that glittery mask of hers and lets her voice carry. 

“Cute,” she says. “Ravenshade’s little love triangle arrives.” Her friends snicker. Anya gives Elle this pitiful once-over like she’s already deciding who’ll break first.

“Ignore them,” I mutter, guiding her away. She nods, but her jaw tightens. Of course she hears them. Of course they know exactly where to hit. I hate that they get to her like this. That they get to me like this. I take her hand again, thumb brushing her knuckles. One dance. That’s all I want. Just one moment where she isn’t shrinking from every whisper.

The music shifts into a slow waltz, and something in me leaps at the chance.

“Dance with me?” I ask. She hesitates, just half a second, but I feel it like a fist to the ribs. Then she puts her hand in mine, and I pull her close. Her dress brushes my legs, her breath soft against my neck, and for a moment I swear we’re back at Nan’s cottage, swaying to some scratchy old radio.

Her hand rests on my shoulder, careful, light. She’s not relaxed, but the tension in her spine eases a little. I cling to that like it’s proof. Proof I still matter. Proof warmth still works. We move slowly, in a circle that feels smaller than everyone else’s. A tiny bubble where it’s just us. I want to stay here forever. Before the cold catches up.

I brush a piece of hair behind her ear, gentle, familiar. Her whole body reacts like she’s been shocked. Cold floods up my arm, sharp enough to make me gasp.
“Elle..”
She shakes her head, eyes wide. “I’m fine.” She’s not. A thin frost spreads over the edge of the dance floor, delicate but impossible to ignore. Someone gasps. Someone else mutters, “Seriously?”

Elle’s breath trembles out in a visible puff. Her fingers tighten on mine, trying to steady herself, but she feels miles away. The music falters, a violin screeching off-key and the lights above us flicker like a dying candle. Most people laugh it off, but Elle goes completely still. Too still. Her eyes unfocus, like she’s listening to something she can’t block out.

I lean in. “Elle? Talk to me.” She doesn’t blink. And there, under the strings, under the chatter,  I swear I hear it too:

Choose… choose… Her hand slips from mine. The cold stays.

Elle pulls her hand back like the cold burned her, not me. She steps away, breathing fast, eyes darting toward the ballroom entrance as if something or someone might be standing there.

My chest twists.
“Elle,” I whisper, moving closer, “stay with me, okay?”

But she’s barely hearing me. Her gaze keeps sliding over my shoulder, toward the door, toward the shadows gathering near the hallway like the air is changing shape. I shouldn’t take it personally. I know that. She’s scared, overwhelmed, drowning in whatever the Rift keeps doing to her. But the part of me that’s human,  the stupid, loyal, stubborn part feels the hit anyway.

“You’re looking for someone,” I say before I can stop myself. Her mouth opens like she wants to deny it, but nothing comes out. And something ugly flares in me — jealousy, fear, something burning because I’m losing her even when she’s right in front of me. I swallow it down before it can turn into something worse.

The music dips again, like the speakers are underwater for a second. A few lights flicker, turning the chandelier shadows long and shaky across the dance floor. People glance around, confused.
Someone jokes, “Rift glitch!”  Nervous laughter follows. But then a mirror on the far wall fogs over, fast like someone exhaled against the glass from the inside. Elle stiffens immediately.

I look toward the hallway where the fog is thickest. For half a second, I swear I see something standing there, too still, too tall, like a person forgetting how to be a person. Then a group of students walk past, blocking my view, and the shape is gone. The temperature drops. I rub my palms together, trying to fight the chill, but it’s not that kind of cold. It’s the kind that settles in your bones and waits.

Elle whispers, “Luke..” But she doesn’t finish. She doesn’t need to. Something is coming.

The ballroom doors open. It’s quiet, not dramatic, just a shift in the air but my whole body reacts before my brain catches up. Elle’s breath catches, sharp and silent. Her fingers twitch at her sides. And then I see him.

Ashriel walks in like the room was waiting for him. Dark suit, black mask, the kind of stillness that makes everyone else look loud. Moonlight spills behind him, outlining him in silver like a spotlight that isn’t supposed to be there.

He doesn’t look around. He doesn’t need to. His eyes go straight to Elle. Something in my stomach drops straight through the floor. Elle’s entire body reacts her shoulders, her breathing, even the frost humming under her skin. Like the cold isn’t hurting her anymore. Like it recognizes him.

People around us stop dancing. Conversations die out. It’s like watching a crowd lean toward a fire or a cliff edge, hungry for the fall.

Someone near us whispers, “Oh wow. Here we go.” I want to hate him. I want to shove him right back through those doors. But all I can do is stand here and feel the exact moment she stops thinking about me.

He starts walking. Not fast. Not slow. Just… inevitable. Students part for him without realizing they’re doing it. Nobody wants to be in his way. Maybe they don’t even see him clearly, just a shift, a cold draft, something their instincts scream not to touch.

I step in front of Elle, because that’s all I know how to do. My hand finds hers again, desperate, stupid. The second I touch her, frost spiders out under our shoes. Not an explosion,  just a thin crackle, like ice forming on a pond. Elle gasps softly. I tighten my grip.

“Stay with me,” I murmur. She lifts her eyes to mine, and for the first time tonight… I see real conflict there. Real pain. She’s choosing or trying to. But Ashriel keeps coming. His gaze never leaves her. Not even when he steps right into the center of the floor, students are circling around like he’s gravity and they’re debris.

The violins stretch one long, trembling note.  Someone else whispers, “This is bad.”
And I feel it too, this invisible pull, dragging her from my hands inch by inch. I hold tighter. But she’s already leaning toward him without moving at all.

Ashriel stops in front of us.  Right there — inches away. Close enough that the cold off him hits my skin. He doesn’t bow. Doesn’t greet me. Doesn’t acknowledge anyone except her. He just extends a hand toward Elle,  steady, certain, like the offer was written in stone long before either of us got here. Elle’s fingers twitch in mine.

“No,” I whisper, barely breathing the word. “Elle. Don’t.” She looks at me and God, it hurts how much she looks like she wishes she could stay. Then Ashriel speaks. Quiet. Even. Final.

“She wasn’t meant to dance with you.” The words hit harder than any punch I’ve ever taken. Elle’s hand slips from mine. The music crashes back in. People gasp. And the last thing I see before the crowd swallows us is her stepping toward him — toward the cold, toward the shadows, toward whatever fate has been whispering in her ear.