E L L E

By morning, I almost convinced myself the library was a dream. Mirrors don’t smile. Reflections don’t touch. Hands don’t reach out of the glass.

And yet, I still feel the phantom press of cold fingers on my wrist.

I tell myself not to think about it. Not here. Not with Luke walking beside me, steady as ever, holding both our trays like he always does.

The dining hall is already bursting with noise, sunlight streaming in through the tall arched windows. The smell of buttered rolls and spiced tea mixes with parchment and ink from the students who drag their books everywhere. Benches scrape. Laughter echoes. A thousand conversations layer over each other until it’s impossible to tell who’s saying what.

And still, I feel watched.

Luke nudges me toward the corner of our usual table, where the other students sit. His shoulder brushes mine, solid and warm, like an anchor. “You didn’t eat dinner last night,” he says softly. “You should at least finish breakfast.”

I nod and manage a smile, but my stomach twists. I can’t tell him why. Not about the library. Not about the boy who stepped out of the shadows and put a book in my hands like he already knew what I was searching for.

Luke’s tray clatters onto the wood, breaking the thought. He passes me my cup of tea the way he always does, without asking, without looking, like it’s second nature.

For a few minutes, it almost feels normal. Students laugh. Someone drops a roll and curses. A group at the far end starts clapping out a rhythm on the table, and others join in until a prefect scolds them. Normal.

But I can’t shake it. The sense that Juniper’s pen didn’t stop scribbling last night. That her notebook is already moving down the benches, rumor turned into ink.

I catch someone glance at me, whisper to their neighbor, then laugh into their hand. Heat crawls up the back of my neck.

I lower my gaze to my porridge. Just eat. Just breathe. Pretend nothing is wrong.

Of course, that’s when Maribel Lorne decides to strike.

She leans across the table with her perfect hair and her sharper smile, voice pitched high enough to carry. “So, Elle. A little bird told me you’ve got two admirers now.”

My spoon freezes midair. “What?”

Her grin spreads wider. “Oh, don’t play innocent. First there’s the golden boy who never leaves your side” her chin tips toward Luke, who stiffens beside me “And then last night in the library…” She pauses, savoring the silence that falls around us. “…the mysterious one.”

Heat floods my cheeks. Of course it was Juniper. She must have written it down and passed it along before dawn.

Luke sets his cup down too hard. Porcelain clinks against wood. “Maribel..”

But she isn’t finished. “You should’ve seen the way he looked at her. Like the rest of us didn’t exist.” She clasps her hands dramatically over her chest. “Tragic, really. Elle Wrenwood, caught between light and shadow.”

Her friends snicker, eyes bright with glee. The sound slices sharp, like glass breaking.

“That’s enough,” Luke snaps. His voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the chatter around us. Students glance over, quick and hungry for drama.

Maribel only tilts her head, basking in the attention. “Relax, I’m only teasing. Unless…” Her gaze darts between me and Luke, then flicks toward the far end of the hall. “…Unless it’s true.”

I don’t want to look.

But I do.

At the edge of the dining hall, the boy in black sits alone, tray untouched in front of him. Silent. Unreadable. He doesn’t join conversations. He never does.

And his eyes are already on me.

The breath catches in my throat.

Maribel lets out a triumphant laugh. “See? He’s not even hiding it.”

Luke follows my gaze, his jaw tightening. He turns back sharply, shoulders squared like he’s ready to throw himself between us and the entire room if he has to.

I yank my eyes down to my porridge and force the spoon to move. “Drop it, Maribel.”

But it’s too late. Whispers ripple outward, quick and cutting, wrapping my name in their net. Two admirers. Love triangle. Wrenwood girl.

My hands tremble under the table. I curl them into fists and press them hard against my legs, wishing I could vanish.

Luke leans closer, voice low. “Ignore her.”

I nod, but the heat in my face won’t fade. Because ignoring Maribel is impossible when half the hall is already staring.

And because… she wasn’t wrong.

I try to focus on eating, but the food tastes like ash in my mouth. The chatter around us blends into one long, buzzing thread. My name keeps surfacing in it, sharp and ugly, like a hook tugging under my skin.

Luke’s knee presses against mine under the table, steady and grounding. I should be grateful. I should lean into his warmth and let it shield me.

Instead, I can’t stop myself from flicking one more glance across the hall.

The boy in black hasn’t moved. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t whisper, and doesn’t react to Maribel’s little performance. But his gaze hasn’t left me.

A shiver crawls down my spine, and I force my attention back to my plate.

That’s when I noticed it.

Thin white veins creep outward from the rim of my dish, delicate as lace. Frost. It spreads in fragile tendrils across the porcelain, curling toward the fork still in my hand.

I gasp softly and jerk back. My breath clouds faintly in the air, impossible in a room this warm.

No one else notices. The hall roars on, bright and loud and ordinary.

“Elle?” Luke leans close, brow furrowed. “What is it?”

I shake my head too quickly. “Nothing. Just… nothing.” I try to set my fork down, but my fingers are stiff, trembling.

The whispers change.

At first they’re only the same as before with Maribel’s laughter, her friends’ giggles, the rustle of gossip carried across the benches. But then they start to blur, weaving together, low and insistent.

My name again. Over and over. Elle, Elle, Elle.

I press my palms against my thighs, heart hammering.

And then, clear as a blade drawn across stone.. I hear it.

Luke’s voice.

Not from the boy beside me. From the echo curling beneath the din. “Choose.”

The word slices through me, shaking something loose deep inside.

My fork slips from my hand and clatters against the frost-kissed plate.

The clatter echoes too loud, louder than it should in the roaring hall. Heads turn. A few students snicker. Maribel smirks like she’s won.

But none of that matters.

Because the whisper hasn’t stopped.

It slides along the back of my skull, silk and ice at once. Luke’s voice, but wrong and detached from the warmth sitting beside me. “Choose.”

My chest locks. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

Luke touches my arm, gentle but firm. “Elle? What’s wrong?” His real voice, close and urgent.

I stare at him, terrified to answer. Because how do I tell him his voice is already inside my head, repeating a word that tastes like glass?

The frost on my plate thickens, curling across the surface in spirals. My breath fogs the air. I grip the edge of the bench, trying to ground myself, but the word keeps reverberating inside me.

Choose.

Across the hall, the boy in black still hasn’t moved. His eyes are on me, unblinking, like he knows exactly what I hear. Like he’s waiting for my answer.

The room feels split in two and the safe, ordinary chaos of the dining hall, and it’s  invisible current that’s tightening around me, pulling me somewhere I don’t understand.

Luke’s hand tightens on mine. “Elle.”

The whisper curls into his exact tone again, softer this time. Elle.

I jolt, heart lurching into my throat.

The fork skitters off the edge of my plate and clatters to the stone floor.

And for the first time, I can’t tell which voice is real.