L U K E

Before I can make sense of the frost crawling across Elle’s plate, a prefect’s voice cuts through the hush of the dining hall.
“Wrenwood. Headmistress Draven wants you. Now.”

Elle flinches, her spoon rattling against the bowl. The whispers ignite instantly, sharp, eager, hungry.

I shove back my bench and grab her hand. “Then I’m coming too.”

The prefect’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t argue. She just turns on her heel and leads the way. I don’t let go of Elle once.

The prefect marches us up the main staircase, heels clicking like a clock that doesn’t care who it’s counting down. I keep Elle close to my side, shoulder brushing hers every few steps. She’s pale, scarf slipping loose, and I want to pull her against me, but the prefect is already glancing back like she’ll write us up for breathing wrong.

The staircase winds upward in a slow curve, every step worn shallow from decades of students. Tapestries line the walls, colors muted with dust, and the faces stitched into them seem to turn their gazes as we pass. Most kids whisper that Draven had them enchanted so she never misses who comes and goes. I don’t believe half the gossip at Ravenshade, but this time, the threads look too watchful to ignore.

Ravenshade gets quieter the higher we climb. The hum of voices from the dining hall fades into stone. Even the wind sounds muffled up here, the windows showing only fog pressing against the glass.

Elle’s steps falter as we pass the turn toward the east wing. I feel her tense before she even looks. Her scarf trembles against her throat like it’s holding its breath.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

But she glances anyway, eyes snagging on the heavy door at the corridor’s end. Old wood, iron hinges, shadows like they’re waiting for her to step closer. My gut twists. I tighten my pace, tugging her forward until she stumbles a little to keep up.

The prefect gives me a sharp look. I don’t care.

We reach the Headmistress’s corridor. The two stone ravens carved above her door are bent inward, wings spread like they’re listening. Elle’s hand brushes mine once, quick and nervous, before she knots it back into her scarf.

The prefect stops. “Headmistress Draven will see you now, Wrenwood.”

I plant my feet. “Then she sees me too.”

“You weren’t summoned.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Before she can argue, the office door opens. Headmistress Draven fills the frame, tall and still as carved marble. Her gaze sweeps us once, landing on Elle, then on me.

“Hart,” she says, voice like glass cutting clean. “You will wait outside.”

I meet her eyes, jaw tight. “With respect, Headmistress..”

“That is not a request.” The air sharpens with the words.

Elle glances at me, eyes wide but steady. “It’s okay,” she whispers.

It isn’t. But when she slips from my side into the office, I let her go.

The door shuts, and the sound feels final.

I press my back to the wall opposite Draven’s office, fists buried in my hoodie pocket. The corridor feels colder once she’s gone, not draft-cold, but the kind that seeps through stone, heavy and waiting.

Inside, I catch the low murmur of voices. Too faint to make out words, just the rhythm. Draven clipped and steady, Elle softer, hesitant. I edge closer, tilting my head like maybe the door will give me something.

A sharp crack splits the quiet. My hand flies to the handle, but the prefect shifts, blocking me with one raised arm.

“Stay put,” she says, voice flat.

“Did you hear that?” I snap.

She doesn’t answer. Which means she did.

I force myself back a step, but my pulse is hammering. Elle’s in there, and I can’t see her face, can’t read her eyes, can’t tell if she’s lying to me the way she does when she says she’s fine.

A word finally slips clear through the heavy wood. Draven’s voice, crisp and cutting: “…the old corridors. You will stay away from them.”

My fists tighten. The old corridors. Everyone whispers about them, dares each other to sneak down past curfew. I know enough to avoid them, but hearing Draven say it, like a command, not a warning, sets every nerve on edge.

Then Elle’s voice, thin but audible: “What counts as old?”

I almost smile. That’s her, even scared, still pushing.

Silence, then Draven answers, low and cold: “Anything that remembers.”

I don’t even know what that means, but frost blooms along the base of the office door like the word itself froze the air. The prefect shifts again, uneasy.

I reach out without thinking, brushing my fingers against the wood. The chill bites instantly.

“Elle,” I whisper, but the door doesn’t answer.

The latch clicks, and the door swings open.

Elle steps out first. Her scarf is dusted with frost, barely there but enough for me to see. Enough for me to hate that I wasn’t inside with her.

Headmistress Draven follows, unreadable as always. Her eyes skim over me like I’m nothing worth the effort, then land back on Elle. “You will heed me,” she says, quiet but final.

Elle nods quickly, not meeting her gaze. “Yes, Headmistress.”

That’s all Draven needs. She turns back into the office, closing the door with the softest click. Somehow, it feels louder than a slam.

The prefect drifts away like her job is finished. I move in fast, catching Elle’s sleeve before she can take a step down the corridor.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says too quickly. Her voice is steady, but her eyes aren’t.

I shake my head. “You don’t get to do that with me.”

“Luke…” She starts walking, but I match her, close and stubborn.

“You’re not walking anywhere in this place without me,” I tell her. “Not to class, not to the dorms, not even to the dining hall. You hear me?”

She stops, turning to look at me. Her lips part like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t. She just looks… tired. Fragile in a way she’d never admit.

I lift my hand before I can think better of it. Her scarf has slipped again, hanging loose at her throat. I tug it higher, careful, fingers brushing along her jaw. Warm skin, cool air. She freezes but doesn’t pull away.

“There,” I murmur. “Better.”

Her breath catches, faint but there. Her gaze flicks up to mine, startled, like she wasn’t expecting me to touch her so gently. For a second it’s just us, no prefect, no Draven, no whispers seeping under doors. Her eyes shine, the green brighter than I’ve ever seen in the dim light of the corridor.

I let my hand fall, but the air between us feels different now, charged, fragile.

“Fine,” she says at last, voice softer. “If it makes you feel better.”

“It does,” I say. Because it’s the truth.

We started down the staircase together, my shoulder angled just enough to block her from anyone who might look twice.