L U K E

Before I can process the frost creeping over Elle’s plate, a prefect’s voice slices through the hush in the dining hall.

“Wrenwood. Headmistress Draven wants you. Now.”

Elle jolts, her spoon clinking against the bowl. Whispers spark instantly, sharp and hungry. I shove my bench back and grab her hand. “Then I’m going with her.”

The prefect’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t argue. She just turns and starts walking. I don’t let go of Elle the entire way.

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 as 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 opens. Elle steps out first, her scarf carries the thinnest layer of frost, barely visible, but I see it and I hate that I wasn’t in there with her. Headmistress Draven follows, as unreadable as ever. Her gaze slides over me like I’m not worth noticing, then settles back on Elle. “You will listen,” she says softly, but there’s no space for disagreement.

Elle nods fast, eyes lowered. “Yes, Headmistress.”

That’s enough for Draven. She turns and shuts the door with a quiet click that somehow feels louder than a slammed one. The prefect drifts off like her job is done. I step toward Elle immediately, catching her sleeve before she can move down the hall.

“What did she say?”

“Nothing,” she replies too quickly. Her voice is even, but her eyes give her away.

I shake my head. “Don’t shut me out.”

“Luke…” She tries to walk, but I keep pace beside her, refusing to fall back.

“You’re not going anywhere alone in this place,” I say. “Not to class or the dorms. Not even to eat. Got it?” She stops and turns toward me. Her mouth opens like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t. She just looks exhausted and fragile in a way she’d never admit.

Before I can rethink it, I reach out. Her scarf has slipped low again, loose around her neck. I tug it up gently, fingers brushing the line of her jaw. Warm skin, cold air. She goes still, but she doesn’t pull away.

“There,” I say quietly. “That’s better.” Her breath stirs, soft, surprised. Her eyes lift to mine, bright in the dim corridor, like she didn’t expect the gentleness. I drop my hand, but something shifts in the air between us, tight, delicate and charged.

“Fine,” she says after a moment, voice softer. “If it makes you feel better.”

“It does,” I answer honestly. We head down the stairs together, my shoulder angled toward her, ready to shield her from anyone who dares to stare.