L I R A

I feel the cold before I hear anything strange. Just a thin, slicing chill across the back of my neck, like someone opened a freezer behind me. Except we’re in the gym with eight hundred students sweating through the world’s most boring back-to-school assembly, so… no freezers here.

Everyone’s talking over Principal Dray’s annual “Go Ravens!” speech. I’m half-listening, half-counting the ceiling lights to stay awake. Nothing feels different about this year. Same banners. Same bleachers. Same smell of cafeteria pizza baked into the walls.

But the cold doesn’t go away.

It spreads, slowly, deliberately down my spine. I rub my arms, trying not to look paranoid, but something feels wrong. Like the air shifted and no one else noticed. Like the temperature dropped just around me.

Ezra Quinn is somewhere up front with the student council, because of course he is. Perfect posture, perfect uniform, perfect everything. If he were sitting beside me, he’d probably notice the way I keep shivering. He notices everything.

Instead, Ryke elbows me and whispers, “You sick or just allergic to school spirit?” I force a laugh, but the truth is, I don’t feel sick. I feel… watched. Or warned. I keep scanning the rafters, the exits, the crowd. Nothing. No one.

Then I hear it.

A tiny metallic click, sharp as a pin drop, swallowed by the noise of the gym. My stomach flips. Because that didn’t sound normal. It sounded like it was meant for me.

The cold sharpens, like someone dragging an icicle down my back. I look up again, squinting past a cheerleader’s ponytail and that’s when I see it.

Frost.

Real frost. Spreading across the glass scoreboard at the far end of the gym. It shouldn’t be possible. The place is crowded and overheated, and yet a thin white haze creeps outward like breath on a mirror. No one else reacts. No one even looks in that direction. The noise doesn’t dip; the assembly doesn’t pause.

It’s just me, staring up at something impossible. I blink, thinking maybe I’m tired. Maybe summer fried my brain. But the frost stays. Growing. Curling. Twisting into shapes that look almost like..

Letters.

I suck in a breath. My pulse starts pounding against my ribs. No, not letters. It can’t be letters. That would mean..

I blink again. The frost settles into something clear, sharp, deliberate.

DUE / 3

The sound in my chest changes. It’s not a heartbeat anymore. It’s a countdown.

I freeze, literally and figuratively because the moment I read it, something inside me drops. Like my body understands something my brain absolutely refuses to.

DUE / 3.

Due what? Due who? Due when?

“Do you see that?” I whisper to Ryke.

He squints, shrugs. “A smudge?”

A smudge.  Great. So it’s just me seeing the giant frost-word that looks like a threat from a haunted library. I tell myself to look away. Pretend it’s nothing. Pretend it’s condensation is shaped weirdly by the airflow.

But my eyes don’t listen. They stay locked on the writing like it’s holding me by the throat. The cold deepens. It coils around my ankles. And then I see movement. A figure stands up at the far edge of the bleachers, hood pulled low, hands jammed into pockets.

Callen Roe.

He shouldn’t be here. He never comes to assemblies. Half the school isn’t sure he’s actually enrolled. But he is looking directly at the frost. Before anyone else even senses something is wrong. Before I can breathe. Before the next beat of the countdown.

Tink.

Something hits the floor right beside my shoe, a thin piece of blackened metal, no bigger than a bookmark. It spins once, twice, then settles with a cold hiss against the polished gym floor. I don’t move. I just stare at it, because it feels like if I touch it, something irreversible will happen.

Students nearby look down, confused. Someone mutters, “Did that fall from the ceiling?” Another kid laughs nervously. No one bends to grab it.

The cold behind my ribs tightens. I crouch slowly, like the air might shatter if I move too fast. The strip is freezing. Frost clings to the edges. There’s something carved into the surface, shallow, glinting letters.

My name.

VESPER, LIRA

My throat closes. My breath disappears. For a second, all I hear is that metallic click again, replaying in my skull. I don’t know how long I stare before I sense someone behind me, heavy footsteps, someone pushing through the crowd fast. But it isn’t Ezra. A shadow falls over the strip before I can straighten.

Callen. Closer than he’s ever stood to me in three years. Eyes storm-gray and locked onto the metal like it’s a live wire.

He whispers, voice low and urgent:

“Don’t touch it.”

Callen’s voice shouldn’t affect me. He barely speaks to anyone. Half the time I’m not sure he speaks at all. But something in the way he says don’t makes my hand jerk back like I almost touched fire.

He steps closer, just enough that I feel the heat of him cutting through the cold climbing up my legs. His hood shadows most of his face, but not his eyes, they’re fixed on the strip like it’s dangerous.

“How did you..” I start.

But he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at the strip. His breathing is uneven, like he ran here, but no one saw him move. No one else even noticed him until now. He crouches. Frost seems to lean toward him, like it recognizes him.

“You shouldn’t have heard it,” he mutters.

My pulse jumps. “Heard what?” He looks at me and my whole body goes still.

“The warning.”

“Lira!”

Ezra’s voice slices through the noise, steady and sharp. He shoves through the crowd, eyes scanning me first, head to toe checking for injuries before he even sees the strip.

“Are you hurt? What happened?” His hand finds my arm, warm and grounding.

I should feel relieved. I always do when Ezra is around. He makes sense. He’s logic and calm and safety rolled into one.

But all I feel is… wrong. Because my first instinct wasn’t Ezra. It was Callen. Ezra finally sees the strip and stiffens. “Does it have your?”

“Yes.”

He steps in front of me like he can shield me with his body. “Okay. Don’t panic.” Callen doesn’t move.

Ezra notices him fully now. “You again?” Callen’s jaw tightens. Ezra subtly shifts closer to me, sliding his arm between us. And guilt burns in my throat. Because I noticed Callen first. And I don’t know what that means.

The strip pulses, like a heartbeat trapped in metal. I flinch, bumping into Ezra. He steadies me instantly, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

“This isn’t real,” I whisper.

Ezra’s voice softens. “Lira, look at me. Ignore it.”

“Ignore what?” Callen’s voice is low, cold. “Her name being called?”

Ezra snaps, “No one called anything.” But Callen’s gaze lifts to the rafters. Like he hears something we don’t.

“It’s not done,” he murmurs.

“What’s not done?” I whisper.

Neither answers. The frost on the scoreboard spreads, spiderwebbing down the gym wall. The strip pulses again. And right in front of us— my name begins to fade. Ezra’s fingers tighten around my elbow. “No. That shouldn’t happen.” But it is.

The last letter. the A. Vanishes. The strip goes blank.

Ezra’s breath stutters. “Lira..” The cold surges, flooding up around my ankles. Students start screaming, scrambling off the bleachers. I can’t move. Callen steps closer again, still not touching me, but close enough that I feel that strange hum in the air.

“It’s starting,” he says.

“What is?” My voice breaks. “What’s starting?” Neither boy answers. The frost on the wall thickens, darkens, then forms a new word, big, carved, impossible to ignore.

RUN.

The gym lights flicker. The temperature drops twenty degrees. And somewhere above us, the bell hums like it’s waking up hungry. Ezra pulls me toward the exit. Callen remains still, jaw clenched, facing the frost like it’s calling his name. And the word RUN keeps glowing on the wall.