E L L E

Luke doesn’t give me a chance to protest. He grabs my suitcase with one hand, holds my elbow with the other, and practically steers me down the corridor.
“Food first,” he mutters, firm, but gentle. “Then sleep. You’ll feel like yourself again.”
I don’t argue, my throat is too tight, and my skin still tingles where the locker whispered against me. The hum hasn’t left my chest and walking away from the east wing feels wrong, like something back there is still reaching for me. By the time we push open the heavy oak doors to the dining hall, my pulse still hasn’t settled.
The room is massive, vaulted ceiling, iron chandeliers dripping candles, long tables packed with students. Hundreds of voices echo off the stone walls, making the whole place feel alive.
Alive…and watching.
I feel the stares before I see them. Conversations dip, forks stop halfway to mouths. It’s the loudest silence I’ve ever walked into.
“There she is,” someone whispers.
“Wrenwood,” another voice spits, like the name tastes bitter.
Heat rushes up my face, I’m used to whispers, but surrounded by strangers, they cut deeper. Luke notices instantly, off course he does. He pushes past a group of staring boys and pulls me toward the far end of a table. “Ignore them.”
Easy for him to say. I sit with my back straight, gripping my scarf like it can shield me from all the eyes on me. Luke sits right beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine. It should feel comforting but instead, it makes everyone look harder.

Maribel Crane makes her move fast, she leans forward a few seats down, blonde hair catching the candlelight, smile razor-sharp.
“Careful,” she says sweetly, loud enough for half the hall to hear. “She might hex your cocoa if you look at her wrong.”
A wave of laughter follows. Not from everyone but enough to make my stomach drop.

I duck my head, fingers knotting tighter around my scarf. Luke glares at Maribel, jaw flexing, but she only bats her lashes at him, unbothered. The hall buzzes again, louder now, gossip catching fire.
“Wrenwood.”
“She’s cursed.”
“No wonder her parents..”
“Bet she hexed the locker shut.”
Laughter snaps around me like twigs, brittle and sharp. One boy stage-whispers, “Careful, don’t sit too close or you’ll end up frostbitten.” His friends snicker behind their sleeves. Another voice, softer, almost pitying drifts across the table: “She shouldn’t even be here.”
Luke leans in, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “Ignore her. She’s just jealous because her hair doesn’t have as much personality as yours.”
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it. I cover my mouth, horrified, but Luke grins like he’s just won something important.
“That’s better,” he says softly. “You’re laughing feels normal.”
Normal. I want that more than anything. To sit in a crowded dining hall, eat soup, pretend I’m just another student instead of the girl everyone’s whispering about. Luke grabs two bowls from the passing tray and shoves one in front of me. “Eat.”

I pick up my spoon, though my hands still tremble. My scarf slips a little, and I tug it back in place quickly, pretending not to notice Maribel watching like a hawk. Luke bumps my shoulder gently. “Remember when you fell asleep on your math book back home and woke up with numbers imprinted on your cheek? You didn’t care what anyone thought then. Why start now?”
A tiny smile tugs at my lips. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
Warmth spreads through me despite the cold coil still lodged in my chest. Luke has always been like this, shielding me, steadying me, dragging me back into the light when I’d rather hide in the shadows.
For a moment, with the soup’s steam fogging my glasses and Luke’s shoulder pressed against mine, I almost believed him. I almost believe that whispers and lockers and frost can’t touch me here. Because even as I try to relax, the back of my neck prickles, like the air is shifting.
The heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall creak open. The sound shouldn’t carry over hundreds of voices, but somehow it does. A shiver slides down my spine, and the hum under my skin stirs again, faint but undeniable.
Conversations falter. Forks pause. Heads turn.
A boy walks in or at least, he looks like one. Tall, dark hair falling in loose waves, storm-gray eyes scanning the room like he’s taking stock of everyone in it. His expression doesn’t change. No smile. No frown. He’s just… there.
The air shifts around him, too still, like even the candle flames pause before they flicker again.
“Who’s that?” someone whispers.
“Transfer student?” another guesses.
“He doesn’t look like anyone from here.”

I try not to look at him, but my eyes pull toward him anyway, like something invisible is tugging at my chin. He moves with a kind of controlled grace that’s too precise to be casual, his steps silent on the stone floor. When he passes a table of upperclassmen, even Maribel’s confident smirk falters. She watches him with wide, calculating eyes.
He doesn’t sit with anyone. Doesn’t grab food. He heads straight for a shadowy corner and settles there, like he fits the darkness better than the rest of the room. And even though he doesn’t look at the hall or the tables or the students whispering about him—
He looks at me.
The weight of it steals my breath. My spoon clatters against the bowl, loud in the sudden hush, but I can’t tear my eyes away. His stare pins me to the bench like frost settling over glass, sharp and cold and inevitable.
I force myself to look away, back down at the soup cooling in front of me. My pulse is a runaway drum, every beat louder than the chatter resuming around us. Get a grip, Elle. He’s just a boy. Just another student. But I know that’s a lie. Nothing about him feels ordinary.
“Elle?” Luke’s voice is tight beside me. His hand brushes my sleeve, grounding, but even his warmth doesn’t cut through the chill crawling across my skin.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, though the word doesn’t sound like mine.
Luke’s gaze flicks toward the corner table, then back at me. His jaw sets, protective in that way I know too well, but I don’t dare follow his eyes. I can still feel the stare. Cold, certain and unblinking. My fork slips against porcelain, clattering too loud. Dozens of heads turn, I duck, cheeks burning, but curiosity gets the better of me.
Just one more glance. I lift my eyes and freeze. He hasn’t moved, not one inch, but his storm-gray gaze is locked on mine, unwavering, like he’s been waiting for me to look back. The air around me chills, a fog blooming faintly over the surface of my soup. I can’t breathe.