E L L E
The Combat Hall empties in a rush of whispers, the air still sharp with the bite of frost. No one dares speak directly to me, but their sidelong glances scrape at my skin. They don’t need words, the way they edge away, the way their voices hush when I pass. It says enough.
Cassian storms off first, jaw tight, smirk shattered. His friends trail after him, shooting me looking sharp as daggers. Professor Korran barks an order for the rest of the class to clear out, his voice clipped, too even. He doesn’t look at me directly, but I feel the weight of his suspicion pressing from across the sand.
Luke stays close. His hand brushes mine once, warm and grounding, before he pulls it back like he isn’t sure he should touch me. His chest still heaves from the duel, sweat glinting along his hairline. I want to ask if he’s okay, but the question knots in my throat. He looks at me like he saw something I shouldn’t be able to do. Like he’s afraid to say it out loud.
Around us, the whispers build. A girl hisses to her friend; another boy stares openly before ducking away. I catch fragments, unnatural… frost… dangerous. My stomach twists. I didn’t summon anything. Not on purpose. It answered me before I even knew what I was doing.
Across the hall, the shadowed boy lingers near the far door. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his eyes find me anyway. Gray, endless, unreadable. I can still feel the frost recoiling from him, with him as if the spiral answered not just him, but me too.
My scarf is damp against my throat, thawed frost soaking the threads. I tug it tighter anyway, as if it can hide me. Luke shifts, jaw tight, then nods for me to follow. I hurry after him before I can think too hard about it, before I can admit the truth: the duel didn’t end when the frost vanished. Something began.
By the time we step into the courtyard, the sky has gone a bruised, heavy gray. Mist drifts along the cobblestones, curling around the old elm like a ghostly veil. A cluster of students gathers beneath its branches—some laughing too loudly, others whispering, the glint of pocketknives catching the last scraps of light.
The Elm Oath.
One of Ravenshade’s oldest traditions: carve your initials into the bark, and rumor says your fates get tangled for good. Couples swear by it. Friends dare each other. Even rivals sometimes carve the same spot just to prove they don’t fear curses.
Luke slows beside me, hands buried in his pockets. His cheeks are still flushed from the duel, hoodie hanging open despite the cold. For once, he doesn’t joke or fill the silence. His gaze lifts toward the elm.
“Everyone does it,” Luke says at last. His voice is steady, but I can hear the heaviness buried under it. “Even our parents carved their names here. So why shouldn’t we?”
My stomach twists. He means it kindly, warm and familiar but all I can see are the carved initials crammed into the bark. Layer after layer. Some still leaking sap, like the tree mourns every name carved into it.
Luke pulls a small pocketknife from his hoodie and flicks it open with practiced ease. He shoots me a grin, hopeful, almost boyish but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Come on. Let’s make it a thing. Hart and Wrenwood.”
His hand drifts near mine, close enough that I feel the heat from his skin. My pulse stutters. Laughter erupts nearby. Maribel Crane leans into her friend, whispering behind her hand. I don’t need to hear the words to know they’re about me.
I swallow. “Luke…” He looks at me, expression softening. “Hey. It’s just tradition. Nothing to freak out about.”
But I can’t shake the chill creeping under my scarf. Nan once told me some traditions are older than the school itself, borrowed from sigils no one remembers anymore. Carving initials isn’t harmless, it binds.
Luke doesn’t wait for me to answer. He presses the knife into the bark, carving a small curve: L . Chips fall like pale snow at his feet. The elm groans, low and shuddering. I tense, but no one else seems to notice.
He looks at me, waiting. “Your turn.” I take the knife. The handle is still warm from his hand, almost too warm. My reflection ripples in the metal, shaky and distorted. My throat tightens. One wrong letter, and it feels like I’d be sealing myself into something I can’t take back. Still, I press the tip to the bark.
A thin line of frost unfurls the second the blade touches the tree. My chest tightens hard. The spiral spreads on its own, carving deeper, branching like veins.
Luke’s brows draw together. “Elle?” I recoil. The knife slips from my fingers and hits the ground. Frost spirals surge higher, twisting around the L, stretching across the bark in bright, jagged lines.
A ripple of gasps breaks through the crowd.
A ripple of laughter cuts through the courtyard, sharp enough to sting. Maribel Crane leans into Anya Lark, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear. “Look at her, she won’t even carve it. Guess Ravenshade’s ghost-girl doesn’t believe in love.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I grip the knife tighter, but the weight in my hand feels wrong. Around us, the crowd presses closer, hungry for a show. It isn’t about Luke or me anymore, it’s about what people can whisper later in the dining hall.
Luke’s shoulders tense, his glare cutting toward them, but Maribel only smirks, eyes glittering. She wants me to fail. She wants me to run. I force my gaze back to the bark. The elm looms taller the longer I stare, scars of names twisting into patterns too strange to be random. Some cuts bleed sap that drips thick and slow, like the tree itself is wounded.
Nan’s voice echoes in my memory, quiet and stern: “The Elm remembers. Don’t offer promises you aren’t ready to keep.”
My stomach flips. This isn’t just a harmless tradition, no matter how much Luke wants it to be. He doesn’t understand, if I carve my name, I’ll be binding myself. Not just to him. To something older. To fate.
Luke leans closer, his voice low, almost pleading. “Elle. Just this once, forget what they say. Do this with me.” His hand hovers near mine, warm, steady, and so achingly familiar. I want to. I want the warmth, the safety he offers. But the elm’s bark seems to pulse under my stare, waiting. Hungry.
Luke bends, scooping the knife from where it fell. He wipes the blade clean against his sleeve, then offers it back to me with a small, stubborn smile.
“Remember when we were kids?” His voice is soft, but it carries in the hush. “When Cassian and the others cornered you by the railway crossing? You wouldn’t cry, even with blood on your knees. You just stood there, glaring. I was the one who chased them off. I promised I’d always be here, didn’t I?” The knife trembles between us. I don’t take it. My throat is too tight.
“Things don’t have to be scary if we’re in it together,” he says. “We can make this ours. Not theirs. Not the whispers.” His hand brushes mine again, lingering this time, heat sinking into my skin.
My chest aches. I love him, I do, but not the way he wants. Not with the certainty that carving into living bark demands. His faith in us is steady, unshakable. Mine feels…fragile. Like the frost that keeps rising when I lose control.
The crowd shifts, waiting. Maribel lets out a little laugh, sharp as glass. I flinch, fingers curling against my scarf. I should take the knife. I should make Luke happy. After everything he’s done for me, after all the times he’s been my anchor when the world tilted. I owe him that much.
But my hand won’t move. The bark looms close, scarred and waiting. The air around it feels colder, heavier, as if the tree itself leans toward me, demanding. Luke’s smile falters. Just for a second, hurt flickers in his eyes. “Elle?” The elm groans. A crack splits the air like ice breaking on a river.
The elm shudders, its branches creaking overhead. A low moan runs through the bark, too alive to be the wind.
Frost erupts from the half-carved L , spiraling outward in glowing veins. They race across the trunk in a pattern too precise, too deliberate. Gasps ripple through the students; someone screams.
“Back up!” Luke yells, but no one moves. Their eyes are fixed on the bark, on the spirals that crawl like a living script. I stumble back, my breath fogging white. The frost answers me, no, it claims me. My scarf burns cold against my skin, threads stiffening with ice.
“Elle,” Luke breathes, but his voice feels far away. The spirals halt. The bark splits with a sharp crack, and letters carve themselves into the wood as if gouged by an invisible blade.
Each cut flashes bright before darkening into black scars against the pale frost. My name sits there—clear, final—right beside Luke’s shaky L. The courtyard erupts. Shouts, curses, the thud of people stumbling back. Maribel’s voice slices through the noise, high and gleeful: “See? I told you she’s cursed!”
I can’t breathe. I can’t even blink. It feels like the tree leans toward me, groaning, claiming what I’ve carved. Luke grabs my hand, his fingers trembling. His warmth barely makes it through the ice creeping over my skin. The last thing I see before everything tips is the shadowed boy at the edge of the courtyard, storm-gray eyes locked on mine.