Stenrik
The foundation stone’s trust exercise ended with Rianne declaring stones should not be allowed to give relationship advice, and Carl nodding in solemn agreement. We retreated upstairs before the stone could start another Marvin Gaye song.
Rianne has fallen asleep at the circulation desk, her head pillowed on the Chronicle. Her small predator sits on her back, purring at a frequency that suggests either contentment or plans for murder.
Keith’s presentation finally ended an hour ago. Now, he directs several shadows as they clean the conference room.
I should rest. The ceremony will require significant energy. But someone must maintain watch.
I pull the Chronicle from beneath Rianne’s head, replacing it with a pillow from the children’s reading corner.
She mumbles something about “spreadsheets of doom” and curls into it.
The Chronicle’s pages flip on their own, revealing text that shifts and reforms. The permanent bond passages are clearer now, more insistent.
After a while, Rianne stands, rolling her shoulders. “I need food. Real food. Not expired cheese balls.”
She heads toward the break room, stumbling over a cart of returns. “There might be soup. Soup doesn’t really expire, right?”
“Everything expires.”
“Soup transcends expiration.”
I follow her. The break room looks worse in the emergency lighting—a space that seems designed to crush human spirit. She examines cans that look older than some treaties I’ve signed, tossing rejected ones over her shoulder. I catch them before they hit the floor.
“Chicken noodle, 2019.” Toss. Catch. “Tomato, 2018.” Toss. Catch. “Oh, here’s one from 2020!”
“That is still four years expired.”
“It’s the freshest we’ve got.” She opens it with a manual can opener that protests every rotation. The smell is... not entirely objectionable.
As she heats the ancient soup on a hot plate that sparks, I watch her move around the small space. She talks constantly—about the soup, about Keith’s presentation, about Carl’s career advancement. Her hands gesture wildly, nearly knocking over the soup twice. I steady it without her noticing.
“Rianne.”
“Hmm?” She is stirring with a plastic spoon that is melting slightly.
“The permanent bond. We should discuss—”
“After soup. Everything’s better after soup.”
“Soup does not solve magical complications.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe this soup is special. Maybe it’s magic soup.”
“It is expired soup.”
“Magic expired soup.”
Her hands shake as she pours the soup into two chipped mugs—one says “World’s Best Mom,” the other has a cat giving the middle finger.
A tremor goes through her arm, exhaustion and stress catching up, and the pot tips.
Boiling soup hisses over the hot plate, splashing onto the counter, onto her hand.
She yelps, jerking back. I reach for her automatically, ice forming on my fingertips as I pull her hand under cold water from the sink. The burn is minor, already reddening.
“I won’t force you,” I say quietly, ice cooling her skin where the soup touched. “If the bond is permanent, it must be chosen freely.”
She stops pouring, soup dripping onto the counter. “Even if everyone becomes shadow creatures?”
“Even then.”
Her eyes widen. She had expected me to argue, to justify, to find loopholes. I can see the surprise in the way her shoulders drop, the tension releasing.
“That’s stupid.”
“That is consent.”
“You’d let everyone transform rather than force me into a permanent bond?”
“Yes.”
She turns to look at me, soup still dripping. “Why?”
“Because a forced bond would be hollow. Empty. The magic requires genuine connection.”
This is truth. Not strategy. The magic would know the difference, and so would I.
“What if we can’t connect? What if we’re too different?”
“Then we fail honestly rather than succeed falsely.”
“I’m a disaster,” she says, looking at the soup-covered disaster area.
“Yes,” I agree, reluctantly releasing her hand. “But an interesting one.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me since Martin called me ‘adequately attractive’ on our anniversary.”
“Martin was an idiot.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know enough.”
She looks at me, soup-stained and exhausted, and smiles. A real smile.
Something shifts in my chest. Not magic. Something more dangerous.
She hands me a mug of questionable soup.
“Want some?”
“I do not require food.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
I take the mug. It is warm against my palms. “I have not eaten in four days.”
“Four days? That’s...”
“Typical.”
“That’s sad.”
“That is immortal efficiency.”
“That’s definitely sad.”
She moves to the sink, rinses the soup pot, sets it in the dish rack with the care of someone trying to impose order on chaos.
I recognize this—she does it constantly.
Straightening papers, organizing books, cleaning when stressed.
Control in small things when large things are impossible to control.
She clinks her mug against mine, sloshing more soup. “To terrible soup and impossible choices.”
“To unexpected partnerships.”
We drink. The soup is terrible—metallic, vaguely sweet, wrong in ways I cannot name. She makes a face but keeps drinking.
The foundation stone starts humming “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” loud enough to rattle the windows.
She laughs, soup sloshing. “The stone has opinions about our partnership.”
“The stone is an optimist.”
We stand in the soup-covered break room, and this—sharing terrible food in a disaster area—feels more intimate than any ceremony could.
“Stenrik?”
“Yes?”
“After we save everyone... would you maybe want to get real soup? That isn’t expired?”
“I would like that.”
“Even if we’re not permanently bonded? If we figure out some loophole?”
I consider this. “Especially then. It would be a choice, not an obligation.”
“I’d like that too,” she says softly.
“Ready to try the synchronization again?” she asks. “For real this time?”
“Yes.” I set my mug down. “Though I am uncertain what we should do differently.”
“We?” She looks at me. “You were perfect. You did everything right. I was the one who couldn’t...” She trails off. “Who couldn’t trust you.”
“Could not, or would not?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.” I consider this. “The first attempt failed because you saw me as a threat. Do you still?”
She studies me for a long moment. Takes in the way I’ve been catching things before she drops them, cooling the soup before it burned her, eating food I do not need because she asked.
“No,” she says finally. “I don’t think you’re a threat anymore.”
“Then what am I?”
“I’m still figuring that out.” She manages a small smile. “But you’re not Martin. And you’re not a monster. So that’s progress.”
Carl appears in the doorway, holding a sign: “KEITH HAS CONCLUDED. REQUESTS POST-PRESENTATION FEEDBACK.”
“We should go,” Rianne says.
“We should.”
She doesn’t move. Neither do I.
“What if it fails again?” she asks quietly. “What if I can’t do it? What if we run out of chances and everyone becomes shadow creatures because I’m too broken to trust anyone?”
“You are not broken.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that you loved someone who betrayed you, and you are still trying. That is not broken. That is brave.”
She looks at me like I’ve said something impossible. Like bravery is not a word she has heard applied to herself.
“The Chronicle said ‘unprepared but willing,’” I remind her. “Willing is enough. We will try again. Tonight. And if it fails, we try once more at the solstice.”
“And if all three fail?”
“Then we fail together. But we will have tried honestly.”
She nods slowly. “Okay. Let’s give Keith his feedback and then... practice. Figure out how to do this right.”
“We already know the mechanics,” I point out. “Hands on the Chronicle. Synchronized breathing. Eye contact.”
“I know. But maybe we need to practice the trust part first. The magic part is easy. The human part is hard.”
“I am not human.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. And she is right. The ritual’s physical components are simple. It is the emotional component—the vulnerability, the trust, the choice—that is impossible.
She laughs, and I realize the permanent bond does not frighten me. The possibility that she might choose to walk away after, even without the bond, does.