Stenrik
Rianne has been asleep for hours, curled in the children’s section, her jacket bundled as a pillow. I’ve been reinforcing the barriers, but I find myself checking on her more often than is strictly necessary.
Rianne stirs, stretching. She sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes.
“How long was I out?” she asks, her voice rough from sleep.
“Three hours.”
“Three hours? Stenrik, you were supposed to wake me. We need to practice.”
“You needed rest more.” I move closer. “You bled from using the Chronicle. Your body needed recovery time.”
She touches her nose reflexively, checking. “I’m fine now. Just tired.” She looks around the library. “Is it just me or is it colder in here?”
“The temperature is dropping as the barrier continues to thin.”
She shivers, pulling her cardigan tighter. “Great. Magical hypothermia to add to the list of problems.”
“Define normal in this situation,” I echo the stone’s earlier words.
“Point taken.”
“Rianne—”
“I know what you’re going to say. We need to talk about why I keep freezing up during the ceremony.” She looks away. “It’s not about Martin anymore.”
“No?”
“No. I realized something while I was fake-sleeping and thinking.” She pauses, organizing whatever she’s about to say. “I’m not afraid you’ll leave. I’m afraid you’ll stay.”
I wait, not understanding.
“If you leave, that’s familiar. I know how to handle abandonment. I’ve got a whole system—wine, terrible TV, eventual recovery.” She pulls her knees to her chest. “But if you stay? If this is real and permanent and you actually mean it? I don’t know how to handle that. I’ve never had that.”
“So you sabotage it.”
“So I sabotage it.” She laughs, but it’s bitter. “How’s that for self-awareness? I know exactly what I’m doing wrong but can’t stop doing it.”
The Chronicle sits on the desk between us, glowing steadily. As I watch, new text writes itself across the open pages:
Fear of joy is still fear. Choose the unfamiliar path.
“Even the Chronicle thinks I’m a coward,” Rianne mutters.
“The Chronicle thinks you’re afraid of happiness. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
I move closer, sit beside her on the floor of the children’s section. Our shoulders touch, and she doesn’t pull away.
“You deserve happiness,” I say quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”
She’s silent for a long moment. “Do I? Because most of the evidence suggests otherwise.”
“The evidence suggests you chose poorly once. That does not mean you don’t deserve better.”
“But what if I mess it up again?”
“Then you mess it up. But at least you tried.”
She looks at me, really looks at me. “What if I’m not good enough? For this bond, for... any of it?”
“Rianne.” I take her hand deliberately, a choice not an automatic response. “You are enough. The question is whether you believe it.”
The Chronicle’s pages flutter despite no wind. More text appears:
The next attempt approaches. Choose joy or choose fear. But choose.
From the basement, the foundation stone’s voice booms: “FINALLY! IT’S ABOUT CHOICE, NOT JUST TRUST!”
“You’ve been eavesdropping,” Rianne accuses.
“THE STONE IS LITERALLY THE FOUNDATION! THE STONE FEELS EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS IN THIS BUILDING!”
Carl appears, holding a new sign: “CARL BELIEVES IN RIANNE’S ABILITY TO CHOOSE JOY.”
“Thanks, Carl,” Rianne says, and she sounds genuinely touched.
Keith slides over with a laptop made of shadows. “Keith has prepared a presentation about choosing joy in the workplace!”
“How many slides?” I ask.
“Seventeen! Keith showed restraint!”
“That’s character growth,” Rianne says, and Keith practically glows with pride.
Mister Poofypants the Third walks past, dragging something. It’s a shadow, but not a dead one—this one appears to be following willingly, like a pet.
“Did my cat adopt a shadow?” Rianne asks.
The cat meows proudly. The shadow waves.
“We’re not keeping it,” I say.
“We?” Rianne looks at me, and there’s something soft in her expression.
“Slip of the tongue.”
“Liar. Your ear’s doing the thing.”
She’s right. My tell has become obvious to her in just two days. Two days, and she knows me better than anyone has in centuries.
“Stenrik?”
“Yes?”
“Tonight, when we try again... I’m going to choose. For real this time.”
“This is our second attempt,” I confirm. “We have tonight, and then the solstice if needed. Three chances total.”
“We spent eighteen hours planning to practice the mechanics.” She laughs softly. “But the mechanics aren’t the problem, are they?”
“No. The problem is choosing to trust. Choosing to be vulnerable.”
“Choosing joy over fear.” She nods toward the Chronicle. “That’s what it keeps saying.”
She takes a breath. “Even if I mess it up. Even if I’m not good enough. Even if it all goes wrong.”
The temperature in the room rises slightly—or perhaps we just stop noticing the cold. The ice patterns on the windows shift from fractals to flowers. The Chronicle glows so bright we have to look away.
“THE STONE APPROVES!” booms from the basement. “THE STONE IS PLAYING CELELEbrATION MUSIC!”
Indeed, “We Are the Champions” starts echoing through the vents.
“The stone has interesting taste,” I observe.
“The stone has been reading my Spotify history,” Rianne admits. “I may have used the library computer for personal purposes.”
“Scandalous.”
“I’m a rebel.”
We sit there, her hand still in mine. She’s warm—human temperature, human fragility. Tonight that might change. If we succeed, if she chooses, the bond will alter both of us in ways we can’t predict.
“Six hours,” she says softly. “Six hours until we try again.”
“Are you ready?”
“No. But I’m willing. That has to count for something.”
“It counts for everything.”
Keith clears what might be his throat. “KEITH HAS STARTED THE COUNTDOWN PRESENTATION!”
“Already?” Rianne checks the clock. “It’s only six.”
“Keith believes in thorough preparation! Slide one: The Importance of Punctuality in Magical Ceremonies!”
We have six hours until midnight. Six hours for Rianne to choose joy over fear. Six hours to practice what we already know—the breathing, the rhythm, the mechanics.
But more importantly, six hours for her to decide if she’s ready to truly be seen. And six hours for me to accept that I want her to choose me, not just the bond.
Keith interrupts: “Keith suggests a brief practice session! Breathing Exercises for Magical Synchronization!”
Rianne laughs. “Seventeen slides on breathing?”
“Keith is thorough!”
She squeezes my hand once, then stands, pulling me up with her. “Okay. Let’s practice. Let’s do this right.”
And for the first time since this began, I believe we might actually succeed.