Rianne
From Fiction, voices rise in dramatic dialogue. Keith’s shadow converts have formed a book club and they’re reading my romance section aloud. One shadow has a laptop made of compressed darkness.
“‘His masculine presence filled the doorway like liquid smoke,’” one shadow intones. “‘Cassandra’s heaving bosom betrayed her desire—’ What’s a bosom?”
“Corporate terminology for chest,” Keith explains. “Very unprofessional in the workplace.”
Carl holds up a sign: “CARL FINDS THIS EDUCATIONAL.”
“Should we stop them?” Stenrik asks.
“Let them learn.” I manage to swallow the protein bar chunk. It goes down like gravel. “Besides, we need to practice.”
“Practice?”
“The ceremony. You said there’s an essence exchange thing?”
He shifts uncomfortably, and something flickers in his expression—nervousness mixed with something warmer. “Yes.”
“Which involves?”
“Full palm contact. Synchronized breathing. Maintained eye contact throughout.”
“Throughout what?”
“The entire final phase. Approximately ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes of staring into each other’s eyes?”
“While maintaining physical connection and breath synchronization, yes.”
I stand, brush cracker crumbs off my jeans. My hand is definitely more translucent now—I can see the circulation desk through it faintly. “Show me.”
“Now?”
“We have three hours until midnight. I’d rather not wing it again.”
He stands too, and in the space between the desk and the wall, we’re already too close. He has to look down. I have to crane my neck back. The height difference is ridiculous and shouldn’t be attractive but something about it makes my breath catch.
“Keith mentioned he remembers being human,” I say suddenly. “Vaguely.”
“Yes?”
“What if that’s what’s happening? What if we’re all becoming... something else? Like Keith chose corporate shadow, but we’re choosing something different?”
“That’s possible.”
“I can see through my hand, Stenrik.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not scared.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re here.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “Because whatever I’m becoming, you’re here for it.”
He reaches out slowly, takes my translucent hand in his solid one. “Show me the positioning,” I say. “The actual ceremony choreography.”
He moves behind me, and I feel the cold radiating from him before he even touches me. “We start like this. Back to chest.”
His hands come around, palms up. “Place your hands on mine.”
I do. His hands are so much larger than mine, my fingers barely reaching past his palms. Even without magic, energy hums between us. Frost spirals out from where we touch—his controlled fractals mixing with my chaotic swirls.
“Then we breathe together.” His chest presses against my back as he inhales, and I match him. “In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth.”
“We’ve done this before.”
“Not like this.” He adjusts, pulling me back against him more fully. “During the ceremony, you’ll turn in my arms while maintaining palm contact. Slowly. The hands never separate.”
I turn, carefully sliding my palms against his, keeping contact the whole time. It’s awkward and intimate and when I’m finally facing him, we’re chest to chest and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
“Then?”
“Then we breathe each other’s air.”
“That’s—” I start to protest, but he’s already leaning down. Our faces are inches apart. When he exhales, I inhale his breath. It tastes like winter and something electric.
“Eyes open,” he says. “The whole time.”
This close, his eyes aren’t just ice-blue. There are rings of darker blue near the pupils, flecks of silver throughout. I can see myself reflected in them—translucent, glowing faintly, changed.
“Rianne.”
“What?”
“You’re holding your breath.”
I exhale shakily. He inhales it, and the air between us changes, becomes charged with something that has nothing to do with magic.
“Should we try with magic?” I ask.
“That’s... probably wise.”
Neither of us moves. We’re still breathing each other’s air, and I’m hyperaware of every point of contact.
“Magic,” I say again, my voice coming out breathier than intended.
He nods and lets his power flow. It’s cold at first, making me gasp, but then it warms as it mingles with whatever the Chronicle gave me.
The connection flares. Suddenly I’m not just feeling my emotions but his—quick flashes of images.
How I look to him right now, translucent and glowing.
The memory of naming Carl. The first time I laughed at one of his attempts at humor.
The way my increasing transparency makes him worry and fascinates him in equal measure.
“We should stop,” he says roughly.
“We should,” I agree, not moving.
The magic builds between us until our breathing syncs perfectly. I can feel his heartbeat through our joined hands, steady and strong.
“Rianne,” he breathes against my lips, and his voice is wrecked.
I should step back. We should stop. This isn’t practice anymore and we both know it.
But I don’t want to stop.
I go up on tiptoe. He goes still, giving me the choice, and I realize this is what the Chronicle meant. Not holding on—choosing. Actively choosing to close the distance.
When our lips meet, everything else disappears.
His hands are still creating ice fractals, mine are leaving frost spirals, and where they meet, something new blooms—neither his nor mine but ours.
The kiss starts gentle, almost questioning, but then he makes a sound low in his throat and it changes.
Deepens. His hands slide from mine to my waist, pulling me closer, and I grip his shoulders for balance.
The magic between us flares hot-cold-bright, and I can feel it—the exact moment when my density shifts, when I become more solid under his hands.
He’s shaking with the effort of staying controlled, but his kiss is anything but controlled. It’s desperate and honest and I can feel every emotion he’s been holding back—three hundred years of being alone, of not being seen, of Henderson dying and no one else ever looking past the frost.
And then there’s me. How he sees me: chaotic and brave and wholly unexpected. How the thought of me walking away after this terrifies him more than the ceremony failing.
I kiss him harder, trying to show him I’m not going anywhere, and he responds by deepening the kiss until I’m dizzy with it, with him, with the magic turning the air around us into something that sparkles like fresh snow in sunlight.
“SLIDE SEVENTY-FIVE!” Keith screams from the conference room. “THE QUARTERLY ASSESSMENT OF INTEGRATION METRICS!”
The interruption breaks us apart. We’re both breathing hard, still holding hands. The magic between us settles but doesn’t disappear—it hums under my skin like a promise.
“I...” I start, then notice something strange. I hold up my free hand to the light. “Stenrik, look.”
He does, and his eyes widen slightly. I can barely see through my skin anymore. Yesterday I could see my bones clearly. Now there’s just a faint haziness, like fog trapped under my skin.
“We’re solidifying,” he says quietly.
“From kissing?”
“From connecting. Real connection, not practice.” He turns my hand over in his, studying it. Through what’s left of my translucency, I can see his pulse racing. “The transformation responds to genuine emotion. To choice.”
“That was—” I start, then stop. Because what do I even call that? Practice feels like a lie. But admitting what it actually was feels too big, too real, with two hours until we have to do the ceremony.
“Practice,” he says, but his voice is rough and his eyes won’t meet mine.
“Right. Practice.” I try to pull my hand back but he holds on.
“Rianne.”
“We should probably—” I gesture vaguely toward Keith.
“Yes.” But he still doesn’t let go. “That isn’t what that was.”
“I know.”
“The ceremony—”
“I know.”
We stand there, hands clasped, the truth hanging between us. We both know that wasn’t practice. We both know it meant something. But saying it out loud, with the ceremony looming and the wrong interpretation still in our heads and everything at stake—
“Two hours,” I say finally.
We stand there for another moment, hands still clasped, both breathing hard. Through my translucent palm, I can see the ice patterns we’re creating together—something new, neither his nor mine but ours.
From Fiction, a shadow creature reads: “‘Their souls recognized each other across the void—’ Is void recognition a required skill?”
“Very useful in quarterly reviews!” Keith calls.
That breaks the moment. We step apart, and the loss of contact aches.
I check the time on the circulation desk computer. “Less than two hours,” I say, trying to steady my voice.
“Less than two hours.”
“We should probably practice more. The whole... essence exchange thing. Make sure we can hold the connection steady when it counts.”
“Hold steady,” he repeats, and something flickers across his face. “Yes. The anchor must be unshakeable.”
I nod, pushing away the strange feeling his words give me. “Exactly. We grip tight and don’t let go, no matter what.”
“No matter what,” he agrees.
Neither of us notices how the ice patterns on the windows shift—from fractals to flowers and back to fractals again.
Carl appears, holding a sign: “CARL THINKS YOU SHOULD KISS MORE.”
“Carl!” I exclaim.
“Carl is just saying what everyone is thinking.”
From the basement, the stone booms: “THE STONE AGREES WITH CARL!”
“You’re all very invested in this,” Stenrik observes.
“Keith has thoughts about workplace romance!” Keith announces.
“Of course he does,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
Looking at Stenrik, at the way he’s trying so hard to maintain control while his ice forms increasingly elaborate flowers around us, I think maybe Carl and the stone have a point.
Less than two hours until midnight. Less than two hours until we have to grip tight and hold on through whatever the ceremony throws at us.
But looking at my hand—more solid now, still tingling from his touch—I wonder if maybe we’re already holding on to the wrong thing.
The thought disappears as quickly as it came.
We know what to do. The Chronicle told us. Be the anchor. Don’t let go.
Even if that kiss felt more like letting go than holding on.
Even if I’ve never felt more solid than when I stopped trying to be strong.
We’ll be fine.
We have to be.