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.
STENRIK
Ten o’clock. The temperature plummets noticeably—ice spreads across the inside of the windows in intricate patterns that would be beautiful if they weren’t a sign of the barrier’s continued degradation.
Rianne doesn’t react to the cold at all. She’s wearing only a light sweater, but she seems completely comfortable.
“Why is it so much colder?” she asks, watching our breath fog in the air.
“The barrier is thinning more rapidly. The shadow realm’s influence is growing stronger.”
“How cold is the shadow realm?”
“Approximately negative three hundred twenty degrees. But the worlds are finding balance—it won’t reach that here.”
She stares at me, then looks at her hands. The light passes through them like they’re made of smoke given temporary shape.
“Are we adapting to it?” she asks.
“You are. Your body temperature has dropped to match mine, but you feel no discomfort.”
“That’s... not normal.”
