“The ceremony requires us to be different people,” I finish. “People who can be sincere without armor. People who can feel without analyzing. People we don’t know how to be.”
Silence stretches between us. Outside, I can hear the storm getting worse. Through my translucent hand, I can see the frost patterns still writing my fears.
“I don’t know how to be different,” Stenrik says finally.
“Neither do I.”
“So we’re going to fail. Again.”
“Probably.”
“Everyone’s going to become shadow creatures.”
“Probably.”
“Because I can’t feel properly and you can’t stop joking.”
“That about sums it up.”
From the basement, the stone’s voice rumbles: “THE STONE IS DISAPPOINTED BUT NOT SURPRISED!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence!” I shout back.
“THE STONE HAS BEEN WATCHING YOU BOTH! YOU’RE LIKE A ROMANTIC COMEDY WHERE THE LEADS NEED THERAPY!”
“We don’t have time for therapy!”
“THE STONE IS AWARE! THE STONE SUGGESTS RADICAL ACCEPTANCE INSTEAD!”
“What?”
“ACCEPT YOUR FLAWS! USE THEM! THE CEREMONY DOESN’T REQUIRE PERFECTION, IT REQUIRES TRUTH!”
I look at Stenrik. He looks at me. We’re both disasters, both broken in opposite ways. Both becoming translucent shadow creatures because we can’t get out of our own way.
Maybe that’s the point.
“One more try?” I ask. “The solstice. Our last chance.”
“One more,” he agrees.
“But this time, we don’t try to be different. We try to be ourselves.”
“Armor and all,” he agrees.
We have one day to figure out what that means.
I wakeup on the floor of Poetry, sprawled between overturned shelves. My neck feels like someone tried to unscrew my head. I can see my bones through my skin—not faint anymore, but clear as an X-ray beneath cloudy glass. Worse than yesterday.
Stenrik’s awake somewhere nearby. I know because the frost patterns on the windows keep shifting from controlled fractals to chaotic spirals—his version of tossing and turning.
There’s a bowl of soup next to me, still warm, with a note: “I’m sorry. -S”
The handwriting is perfect, formal. Three centuries of practice in every letter. I touch the paper and feel an echo of his regret.
I groan and sit up. Every muscle protests. The library looks like a battlefield—our battlefield. Across the library, I can see evidence of last night’s fight—books scattered everywhere, ice damage on the walls, and what appears to be a Keith-shaped indent in the Biography section.
“Keith understands the situation was difficult,” Keith announces, sliding past. “Keith cares about emotional stability.”
