The frost glows brighter on three words: NOT. WHEN. AFTER.
“‘The bond is claimed NOT by the hand,’” she reads slowly, her voice rising with realization. “‘WHEN tempests fall and rage no more.’ Not during. After.”
I stare at the page, and it’s like seeing it for the first time. The room seems to tilt. “We’ve been trying to prove ourselves during the storm.”
“But it’s asking about after.” Her translucent hands are shaking now. She grabs the desk for support. “It’s not testing if we can survive crisis together.”
The truth lands between us. Ice explodes from my hands, spreading across the entire desk in fractured, chaotic patterns.“It’s asking if we’d choose each other when there is no crisis. On a normal Tuesday. When nothing is at stake.”
“Oh my god.” Rianne sinks into a chair, and for a moment she looks completely see-through, like she might disappear entirely. “We’ve been doing everything wrong. Trying to be strong, to hold on tight, to be an anchor?—”
“When it wanted to know if we’d seek the shore.” I’m pacing now, unable to stand still, frost spreading with every step. “If we’d choose each other when the danger passes. When it’s just?—”
“Tuesday,” she finishes, her voice barely a whisper. “When it’s just us. No crisis. No transformation. No world-ending stakes. Just... us.”
The Chronicle’s glow intensifies, pulsing with approval so bright we both have to shield our eyes. Around us, the temperature shifts—not dropping, but stabilizing for the first time in days. The chaotic magic in the air calms, settles, feels right.
From the basement, the stone’s voice booms: “FINALLY! THE STONE WAS ABOUT TO COME UP THERE AND HIGHLIGHT IT HIMSELF!”
“You knew?” we shout in unison, still reeling from the discovery.
“THE STONE TRIED TO TELL YOU! THE STONE HAS BEEN PLAYING ‘AFTER THE LOVE HAS GONE’ ON REPEAT FOR TWO DAYS!”
Rianne blinks. “I thought that was just... mood music.”
“THE STONE DOES NOT DO MOOD MUSIC! THE STONE DOES POINTED MUSICAL COMMENTARY! EARTH, WIND & FIRE WAS A CLUE!”
“Keith also suspected!” Keith admits. “Keith thought you needed to figure it out yourselves. Keith’s management training emphasized self-directed learning!”
We look at each other—translucent as ghosts, exhausted, having spent three days preparing for the wrong test entirely.
“So tonight,” Rianne says slowly, still processing. “We don’t try to be strong.”
“We try to be honest,” I finish. “About wanting this even when there’s no world-ending crisis forcing our hand.”
“Can we do that?”
I take her see-through hands in mine. Through our translucency, I can see our bones aligning, our pulses syncing, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like we’re disappearing—it feels like we’re becoming something new together.
“I want you on Tuesday mornings. When nothing is happening. When it’s boring and ordinary and safe.” I pause, making sure she hears this. “I want you when there’s no magic forcing us together. When we could walk away but choose not to.”
Tears spill down her cheeks, making tracks through the ice dust on her face. “I want you when Keith is doing his two-hundred-slide presentations. When the biggest crisis is expired soup.” Her voice cracks. “I want you when I’m not funny. When I’m just... me. On a regular day.”
The Chronicle snaps shut with a sound of deep satisfaction. When it opens again, the verse glows with new light, and beneath it, new words appear:
They understand. Let them choose at midnight. Let them choose truly.
“Five hours,” Keith announces, checking his shadow watch.
Five hours to prepare. This time, for the right test.
RIANNE
Midnight.
We don’t prepare. No formal positioning. We’re standing in the middle of Fiction, scattered books around our feet. Keith is corralling the shadow creatures into the basement for safety, shouting about “emergency evacuation procedures” and “maintaining slide quality during crisis.”
“I’m scared,” I tell Stenrik, taking his translucent hands in mine.
