“That’s not living,” he says. “That’s just existing.”
Carl appears at the edge of our circle, solid now, holding a sign: “CARL SUPPORTS CHOOSING HAPPINESS.”
“Thanks, Carl,” I say, and Stenrik nods.
The magic pulses, impatient. “Choose.”
I look at Stenrik. Translucent, formal, emotionally constipated, trying so hard to change. He looks at me. See-through, chaotic, deflecting with humor, trying to be brave.
We turn away from the doors, facing each other fully. The moment we do, I notice something. My hands are solidifying. Still see-through, but more like clouded glass than clear ice.
“Those doors look really appealing,” I admit, still fighting their pull.
“They do.”
“Simple.”
“Uncomplicated.”
“No risk of failure.”
“No permanent bonds with someone you’ve known four days.”
“Two and a half,” I correct, and he smiles.
“But?” the magic prompts.
I take a breath. “But simple isn’t better. It’s just... simple.”
“And I’ve had three hundred years of simple,” Stenrik adds. “It’s overrated.”
The doors pull harder. We have to hold each other now, arms around each other, to keep from being separated.
“I choose the complicated path,” I say. “The one with bad jokes and emotional processing and height differences that require stepladders.”
“I choose chaos,” he says. “Wine that tastes like dissolved candy and naming shadow creatures and someone who laughs when she should be serious.”
I’m becoming more solid. I can feel it, substance returning to my bones. But the doors aren’t giving up. They pull harder, and I see shadows starting to creep up our arms. The price of resistance.
“Even though we’re a mess?”
“Especially because we’re a mess. A matching mess.”
The doors flicker, wavering. But the shadow creeps higher, past our elbows now. We’re starting to transform from the effort of rejecting the easy paths.
“I choose you,” we say in unison, not planned, just true.
“Not the bond,” I add, watching shadow reach my shoulders. “You.”
“Not the solution,” he adds, shadow at his neck. “You.”
The magic pauses, considering. The shadows reach our faces. We’re about to become shadow creatures from the sheer effort of resistance.
Then the magic laughs, bright and warm and approving. The shadows retreat. We solidify rapidly, becoming almost completely opaque. The doors shatter into light that swirls around us, through us. The Chronicle rises, pages now pure brightness.
We’re solid except for the faintest translucency, like we’re waiting for one last thing to seal the choice.
“Stage three,” we gasp together.
