She heads toward the break room, stumbling over a cart of returns. “There might be soup. Soup doesn’t really expire, right?”
“Everything expires.”
“Soup transcends expiration.”
I follow her. The break room looks worse in the emergency lighting—a space that seems designed to crush human spirit. She examines cans that look older than some treaties I’ve signed, tossing rejected ones over her shoulder. I catch them before they hit the floor.
“Chicken noodle, 2019.” Toss. Catch. “Tomato, 2018.” Toss. Catch. “Oh, here’s one from 2020!”
“That is still four years expired.”
“It’s the freshest we’ve got.” She opens it with a manual can opener that protests every rotation. The smell is... not entirely objectionable.
As she heats the ancient soup on a hot plate that sparks, I watch her move around the small space. She talks constantly—about the soup, about Keith’s presentation, about Carl’s career advancement. Her hands gesture wildly, nearly knocking over the soup twice. I steady it without her noticing.
“Rianne.”
“Hmm?” She is stirring with a plastic spoon that is melting slightly.
“The permanent bond. We should discuss?—”
“After soup. Everything’s better after soup.”
“Soup does not solve magical complications.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe this soup is special. Maybe it’s magic soup.”
“It is expired soup.”
“Magic expired soup.”
Her hands shake as she pours the soup into two chipped mugs—one says “World’s Best Mom,” the other has a cat givingthe middle finger. A tremor goes through her arm, exhaustion and stress catching up, and the pot tips. Boiling soup hisses over the hot plate, splashing onto the counter, onto her hand.
She yelps, jerking back. I reach for her automatically, ice forming on my fingertips as I pull her hand under cold water from the sink. The burn is minor, already reddening.
“I won’t force you,” I say quietly, ice cooling her skin where the soup touched. “If the bond is permanent, it must be chosen freely.”
She stops pouring, soup dripping onto the counter. “Even if everyone becomes shadow creatures?”
“Even then.”
Her eyes widen. She had expected me to argue, to justify, to find loopholes. I can see the surprise in the way her shoulders drop, the tension releasing.
“That’s stupid.”
“That is consent.”
“You’d let everyone transform rather than force me into a permanent bond?”
“Yes.”
She turns to look at me, soup still dripping. “Why?”
“Because a forced bond would be hollow. Empty. The magic requires genuine connection.”
This is truth. Not strategy. The magic would know the difference, and so would I.
“What if we can’t connect? What if we’re too different?”
