“How long was I out?” she asks, her voice rough from sleep.
“Three hours.”
“Three hours? Stenrik, you were supposed to wake me. We need to practice.”
“You needed rest more.” I move closer. “You bled from using the Chronicle. Your body needed recovery time.”
She touches her nose reflexively, checking. “I’m fine now. Just tired.” She looks around the library. “Is it just me or is it colder in here?”
“The temperature is dropping as the barrier continues to thin.”
She shivers, pulling her cardigan tighter. “Great. Magical hypothermia to add to the list of problems.”
“Define normal in this situation,” I echo the stone’s earlier words.
“Point taken.”
“Rianne—”
“I know what you’re going to say. We need to talk about why I keep freezing up during the ceremony.” She looks away. “It’s not about Martin anymore.”
“No?”
“No. I realized something while I was fake-sleeping and thinking.” She pauses, organizing whatever she’s about to say. “I’m not afraid you’ll leave. I’m afraid you’ll stay.”
I wait, not understanding.
“If you leave, that’s familiar. I know how to handle abandonment. I’ve got a whole system—wine, terrible TV, eventual recovery.” She pulls her knees to her chest. “But if you stay? If this is real and permanent and you actually mean it? I don’t know how to handle that. I’ve never had that.”
“So you sabotage it.”
“So I sabotage it.” She laughs, but it’s bitter. “How’s that for self-awareness? I know exactly what I’m doing wrong but can’t stop doing it.”
The Chronicle sits on the desk between us, glowing steadily. As I watch, new text writes itself across the open pages:
Fear of joy is still fear. Choose the unfamiliar path.
“Even the Chronicle thinks I’m a coward,” Rianne mutters.
“The Chronicle thinks you’re afraid of happiness. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
I move closer, sit beside her on the floor of the children’s section. Our shoulders touch, and she doesn’t pull away.
“You deserve happiness,” I say quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”
She’s silent for a long moment. “Do I? Because most of the evidence suggests otherwise.”
“The evidence suggests you chose poorly once. That does not mean you don’t deserve better.”
“But what if I mess it up again?”
“Then you mess it up. But at least you tried.”
She looks at me, really looks at me. “What if I’m not good enough? For this bond, for... any of it?”
“Rianne.” I take her hand deliberately, a choice not an automatic response. “You are enough. The question is whether you believe it.”
