“Keith made team-building exercises for us?”
“Keith has made an obstacle course,” Keith announces proudly.
I look at the library, which has been transformed into what can only be described as a shadow creature jungle gym. There are obstacles made of furniture, trust exercises involving suspicious-looking ropes, and what appears to be a PowerPoint presentation station every three feet.
“This is insane,” I say.
“This is Keith,” Stenrik corrects.
“Same thing.”
But I’m smiling. And I see him smiling too.
Maybe we’re still broken. Maybe we’ll fail again tonight. But right now, covered in cart-racing bruises and looking at Keith’sdemented obstacle course, I feel something I haven’t felt in three days: hope.
“Ready?” Stenrik asks, offering his hand.
I take it. Through our translucent skin, I can see our bones align, like we’re already one creature just pretending to be two. “Ready.”
“POSITIONS FOR TRUST FALL NUMBER ONE!” Keith announces.
We’re definitely going to become shadow creatures.
But at least we’ll transform trying.
With Keith’s PowerPoints to guide us.
STENRIK
Keith’s trust exercises have left us bruised, exhausted, and covered in what appears to be shadow creature slime from the “collaborative rope climbing” station. Rianne’s hair has achieved new levels of chaos, sticking up at angles that defy physics.
“Never again,” she pants, wringing green black goo from her sweater.
“Keith thought it went well!” Keith protests, reviewing his clipboard. “Sixty percent success rate!”
“We fell into each other forty percent of the time!”
“That’s still physical contact! Keith counts it as team building!”
We’re both trying to clean up when the Chronicle’s glow intensifies from the circulation desk. Not the gentle pulse we’ve grown used to—something sharper, more insistent. Like it’s demanding our attention.
Rianne looks at it, then at me. Through her, I can see the wall behind her clearly now. We are both becoming more translucent by the hour. Our strategy of being an “anchor” is not working.
The Chronicle pulls at something in my chest. I move toward it, and Rianne follows. When we reach the desk, the book is already open to that verse we’ve been misreading for days.
This time, I can’t look away.
“Stenrik,” Rianne says quietly. “Read it again. Out loud. Slowly.”
I do, emphasizing each word: “‘The bond is claimed NOT by the hand that grips an anchor in the storm-wracked land. But by the soul that seeks the shore, WHEN tempests fall and rage no more.’”
The words hang in the air. I open my mouth to say we should try again, analyze it further?—
The Chronicle flies off the desk on its own, pages flipping violently. It slams open to that verse, and this time, frost spreads across the page from all directions—mine and Rianne’s both—meeting in the middle to highlight specific words.
Words we’ve been skipping over.
“Wait.” Rianne leans closer, her translucent finger hovering over the frost patterns. “Look at what the magic is highlighting.”
