That is not how it’s supposed to work.
I close my eyes for one breath. I match her exhale. I try to still the ancient instinct that says magic should only bloom in orderly fields.
I open my eyes. Her fingers are trembling on the book. But they are still there.
Stage One: Synchronization.
I begin the connection.
“Look at me. We must maintain contact. Through our hands, and... we must see each other.”
Her head snaps up. Her eyes meet mine. They are brown, flecked with gold, and completely, totally guarded. She looks at me like I am a problem to be solved. Or endured.
“Keep breathing,” I say.
The silver light from the book flows up our arms. It is cold. My magic. I feel it try to connect with her, to find her own nascent magical signature. I find... nothing. Just a wall. Human skepticism. Fear.
“Rianne.”
“I’m here. I’m breathing.” Her voice is tight.
The silver light flickers. It recoils from her, flows back down her arms, and retreats into the book. The glow dies.
I feel the barrier. Her refusal. It is not conscious, perhaps. But it is absolute. She does not trust me. She does not know me. She sees me as a monster, an ‘ice elf’. The ritual cannot proceed.
For a moment, brief and sharp, I feel it. Not the magical rejection. Something worse. The certainty that she will never see past what I am to who I might be. Henderson did. Once. A century and a half ago. I thought I had accepted I would not find that again.
The Chronicle’s cover, which had been cool, turns frigid. Ice shoots from my side of the book. It covers the leather, races across her hands.
She cries out. Not in pain. In shock.
The magic snaps.
RIANNE
The ice is so cold it feels like a burn.
It shoots from the book, covering my hands, racing up my arms like a thousand frozen needles. I yell and rip my hands back, stumbling away. I trip over the salt line and fall hard onto the carpet.
The magic in the room dies. Instantly. The shadows outside, which had been still, press against the glass again, agitated. The library feels wrong. Empty.
“What the hell was that?” I push myself up on my elbows. My hands sting, bright red where the ice has touched them.
Stenrik stands perfectly still. He looks at his own hands, then at me. His face is impossible to read. It is just... calm. That almost makes it worse.
“The ritual failed,” he states.
“I got that! Why? You said it wouldn’t hurt.” I get to my feet, rubbing my arms. I feel stupid. And cold.
“It was not intended to. The magic recoiled. It failed at Stage One. Synchronization.” He speaks like he is delivering a report. No emotion. Just facts.
“It recoiled? What does that mean?”
“It means the connection was rejected.” He looks at me, and his blue eyes are just... flat. “You rejected it.”
“I didn’t do anything! I was breathing. I was looking at you. I did what you said.” I am defensive, and I hate the sound of my own voice.
“You were present,” he corrects. “But you were not open. The magic requires trust, a willing synchronization. Your defenses are... significant.”
