She set her hand carefully on the table and let the toad hop down onto a clear patch of wood. He settled there, eyeing the sprites suspiciously as they flitted past.
“Looking for something specific?” she asked.
“The Priestess,” I said. “Or rather… what she wants.”
Celeste nodded slowly. “That’s what I was wondering too.”
I studied her face, struck again by how natural it felt to have her here in this space, with magic and history layered around us as if it had always been meant to be this way.
“These books talk about armies,” I continued. “About strategy. About destruction. But none of that feels like the point.”
She leaned her hip against the table. “Because armies are tools.”
“Yes,” I said, relief blooming at the shared understanding. “Exactly, but not the intent.”
The toad ribbited softly, as if agreeing.
Celeste glanced at him. “He’s very opinionated.”
“He always was.”
She smiled, then grew thoughtful. “So, what if she doesn’t want Stonewick destroyed?”
The thought stopped me cold.
“What if she wants it claimed?” Celeste continued. “Or reshaped. Or… inherited.”
My pulse quickened.
“She’s ancient,” Celeste went on. “And she’s powerful. But she’s also tied to bloodlines and legacy. That matters to people like her.”
I swallowed. “You think this is about succession.”
“Or correction,” Celeste said. “She might believe something here belongs to her. Or was taken from her.”
The warmth at my hip pulsed.
The sprites stilled, hovering midair as if they, too, were listening.
I reached out and squeezed Celeste’s hand. “That’s… very perceptive.”
She shrugged, a little uncomfortable with the praise. “I’ve had a lot of time to think.”
I looked around the library again, at the shelves that had always given me comfort, and realized what I’d been missing.
I wasn’t supposed to be reading about orcs.
I was supposed to be reading about her.
The Priestess.
Not her methods.
Her desire.
And for the first time since Celeste had asked the question that started all of this, I felt like I was finally standing in the right room to answer it.
The thought came quietly, the way the most dangerous ones always did.
