“This building was part of an old expansion plan,” he says finally.
“I gathered that much.”
“It was meant to anchor the southern boundary of Redwood Crossing,” he continues. “A stabilizing point.”
My brows knit. “Stabilizing what, exactly?”
“The territory line,” he says.
That lands. Hard. I look back down at the map. The lines suddenly make more sense. Not decoration. Not coincidence. Structure.
“Are you telling me,” I say slowly, “that my bookstore is basically a supernatural fence post?”
A flicker of something almost like humor crosses his face.
“In a simplified sense,” he says.
“Oh my God.”
I press a hand to my forehead.
“This is insane.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
I drop my hand.
“And you didn’t think I should know this when I bought it?”
His expression shifts again—more serious now.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he says.
“It matters now,” I snap.
A beat of silence. Then softer, but no less intense?—
“It matters now,” he agrees.
That quiet agreement does something strange in my chest. Not comfort. But alignment.
Like we’re finally standing in the same reality instead of circling it. I set the papers down carefully.
“Explain it to me,” I say.
He doesn’t hesitate this time. Because things are too far gone for hesitation.
“This land holds a boundary line,” he says. “Old, but still active. Built into the way shifters instinctively recognize territory.”
I glance around the basement.
“This building is part of that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because anchors stabilize contested ground,” he says. “They make it harder for outside forces to push through.”
