The hour was late, yet the palace corridors thrummed with restrained tension. Though silent, the stone walls seemed to hold their breath, as though aware that the empire itself stood on the edge of a blade. Celestia felt it all in the air—the heaviness, the watching eyes, the quiet resistance that whispered through noble halls like a ghost refusing to be forgotten.
She walked with measured steps toward her private study, accompanied only by the soft rustle of her gown. Her conversation earlier that day with the nobles still lingered like a lingering ember waiting to ignite the entire forest.
They wanted a puppet.
They wanted a crown they could manipulate behind velvet curtains.
And they wanted her to be the decorative, powerless figurehead that every outdated rule insisted she should be.
But Celestia Everhart was no one's puppet.
