Celeste paced, her movements deliberate yet searching, as if trying to find her bearings in a place she already knew.
I watched, anticipation coiling in my chest, a flicker of impatience rising. I needed her to say it.
She didn’t disappoint.
Stopping abruptly, she turned to me, her expression smooth but carrying a subtle weight.
“This,” she finally said, “is the day the princess of King Adrian and Queen Elena was born.”
I blinked.
Her tone wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t grand, but the statement itself hung in the air like something bigger than the both of us.
Celeste exhaled, eyes flicking across the scene before us. “It was a day of celebration, a day of rejoice and hope.”
She said it with an edge of certainty, like she had lived it—not just as an observer, but as someone woven into the
