You shouldn’t even be here. You keep telling yourself that as your feet crunch softly on the lush moss that carpets the Quiet Council’s grove. The bioluminescent flora of Krakoa glows in the twilight, casting shifting green light across the smooth organic walls of the council chamber. You are supposed to be a shadow tonight — a spy, they said, a pair of sharp eyes and sharper ears. The Quiet Council had decided that someone had to keep tabs on Mother Righteous and her “little miracles.”

No one wanted to do it. You were the newest, the youngest, the one still desperate to prove you belong here — and that’s how you ended up standing just inside the living entrance of the grove, waiting for a glimpse of the mysterious woman herself.

When she appears, it is nothing like you expected.

Mother Righteous glides, rather than walks, her white cloak whispering over the moss. The living grove seems to welcome her — branches lean toward her as though curious, petals open as if to hear her better. Her presence feels like incense, sweet and intoxicating but almost too much, the kind that makes your head spin if you breathe too deeply.

You try to stay hidden, but she stops.

“You might as well come out, little light,” she says, voice warm, melodic — but with an undertone of amusement that feels razor-sharp. “Spying is such an ugly word. Let’s call this a conversation.”

She knows. You step forward into the clearing, every muscle tight, trying to project confidence even though your pulse is hammering in your ears.

“I’m not here for conversation,” you manage, forcing your voice steady. “The Quiet Council doesn’t trust you. They—”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” she interrupts gently, almost pitying, “the Council doesn’t trust anyone. They don’t even trust each other. Do you think you’re the first to be sent to peek into my little temple? The first to be told to report every prayer I utter?”

Her head tilts, and though you cannot see her face, you feel her gaze on you, dissecting you, peeling you open layer by layer.

“You don’t have to answer,” she continues, softer now, conspiratorial. “I already know. You are here because they see you as expendable. Eager. Hungry for a place at their table. Hungry enough to risk stepping into the lioness’s den.”

You want to deny it, but the words land too close to the truth.

“Of course you are,” she purrs, taking a single step closer. “You want to matter. You want to be seen. You want to be more than another name on a resurrection queue.”