Bartholomew's fingers trembled where they rested on the page.
When he finally looked up, it wasn't with his usual hesitation. The round lenses of his glasses caught the light, reflecting eyes that shone a deep, molten gold. There was no stutter in his breath, no uncertainty pulling his posture inward. What surfaced instead was something rare—contained excitement, held back for far too long.
"I found it," he said. His voice was steady, almost reverent. "Trafalgar… I finally found it."
Trafalgar straightened instinctively. Confusion flickered first, followed closely by a quiet surge of anticipation. He didn't know what he had expected—an answer, a clue, maybe nothing at all—but the look on Bartholomew's face told him this wasn't trivial. Whatever had just fallen into place mattered.
Bartholomew didn't wait for permission to continue.
