Page 24 of Awakened Destiny (The Dark Ascendant #3)

Tiernan

The light catches on Brigid ’ s hair as she steps out into the courtyard, the dark strands glinting with bronze in the early sun. She moves carefully, her arms folded across her chest like she ’ s holding herself together. Her shoulders are tense, but there ’ s a quiet strength in how she carries herself now that wasn ’ t there before. She stops just past the stone arch, tilting her face up toward the sky, eyes half-closed, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

She ’ s changed. It ’ s subtle, but it ’ s there—something sharper in her edges, something heavier in her silences. Since she came back from Newton, there ’ s this... stillness about her, like she ’ s bracing for something only she can see coming. I don ’ t know if it ’ s strength or fear, or maybe both, but it pulls at me in ways I don ’ t entirely understand. There ’ s so much I want to ask her, but I never know where to start.

I hesitate by the steps, watching her, feeling like an intruder on a private moment. Then she shifts, glancing over her shoulder, and our eyes meet. Her expression doesn ’ t change, but there ’ s a glint of something in her gray gaze—a question or an invitation. Either way, I take it.

"Morning," I say as I fall into step beside her. My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to, but she doesn ’ t seem to mind. She nods once, then turns back toward the path leading away from the courtyard.

We walk in silence for a while, the gravel crunching underfoot. She doesn ’ t look at me again, and I ’ m not sure if that means she wants me here or doesn ’ t know how to ask me to leave. Probably the latter. But leaving isn ’ t an option—not when she looks like this, wound so tight I can almost feel it.

"How are you feeling today?" The words feel clumsy as they leave my mouth, too formal, too clinical, but it ’ s the best I can manage. Empathy has never been my strong suit, and finding the right balance between concern and intrusion is a skill I ’ ve yet to master.

"Fine." Her answer is automatic, but then she exhales, glancing sideways at me. "No, not fine. Tired. Restless.” She pauses, frowning down at the path ahead. "I don ’ t know. It ’ s hard to explain."

"Try," I say before I can stop myself. It comes out sharper than I intend, and she flinches slightly, her fingers tightening around her elbows. I soften my tone. "I mean, if you want to. I ’ m listening."

She doesn ’ t respond right away, her gaze fixed on the horizon. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, more hesitant. "It ’ s just... everything feels heavier lately. Like there ’ s this pressure bearing down on me that I can ’ t shake off. And it ’ s not just—it ’ s not just mine, you know? It ’ s..." She trails off, shaking her head. "Forget it. It sounds stupid."

"It doesn ’ t." I keep my eyes forward, giving her space. "You don ’ t have to explain it all at once. Or at all, if it ’ s too much. Just know I ’ m here."

Her lips press into a thin line, and for a second, I think she ’ s going to shut down completely. But then she nods, a small, reluctant movement, and her posture softens just enough to let me breathe easier.

"Thanks," she murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Nowhere in particular. I needed some fresh air and to get out of the building.”

I nod, understanding. “ Same.”

“ Don ’ t let me keep you from what you were doing.” She takes a deep breath, and for a moment I think she wants me to leave, but then I catch a fragment of her thoughts. I shut that down before I can intrude further, but not before I hear her wishing for me to stay.

“ You ’ re not,” I say simply.

We walk in silence for a while, automatically heading for the trees. The path narrows as it winds toward the denser part of the forest, and I step slightly ahead to lead her. The sunlight filters through the canopy in broken patches, the air cool but not biting. I can feel the shift as we move further in—it ’ s subtle, like the woods themselves are leaning in closer to listen.

The grove isn ’ t far now. The trees here are older, their roots twisting across the ground in gnarled patterns. My hand brushes against the bark of an oak as we pass, and there ’ s a faint pulse beneath my fingers, almost imperceptible. It steadies me in a way nothing else does. This place, this earth—it knows me. Always has, even when I ’ ve felt like I didn ’ t know myself.

"Your grove?" Brigid asks, breaking the quiet. Her voice isn ’ t guarded this time, just curious. “ I ’ ve never asked you why it ’ s so special, have I?”

"It ’ s... centering."

She doesn ’ t press for more, which I ’ m grateful for. Explaining the grove to someone always feels inadequate, like trying to describe color to someone who ’ s never seen light. But I think she understands. She ’ s felt it.

When we reach the edge of the grove, I stop. The clearing opens up suddenly, like the forest itself decided to pull back and make room. The space is ringed by towering trees, their branches arching overhead to form a natural ceiling. The ground is soft with green moss.

Her gaze sweeps over the grove, lingering on the way the light dances across the moss and the faint shimmer in the air that marks this place as something... other. She doesn ’ t speak, but I can see her relax slightly, her arms falling to her sides as she exhales slowly. “ I love it here,” she says.

I kneel, pressing my palm flat against the mossy ground. The energy here hums beneath my skin, familiar and alive. It ’ s not loud, not demanding. Just steady, constant. Like a heartbeat. I close my eyes for a moment, letting it settle into me, and memories flicker at the edges of my mind of a different grove, somewhere far away: lessons spoken in low tones, rituals performed under moonlight, the weight of expectation heavy on my younger self.

"Is this... yours?"

"Not mine," I say, standing again and brushing off my hands. "But it ’ s where I feel most myself."

She looks at me then, her gray eyes searching. There ’ s a question she hasn ’ t quite formed yet. I hold her gaze, waiting, but she just nods and steps further into the grove, her movements careful, almost reverent.

"Why does it always feel like this?" she asks after a moment, her hand skimming one of the low-hanging branches. "Alive. But not like other parts of the forest feel alive."

I pause, watching her. "I don ’ t know if it ’ s the same for everyone. You ’ re the only other person I know who can feel it."

She tilts her head slightly, considering. “ Have you brought other girls here, Tiernan?”

My face grows hot. “ No. Not like you.”

She doesn ’ t respond, but a faint smile ghosts her lips. She moves deeper into the grove, her fingertips trailing along the bark of an ancient oak. The silence between us is not uncomfortable.

I watch her, the way she moves—hesitant but deliberate—like she ’ s testing the ground beneath her feet. The sunlight catches in her dark hair, and for a moment, she looks almost otherworldly. Like she belongs here, in this place that feels like it exists outside of time.

“ It ’ s quiet,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “ But not the kind of quiet that makes you feel alone.”

“ Yeah,” I say, because I know exactly what she means. The grove doesn ’ t demand anything of you. It just is.

She turns to face me then, her eyes meeting mine again. “ Thank you,” she says quietly, “ for bringing me here. I know how special it is to you and I don ’ t take it for granted that you let me in. That you let me come here.”

I nod, unsure of what else to say. The gratitude in her voice catches me off guard, and I can feel my chest tighten in response.

I sit down on one of the moss-covered stones near the edge of the grove, motioning for her to join me. She hesitates, then lowers herself carefully onto a patch of grass, tucking her legs beneath her. Her movements are precise, almost cautious, like she ’ s afraid of disturbing something fragile.

"Do you know why I come here?" I ask, breaking the silence. My voice sounds rougher than I intended, but I don ’ t try to smooth it out.

She shakes her head. "Not really. I mean, I can guess, but..." Her words trail off, and she looks at me expectantly.

"It ’ s not just a place," I say, leaning forward, my elbows resting on my knees. "It ’ s alive. The grove… it ’ s connected. To everything. To me. To you now, too." I pause, glancing up at the canopy above us. Light casts shifting patterns on the ground. "Another place just like this is where I learned what it means to be a druid. What it means to listen."

"Listen to what?"

"Everything," I say simply. "The trees, the earth, the wind. Even the things you can ’ t see. Especially those."

Her eyes narrow slightly, like she ’ s trying to puzzle out my meaning. But then she tilts her head, a gesture that feels almost instinctive, and asks, "Who taught you?"

I hesitate. This part of my past isn ’ t something I share lightly. But there ’ s something about the way she ’ s looking at me, like she actually wants to understand, not just hear the answers, that makes me decide to tell her.

"Elders in our enclave. They raised me to be... to be this." I gesture vaguely at myself, unsure how to put it into words. "To know things other people don ’ t. To see things differently. It was isolating sometimes, but it was also the only world I knew."

"That sounds lonely," she says, and there ’ s no pity in her voice, just an understanding that catches me off guard.

"Sometimes it was," I admit. "But it wasn ’ t all bad. There were moments—" I stop, searching for the right words. "Moments when it felt like I was part of something bigger. Like I had a purpose."

"Like here," she says, gesturing around the grove.

"Exactly." I nod, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "This place is a reminder. Of where I came from. Of what I ’ m supposed to be. And of what I lost."

"Lost?" Her voice softens, and I can see the question in her eyes even before she asks it. "What happened?"

I lean back slightly, my hands gripping the edge of the stone beneath me. "The enclave isn ’ t there anymore," I say after a long pause. "The Council saw to that. They didn ’ t like what we were teaching. Said it was dangerous. So they burned it to the ground."

Her breath hitches—not the dramatic kind, but enough that I catch the slight shift in her posture.

"Tiernan... " she begins, but I shake my head.

"It was a long time ago. And it ’ s part of why I ’ m here now. Part of why I want to help you."

"Help me?" Her brow furrows.

"I know what it feels like to carry something you don ’ t understand," I say, my gaze locking onto hers. "To feel like it might consume you if you ’ re not careful."

She doesn ’ t respond right away, but her eyes soften, and I can see the tension in her shoulders ease slightly.

"Thank you," she says eventually, her voice barely audible. "For telling me that. For trusting me with it."

I nod again, feeling a strange sense of relief that I hadn ’ t expected. Sharing this part of myself—it feels like peeling back a layer I didn ’ t realize I ’ d been hiding behind.

Brigid wiggles closer, her hand brushing against my forearm. The touch is light, hesitant, but it sends a warmth through me that feels weighted. I hadn ’ t realized how much I needed this. Her presence, her quiet assurance that she ’ s listening without judgment. She doesn ’ t push, doesn ’ t demand more than I ’ m ready to give. That alone makes me want to tell her everything, even the parts of my past I ’ ve locked away for years.

"You're easy to talk to," I say, and the words come out quieter than I intended. There ’ s something about her that disarms me, even when I ’ m trying to keep my guard up.

She smiles faintly, almost shyly, despite how intimate we ’ ve been with each other, and her fingers linger on my arm for a second longer before she pulls back. "You make it sound like I did something special."

"Maybe you did." I don ’ t mean for it to sound so honest, but there it is between us now.

Her gaze drops, and she chews on her bottom lip—a habit I ’ ve noticed whenever she ’ s deep in thought or holding something back. The shift in her body language is subtle, but I catch it. Her shoulders pull inward, and her hands clasp together as if she ’ s bracing herself. The change puts me on edge.

"Brigid," I say, my voice steady but gentle. "What is it?"

For a moment, she doesn ’ t answer. Her eyes stay fixed on the ground, and I can see her jaw tense, the muscles working as if she ’ s struggling to find the right words.

"I... " She stops, takes a breath, then tries again. "There ’ s something I need to tell you all.”