Page 26 of Awakened Destiny (The Dark Ascendant #3)

Lochan

I don ’ t stop moving. Back and forth across the room, my boots scrape over the floor in a rhythm that grates on my own nerves. My fists flex at my sides, fingers curling tight, then loose again. The suite is too small, too confining. The walls feel closer with every step I take, but stopping isn ’ t an option. If I stop, I ’ ll think, and if I think, I ’ ll lose what little grip I have left.

Everything ’ s wrong.

Brigid has the Morrigan ’ s powers. The Morrigan. The name alone churns my stomach. War, destruction, chaos. And now that thing doesn ’ t just live inside her, it ’ s threading its claws into her very being while I stand here, useless. Powerless.

Tiernan is quiet in the corner, arms crossed like he ’ s meditating on some solution none of us can see yet. Rory sits slouched by the window, picking at his nails like this whole mess is just another storm we ’ ll weather. Callen paces behind me, though not with my kind of frenzy. His movements are slower, calculated, like he ’ s working through his own thoughts one step at a time. Then there ’ s Marius, leaning against the far wall, watching us all. He hasn ’ t said a word since Brigid dropped her revelation.

"Lochan."

It ’ s her voice, soft but steady, cutting through the noise in my head. I stop mid-step because I can ’ t help it. I can never help it when she speaks. She stands near the door, calm in a way that makes no sense given what she just admitted. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders, loose and careless, and her gray eyes—her eyes—meet mine. Not the Morrigan ’ s. Hers.

"Don ’ t look at me like that," she says, taking a step forward. There ’ s no accusation in her tone, only something close to resignation. "I know what you ’ re thinking."

"Do you?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend, but I don ’ t soften it. I don ’ t have it in me right now. "Because I ’ m not sure even I know what I ’ m thinking anymore." How the fuck am I supposed to protect her from something like this?

"I told Tiernan first, because I needed time to figure out how to tell the rest of you. This isn ’ t easy for me either, Lochan."

“ It ’ s—” I cut myself off, jaw tightening.

"It ’ s terrifying," she finishes for me, her voice even. "I know."

And damn it, she does. It ’ s written all over her face, the fear, the enormity of what she ’ s carrying now. But knowing she understands doesn ’ t make it easier. If anything, it makes it worse. Because she knows exactly what ’ s at stake, and she ’ s still standing there, composed, trying to convince us she ’ s fine. Trying to convince me. I know she ’ s worried that I ’ ll fall back into old habits, old patterns. That I ’ ll start to fear her again. Maybe even hate her. That ’ s the worst part of all of this. The mistrust in her eyes. The doubt.

"Say something useful, maybe," Marius says. "Or keep pacing like a caged beast. That ’ s helping no one."

I spin toward him before I can think better of it. "If you ’ ve got nothing to add, shut your mouth."

"Gladly," he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But don ’ t come crying to me when this goes sideways."

"Enough," Brigid snaps before I can fire back. Her voice is louder now, firmer, and it pulls all our attention like a magnet. "This isn ’ t about you two and whatever pissing contest you ’ ve got going on. This is about me. About us." She looks around the room, her gaze landing on each of us before settling back on me. "So stop fighting and listen."

Something in her tone pins me in place, forces me to meet her eyes again. She just told us she has the powers of a god of war, and somehow, she looks more human than ever. More vulnerable. And it ’ s that vulnerability that keeps me silent when everything in me wants to argue.

She steps closer, her movements deliberate but unhurried, like she ’ s testing the ground before her. Brigid always does that, measures her steps so carefully, as if each one might trigger some invisible trap. I hate that she has to live like this, with everything coiled tight inside her. And now—now she says she can see threads of fate? The Morrigan ’ s powers in her hands? It feels too big, too dangerous.

"Lochan," she says softly, stopping just a few feet from me. "I know you ’ re not okay with any of this. I can feel it."

"How could I be?" The words come out gruff, harsher than I mean them to. But I don ’ t apologize. I can ’ t. "You ’ re talking about something that isn ’ t just dangerous—it ’ s potentially destructive and can destroy you. You know what the Morrigan is, Brigid. What she ’ s done. What she wants. This can ’ t be good."

"And you think I don ’ t understand that? That I haven ’ t thought about it every second since this started? This isn ’ t something I chose, Lochan. But it ’ s mine now. It ’ s part of me, whether we like it or not."

"That ’ s exactly why—" My voice rises, but I bite it back. I don ’ t want to yell at her. I don ’ t want to do anything that makes her retreat into herself again. I drag a hand through my hair, frustration clawing at me.

"I ’ m telling you all because you deserve to know. Because you ’ re part of this, too."

"Part of what?" I ask, quieter this time, though there ’ s still an edge to it. "Part of watching you get hurt? Part of standing by while this thing consumes you?"

"Part of helping me figure it out," she counters, stepping even closer. Her voice softens. "You don ’ t have to like it, Lochan. I don ’ t like it either. But I can ’ t change what I am now. I can only decide how I use it."

I want to respond, to tell her what I really think, but the words stick in my throat. She ’ s right. I know she ’ s right. But it doesn ’ t make any of this easier to accept. How am I supposed to trust that this power won ’ t destroy the one person I can ’ t lose.

Her gray eyes hold mine. "You ’ re scared," she says, and it isn ’ t a question. "I get it. But I won ’ t let it control me. And I need you to believe that. I need you to believe in me, Lochan."

"Brigid..." Her name comes out low, almost a whisper. I look away, staring at the floor like it holds answers I can ’ t find in her face. I want to protect her more than anything, but how do I protect her from this? From herself?

"I swear, Brigid—if this goes wrong, if you start losing yourself to this—" I stop, shaking my head. "I won ’ t just stand by. I can ’ t."

"Good," she says simply. "Because I wouldn ’ t expect you to."

"Alright," Rory says, glancing between us. "So tell us more about what you ’ re seeing, Brigid. What you ’ re feeling."

Brigid exhales, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction, like she ’ s been bracing herself for this. She walks to the center of the room, her movements still careful, deliberate, and sits on the edge of the couch. The rest of us follow her lead, Callen perching on the armrest beside her, Rory leaning against the wall, and Tiernan sinking into the chair opposite. Even Marius steps away from the shadows, though he stays standing, his arms crossed like he ’ s guarding himself from whatever comes next.

"It ’ s hard to explain," she starts, her gaze dropping to her hands as she twists them together in her lap. "It ’ s like there ’ s this awareness now. Like I can feel things I shouldn ’ t be able to feel. Not just emotions—though that ’ s part of it—but connections. Threads." She looks up, her eyes searching ours for understanding. "I can see how things are tied together. People, events, even places. It ’ s like I can trace the lines between them."

"Threads of fate," Marius murmurs from his spot by the window. It isn ’ t a question.

Brigid nods, her expression tightening. "Yes. And they ’ re not just there for me to observe. I can tug on them. Shift them. At least, I think I can. I haven ’ t tried it yet, not really. But the potential is there. It ’ s like holding a live wire in my hands. I can feel the power, but I don ’ t know how to use it without getting burned."

Rory leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "So, what? You ’ re saying you can manipulate fate? Change outcomes?"

"Maybe," Brigid says hesitantly. "But it doesn ’ t feel that simple. It ’ s not just about changing things. It ’ s about seeing how everything is connected, how one decision ripples out and affects everything else. If I pull on one thread, who knows what unravels? It ’ s terrifying."

Callen places a hand on her shoulder. "But you ’ re not doing this alone. We ’ re here with you. Whatever happens, we ’ ll figure it out together."

Brigid gives him a small, grateful smile. "I know. And that helps.”

"Does it?" Marius's voice cuts through the room, sharp and cold. He steps away from the wall, arms crossed, faded tattoos shifting as he flexes his hands. "Because right now, it feels like we're all fumbling in the dark. And no offense"—he gestures toward Callen—"but blind optimism isn ’ t going to cut it here."

"Enough," I snap, my voice harsher than I mean it to be. My frustration isn't just with him; it's with all of this. The unknowns. The risks.

Marius raises an eyebrow but doesn ’ t push back. Instead, he looks at Brigid again. "We need help," he says. "Fiona. Sirona. Whatever you want to call her. She might have answers that we don ’ t. If anyone knows how to deal with this, it ’ s her."

Brigid hesitates, her hands twisting together in a rare show of unease. "You think she ’ ll actually tell us? Fiona ’ s not exactly forthcoming unless it serves her purpose."

"Maybe not," Marius admits, "but she ’ s still our best shot. Unless you ’ ve got another goddess hiding up your sleeve?"

"He's right," Rory says carefully, like he doesn ’ t quite want to agree, but knows he has to. "We can ’ t keep guessing. Whatever this is, it ’ s bigger than us. We need someone who understands what we ’ re dealing with."

"Someone who won ’ t bullshit us," I add, because I can ’ t help myself. The idea of relying on Fiona grates at me, but I ’ d rather trust her than risk Brigid trying to handle this on her own. "And someone who gives a damn about Brigid staying whole."

"That ’ s assuming Fiona falls into that category," Callen mutters.

I glance at Brigid, who ’ s gone quiet again, her eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance. She does that sometimes—pulls inward, like she ’ s trying to fold herself into a space where none of us can reach her. It sets something off in me every time, this need to pull her back, to make her stay here with us, with me.

"Brigid," I say, stepping closer. Her head lifts, eyes meeting mine, and I try to ignore the way they seem darker now, shadowed by something I can ’ t name. "Are you okay with this? Bringing Fiona in?"

For a second, I think she ’ s going to argue, but then she nods. "If it helps. If it keeps this from spiraling out of control, then yeah. Let ’ s do it."

"Good," I say, even though nothing about this feels good. My chest tightens, but I shove it down, focusing on the one thing I can control—the promise I made to myself the day I realized how much Brigid mattered. That I ’ d do everything I could to make sure she was safe. Protected. Even from me. "Then we go to Fiona. But if she starts playing games, we ’ re done. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Brigid says quietly, and there ’ s something in her tone that makes my stomach churn. Like she ’ s already bracing herself for whatever comes next.

"Great," Marius says. "Let ’ s get moving before the Morrigan decides to try and take the wheel again."

"That ’ s not an option," I mutter under my breath, but I don ’ t think anyone hears me. Or maybe they do, and they ’ re just pretending not to.

Either way, the conversation ’ s over.