Page 28 of Awakened Destiny (The Dark Ascendant #3)

Brigid

"Greater?" I repeat. "You make it sound like some kind of reward. Like this is something I should want."

"Not a reward," Fiona says, leaning back in her chair. Her hands settle in her lap, still for once. "A responsibility. You don ’ t have to want it, Brigid. But it ’ s yours all the same."

I hate that. The inevitability of it. Like my life isn ’ t my own anymore. Like every choice I ’ ve ever made was just another step toward this thing looming over me. My chest tightens, and I press my palms into my thighs, grounding myself. "You keep saying I ’ m at the center of it, but I didn ’ t ask for any of this. I didn ’ t want—" My voice cracks, and I stop, swallowing hard. "I didn ’ t want to become some vessel for the Morrigan or anyone else."

Fiona doesn ’ t interrupt. She just watches me, waiting.

"Seeing the threads of fate," My hands clench into fists, nails biting into my skin. "It ’ s not just seeing. It ’ s feeling. Every thread is a life, a choice, a consequence. And they ’ re everywhere, pulling at me, tangling around me. I can ’ t shut it out. I can ’ t turn it off. It ’ s too much." My voice drops, quieter now. "What if I lose control? What if I already am?"

"Do you think you ’ ve lost control?" she asks, her tone measured, careful.

"I don ’ t know," I admit, my words barely above a whisper. "When I saw the threads for the first time, it felt like power and chaos all at once. Like I could do anything, but I didn ’ t know what I ’ d destroy in the process. And the Morrigan—" I stop again, closing my eyes. Her presence lingers in the edges of my mind, dark and vast, like a storm waiting to break. "She feels too close. Like she ’ s watching, waiting for me to slip."

"Brigid," Fiona says softly, drawing my attention back to her. "You ’ re not her. You ’ re you. Don ’ t forget that."

"Am I?" I look at her, searching for something—reassurance, maybe. Truth. "Because it doesn ’ t feel that way. Every time I feel her power, it feels like I ’ m close to losing more of myself. Like one day, there won ’ t be anything left of me. Just her."

"That ’ s fear talking," Fiona says, leaning forward. Her voice sharpens, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. "And yeah, you ’ re right to be afraid. Power like this, it ’ s dangerous. But it ’ s yours, Brigid. Not hers. Not anyone else ’ s. Yours. How you use it—that ’ s what matters. That ’ s what defines you."

"How do I even start?" I ask. "How do I control something that feels so big and uncontrollable? So beyond me?"

"One step at a time," she says simply. "You ’ re not alone in this. You ’ ve got people who care about you, who ’ ll stand by you. Me included, whether you believe that or not. But at the end of the day, it comes down to you deciding who you want to be. Not Macha. Not the Morrigan. You."

Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, I let myself breathe them in. I don ’ t know if I believe her—not completely—but there ’ s a hint of something in her tone. Maybe hope. Maybe faith. It feels fragile, but it ’ s there.

I nod slowly, more to myself than to her. "I don ’ t know if I can do this," I say quietly. "But I ’ ll try."

"Trying is all anyone can ask, Brigid," Fiona says. Her voice softens, losing its usual brashness. She folds her hands on the desk between us, her rings catching the light. "And you ’ ve already done more than most would in your shoes. You ’ re stronger than you think. Not because of the Morrigan, or Macha, or any of that prophecy bullshit. Because of you. Because of what ’ s in here." She taps a finger against her chest.

I look at her hands instead of her face.

"How am I supposed to trust you again?" I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. They don ’ t come out angry, just tired. Worn down. "You lied to me. About who you are. About everything."

Fiona sighs, leaning back in her chair. She doesn ’ t try to deflect with a joke or a flippant comment. "I won ’ t make excuses," she says. "I did what I thought I had to do, to protect you. To keep you safe. But I know I hurt you, and I ’ m sorry for that. Truly."

"Sorry doesn ’ t fix it," I say, my voice low but steady. "It doesn ’ t undo the fact that I trusted you, and you broke that trust."

"No, it doesn ’ t," she admits. "But I hope we can find a way forward. I hope I can prove to you that I ’ m still someone you can rely on. Someone who has your back."

I glance up at her then, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are steady, not hard like they were when she was trying to convince me of something earlier, but open. Honest. Or as honest as someone like Fiona—or Sirona—can be.

"Maybe," I say finally. "But it ’ s going to take time. And effort. From both of us."

"Fair enough," she says, nodding. "I ’ ll take whatever shot you ’ re willing to give me, Brigid. Because whether you believe it or not, I care about you. More than you know."

"Then show me," I say. The challenge in my tone surprises even me. "Show me that I can trust you again. Don ’ t just say it. Prove it."

Fiona ’ s lips twitch, almost like she wants to smile, but she holds it back. "Alright," she says. "Challenge accepted."

There ’ s a pause between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. Something settles in the space where my anger used to sit. Not quite forgiveness but not resentment either. A tentative truce, maybe. An opening.

"Thanks," I say, the word coming out awkward and stiff, but I mean it. For once, I mean it.

"Don ’ t thank me yet, girl," Fiona says, her grin returning just a little. "You might regret it later."

"Probably," I say, a flicker of humor creeping into my tone. It feels strange, but not unwelcome.

"Good," she says, standing up and stretching. "Now, how about we get a cup of coffee? For old time ’ s sake."

I hesitate. But then I realize there ’ s nothing I want more right now that to feel some kind of normalcy. To remember who I was. Who I am. "Ok," I say, surprising myself. I push out of the chair, rising to my feet. My legs feel steadier now, like the ground beneath me isn ’ t quite so shaky.

"Good," Fiona says again, this time softer, like she's surprised I agreed. She adjusts the scarf around her neck, a nervous little gesture I don't think she realizes she does. "Coffee is a start."

“ I ’ ll try,” I say, though my voice lacks her confidence. It ’ s not that simple, no matter how much we both might want it to be. Trust isn ’ t something you just summon into existence. But maybe it's something you can build.

Fiona watches me closely, probably reading the hesitation in my face. She doesn't push. Instead, she nods. "One step at a time," she says. It's more to herself than to me, but I hear it anyway.

I glance at the door. My hand brushes against the cool brass handle before I pause.

"Fiona." Her name slips from my mouth before I realize I ’ ve said it.

"Yeah?" She glances up, her glasses catching the light.

"Don ’ t lie to me again." My voice is steady, firmer than I expected. "Not about anything. If we ’ re going to do this—whatever this is—I can ’ t deal with half-truths. Not anymore."

Her expression doesn ’ t shift right away. For a second, I wonder if she ’ ll give me another one of her evasive answers, some quip meant to deflect the seriousness of what I ’ m asking. But then she exhales, hands resting against the edge of her desk.

"Fair," she says finally. There ’ s no sarcasm in her voice, none of the usual bravado. Just an honesty that feels almost startling coming from her. "No lies, Brigid. I mean that."

"Okay." The word leaves my throat like a sigh, quieter than I intended. I turn the handle and step out, my footsteps echoing faintly in the hall beyond, and hold the door open for my former friend.

I don ’ t know if we ’ ll ever get our friendship back, but right now I ’ m in no position to turn away a potential ally.

Fiona falls into step beside me. The silence between us feels less like a void and more like something we ’ re both carefully navigating. The hallway is quiet and I can ’ t tell if it ’ s just the time of day or if the building itself seems to hold its breath around us.

We make it to the dining hall without exchanging another word, and I watch every head turn as we walk in together.

The room buzzes with low murmurs and the clatter of dishes, but it all seems to quiet the moment Fiona and I step inside. Heads turn, eyes glance in our direction, and then quickly look away.

Fiona, ever the queen of not giving a damn, strides ahead like she doesn ’ t notice. I follow, keeping my gaze fixed on the back of her head, willing myself to ignore the whispers that start up as we pass.

The smell of coffee mingles with freshly baked bread and pastries. The coffee station is tucked in the far corner, near the tall windows that let in thin streams of pale sunlight. Fiona grabs two porcelain cups. She hands one to me without a word. I take it, the warmth seeping into my palms as I watch her pour the dark liquid from an oversized carafe. The smell is rich and bitter, and for a moment, it almost feels normal. Almost.

Out of habit, or maybe paranoia, I glance around the room again. That ’ s when I see her.

Laria stands near the far wall, her pale blonde hair catching the light like a halo. She ’ s leaning casually against one of the pillars, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. But her eyes—those pale, devoid of warmth eyes—are fixed directly on me. She ’ s not glancing or pretending to be occupied with something else.

She ’ s watching me, steady and unblinking.

Like a predator