Page 34 of Awakened Destiny (The Dark Ascendant #3)

Brigid

The threat hangs in the air. I feel Lochan shift his weight behind me, ready to move if needed.

"How interesting," Callen says, his voice deceptively soft. "You speak of my father's death as 'unfortunate' when your Council, and King Cillian himself, caused it with your evil actions. You speak of binding me when I am already crowned. And you speak of executing a woman who carries the power of a goddess."

He takes a single step forward, and though his movements remain unhurried, several Council members flinch.

"Let me be clear about three facts, Lord Finnegan," Callen says. "First, your binding ritual requires my participation, which will never happen. Second, any attempt to harm your new Queen Brigid would release uncontrolled power that would destroy everyone in this room—except, perhaps, her."

I blink at the title he's given me.

Queen.

"And third," he continues, "your influence ended the moment my father died. The elites are already abandoning you. Your own families will follow."

Lord Finnegan's confidence wavers visibly. "The Council has stood for centuries. You cannot simply—"

"I already have," Callen interrupts. "Your coffers are empty. Your secrets exposed. Your allies have been informed of your plans to sacrifice them next." He gestures to the now-vacant seats where elite families had sat moments ago. "Look around you. They're gone. You have nothing left."

The silence that follows feels absolute. I watch the remaining Council members exchange glances, their faces pale. They have no response, no counter to offer.

It's my turn now.

I step forward, pulling deep from the well inside me where the Morrigan sleeps. Power surges through my veins, familiar yet still strange—like remembering how to use a limb that had been numbed. My vision sharpens, colors shifting as the gray in my eyes brightens to silver.

"Perhaps you need a demonstration," I say, my voice layered with another deeper, older one.

I raise my hand, palm up. The shadows in the corners of the chamber respond, crawling across the marble floor like ink spilled in water. They gather above my palm, condensing into a sphere of darkness that pulses with my heartbeat.

Control it carefully. Not too much. Just enough to make your point.

Lord Finnegan rises from his seat, face drained of color. "This is forbidden. Shadow magic has been banned."

"By you," I cut him off. "By those who feared what they could not possess."

The sphere expands, tendrils of shadow reaching out like fingers. Unlike before, when it felt like the magic was using me, I now guide it, shape it. The darkness responds to my will, not the other way around.

"You called me vessel," I say, watching their faces. "But I am not empty to be filled. I am not a tool to be used."

The shadows dance between my fingers, weaving patterns in the air. They stretch toward the Council table, not attacking but probing, testing. One tendril brushes against a crystal decanter, and it shatters without a sound, water freezing mid-spill.

A voice whispers in my mind. Show them what we are capable of, daughter of Macha.

"Do you feel it?" I ask, looking from face to face. "This is what you sought to control. This is what you feared enough to hunt down and kill anyone who showed a trace of it."

The room crackles with energy. Static electricity makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up. My power—our power—fills the chamber like water flooding a sealed room.

One Council member, a woman with steel-gray hair, pushes back her chair with a screech. Her rings click against the polished wood as her hands tremble.

"This changes nothing," she says, but her voice breaks on the last word.

The shadow in my palm contracts suddenly, then expands in a silent wave that washes over the room. It doesn't harm, only touches—but at its caress, the glamours and illusions maintained by the Council members waver. For a moment, their true ages and appearances shine through: ancient, preserved by magic and blood rituals rather than rightful power.

They recoil as one, hands flying up to shield their exposed faces. Lord Finnegan actually whimpers.

I lower my hand slowly, allowing the shadows to recede, but leaving enough power humming around me that they won't mistake mercy for weakness.

"I'm still learning what I can do," I tell them quietly. "Would you like to see more?" Lochan moves beside me, his presence solid and steady as stone. He doesn't touch me, but I feel him there—a wall at my back, a shield against the Council's hate. His feet shift slightly, planting more firmly on the marble floor. Ready.

"Each of you sitting at this table has blood on your hands," Lochan says, his deep voice carrying through the chamber. "My family's blood."

I steal a glance at him. His face remains impassive, but his eyes burn. I see his fingers flex once, twice, as if reaching for the weapons he doesn ’ t carry—a gesture of restraint rather than weakness.

A different Council member tries to rally. He straightens his silk cravat with trembling fingers. "This display is impressive, but meaningless. We weathered the Shadow War. We survived the Uprising. We will survive you."

But the confidence in his words doesn't match his eyes. They dart between me, Callen on my right with his new crown catching the light, and Lochan standing like death itself on my left.

"You've done more than survive," Callen says coolly. "You've thrived on lies. On murder. On sacrifice." He steps forward, and the Council members lean back instinctively. "The fae crown rests on my head now. My father's body is cold."

"You don't understand the burden we—" A woman draped in shimmering fabric and dripping with jewels, her hair piled high on her head, begins.

"Be quiet." I don't raise my voice, but shadows curl at the edges of my words.

Lochan shifts again, his shoulder now almost touching mine. I sense his awareness, how he catalogs each Council member's position, their movements, their weaknesses. Though he's focused on them, I feel his attention partly on me too—not controlling, just there. Supporting.

"The Council was created to protect our world," Lord Finnegan argues, desperation making his voice crack. "To maintain balance—"

"To maintain your power," Lochan cuts in. "You killed my parents because they knew the truth. You've hunted shadow-wielders for generations because you feared what they might become."

"What she has become," whispers the woman, staring at me with naked terror.

I see it then—the full realization dawning across their faces. The Council has existed for centuries, ruling through manipulation and fear, dividing the supernatural world against itself. And in less than five minutes, the three of us have stripped away their masks and authority.

"Leave," Callen commands.

Lord Finnegan attempts one last stand. "The other families won't accept this coup. You're just children playing with—"

I laugh, and shadows dance along the ceiling. "Is that what you told yourselves when you ordered the execution of entire families? When you framed the Raven King? When you sentenced people like me to death for the magic in our blood?"

I let a curl of power snake toward him, watching him flinch away.

"I think," I say softly, "you should consider your next words carefully. They might be your last."

I don't need to look at Lochan to know his expression, watchful, ready, committed. The three of us stand united, unbreakable.

And across the table, the Council crumbles.

The bejeweled woman snatches her bag, knocking over her chair in her haste. The rest follow in a flurry of movement—silk robes tangling, decorative medals catching on velvet seats. The polished order of their meeting transforms into chaos as status and privilege dissolve under raw fear.

Lord Finnegan attempts dignity, buttoning his jacket with trembling fingers. He knocks over a crystal decanter as he backs away. The liquid spreads across ancient documents, dissolving centuries of corrupt decrees in seconds. Fitting.

"You'll regret this," the silver-haired woman hisses as she passes me. I meet her eyes steadily, refusing to blink.

"No more than you'll regret what you did to the children of shadow-wielders."

As they flee, they jostle each other, these powerful beings who've never had to rush or fight. Their practiced composure shatters. Some abandon belongings rather than spend another moment in my presence. Others cast desperate glances back, as if memorizing our faces for retribution.

Yet we remain calm, the eye of the storm.

When the last of them vanishes through the doorway, the enormous chamber falls silent except for our breathing. Papers lie scattered across the floor. A chair lies overturned. Their fear lingers like a scent.

Callen turns to me. The cold calculation I first saw in him has softened, revealing something I couldn't have anticipated when we met—genuine respect.

"They would have torn this realm apart trying to control you." He reaches for my hand but stops, waiting for my permission. I extend my fingers toward his. "Instead, you will be what brings us together. A true queen."

"I didn't ask for this." My voice sounds smaller than I want.

"Nobody worthy of power ever does." His fingers close around mine. "That's why it must be you, Brigid. Not just because of your bloodline or your magic, but because of who you are."

Lochan shifts his weight beside us. "We should secure the records before they destroy evidence."

"In a minute," Callen says, still holding my gaze. "First, I need Brigid to understand what she's accomplished here today. The Morrigan's power is yours now, but so is the responsibility of healing centuries of division."

"I'm still learning how to control this magic," I admit.

"And we'll be beside you." Callen says. "Until the very end."

I nod, accepting what I can't change, what I perhaps was always meant to be. The power inside me shifts like a living thing, no longer fighting to escape but settling into my bones, becoming part of me. The shadow magic that once terrified me now feels like an extension of myself.

"I'm ready," I say, straightening my shoulders. "But I do this my way. Not as a weapon, not as someone's puppet. If I'm to be queen, I rule by my own conscience."

Lochan steps forward, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the marble floor. The distrust that once clouded his eyes when he looked at me has long vanished.

"You've proven yourself today," he says. "Shadow magic or not, you stood against corruption when others cowered."

I can't help but smile at him. "Quite a change from wanting to lock me up at the academy."

His mouth twitches. "I was an ass."

"You were scared," I correct him. "We all were."

Callen walks to the Council's massive table, running his fingers across the polished surface. "My father sat here for decades, plotting, manipulating. Using fear to control everyone." He looks up at us. "We tear it all down. Build something new."

I join him at the table, placing my palm flat against the wood. Power hums beneath my skin, responding to my emotions, but I keep it contained. Controlled.

"Together," I say. “ With the others, too.”

The three of us stand in a triangle around the table, this symbol of oppression that had brought so much suffering. Our shadows stretch across the floor, merging into one.

"The realms might resist, particularly the rebels," Lochan warns. "Change never comes easy."

"Let them resist," I say, feeling the Morrigan's confidence blend with my own. "We've faced worse."

Callen laughs, the sound echoing in the empty chamber. "That's my girl."

“Girl?" I say with a smile. "Didn ’ t you call me queen?"