Page 45 of Awakened Destiny (The Dark Ascendant #3)

Brigid

I adjust the clasp of my gown for the hundredth time. The fabric is heavier than I ’ m used to, dark green and black threads woven in a pattern that almost shimmers when I move. It clings to me in ways that feel both empowering and exposing, like every inch of me has been laid bare and armored at the same time. My fingers twitch against the hem of my cuff.

"Stop fussing," Callen says without looking at me. He ’ s watching the gilded doors ahead of us like they might swing open on their own. His tone is sharp but softer than usual, more intent than annoyed. "You look perfect."

Perfect. The word doesn ’ t settle in comfortably. It sits on the edge of my mind, daring me to believe it.

"He's right," Tiernan adds, adjusting one of the golden cuffs on his wrist. He stands closest to me, his arm brushing mine briefly as he leans down to take a better look. His voice drops as though it ’ s just for me. "Breathtaking, actually. Don ’ t let him undersell it."

"Agreed." Rory grins from the other side, his teasing smile lighting up his face. He looks entirely too comfortable in the formal attire, the deep red and gold of his tunic making his gold hair seem brighter. "But you ’ ve heard that enough tonight, haven ’ t you?"

"Not nearly enough," Marius cuts in, his lips twitching into something between a smirk and a snarl. His eyes rake over me with deliberate slowness, lingering just long enough to make me shiver. He tilts his head, clearly enjoying the effect. "Though if it were up to me, I ’ d say it louder, so everyone knows exactly who they ’ re looking at."

"Let her breathe," Lochan mutters, but even he can ’ t quite keep the smile off his face. He stands closest to the door, broad shoulders tense, arms crossed like he ’ s preparing for battle. His hazel eyes flick to me once, quick but deliberate. "She knows how good she looks."

"Do I?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Their attention is overwhelming, pressing against me from all sides, but there ’ s a warmth underneath it. Something steadying. "You ’ re all unusually talkative tonight."

"Must be the occasion," Callen says dryly, finally turning to meet my gaze. His pale blue eyes don ’ t waver, and the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "Or maybe it ’ s because we know what ’ s coming. What this means."

What this means. The words carry weight, more than I want to analyze right now. Instead, I exhale slowly and glance at each of them in turn. There ’ s no mistaking the way they look at me, like I ’ m something rare, something worth protecting and fighting for. I could never have imagined anyone looking at me the way these men do. Not in my wildest dreams. And yet, here we are.

"Thank you," I say simply, letting the moment sit before anyone can disturb it with another comment.

The doors creak open then. A ripple of sound from the hall beyond reaches us, a low hum of voices that quickly quiets.

This is it.

We step forward together, the six of us moving as one down the wide path. The grand hall stretches out before us, impossibly vast and filled with faces. Fae with their ethereal beauty, druids in their ceremonial garb, witches cloaked in shadowy silks. Even further back, I catch glimpses of others—shapeshifters, vampires, beings I don ’ t fully recognize. They ’ re all here, packed shoulder to shoulder, their expressions ranging from awe to suspicion.

The space is alive with expectation. Every eye in the room fixes on us as we enter. My heart pounds harder, but I force myself to keep my chin high, my pace measured. I focus on the dais ahead, pretending not to notice the whispers starting to rise behind us.

"Eyes forward," Lochan murmurs. His voice is low, meant only for me, but I catch the tension in it. He ’ s scanning the crowd, always the protector.

"Don ’ t worry," I reply under my breath. "They ’ re not going to eat me alive."

"Not yet," Marius adds with a soft chuckle, his hand brushing the small of my back. It ’ s fleeting, gone before I can get used to it, but enough to remind me he ’ s there. They all are.

As we draw closer to the dais, the murmurs fade again, replaced by a stillness that feels almost reverent. Two thrones sit atop the platform, carved from wood that seems to glow faintly, like it ’ s pulsing with life. The craftsmanship is unmistakably fae, intricate and otherworldly. My stomach tightens. It still seems impossible that this is happening.

Callen ’ s hand tightens around mine as we reach the first step of the dais. I glance at him, and for a moment, his mask slips. There ’ s pride in his eyes, but also worry. He looks at me like I ’ m the only thing anchoring him to this moment, and I realize I feel the same.

The thrones loom above us. His is taller, its back stretching upward in sharp, jagged lines like the points of a crown. The wood gleams, polished to a mirror-like sheen, and faint etchings of silver twist through it, forming patterns that shift when I try to focus on them. It ’ s powerful, commanding—fitting for a High Fae King. Beside it, my throne is smaller but no less striking. Its design is softer, with curves that mimic flowing water and vines curling along the armrests, tiny flowers blooming where the wood meets the seat. The two thrones are connected at their bases by intertwining roots, subtly binding them together. Unity. Partnership.

The symbolism isn ’ t lost on me. I ’ m supposed to be his equal, his balance.

"Ready?" Callen asks quietly. His voice doesn ’ t waver, though his grip on my hand remains firm.

"Not even close," I admit, forcing a small smile. "But let ’ s do this, anyway."

We ascend together, step by step, until we ’ re standing before the thrones. I can feel every gaze boring into us, the weight of expectation thick in the air. But then my eyes find Queen Maywen.

She ’ s seated below and to the side of the dais, in a chair draped with silken fabric. Her gown is pale green, delicate and carefully chosen, but it does little to hide how frail she looks. Her cheekbones are sharper than I remember, her skin ashen under the soft lighting. Yet her posture is straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She watches us with an intensity that makes my throat tighten.

For a brief second, her gaze meets mine. There ’ s something there, something beyond the exhaustion and fragility. I nod slightly, acknowledging her, and she gives the faintest of smiles in return.

Callen glances toward her, too. He doesn ’ t speak, but the tension in his shoulders eases, if only for a heartbeat. Whatever else has happened between them, whatever scars are still healing, she ’ s still here. And that matters.

"Brigid," he murmurs, pulling me gently toward the thrones. The moment stretches thin, the world narrowing to just the two of us and the steps remaining. Together, we take the final strides forward.

Callen takes his seat first, his movements smooth and deliberate. His eyes sweep the audience, and for a moment, he looks every bit the cunning, composed king he ’ s meant to be. There ’ s no hesitation when he lifts his hand, gesturing toward the attendants stationed near the edge of the hall.

"Bring them in," he says, his voice clear, cutting through the low hum of murmurs.

The room stills.

I glance at him, but he doesn ’ t look at me. Instead, his gaze stays fixed on the crowd, watching as confusion ripples outward like a stone dropped into water. The factions exchange glances. No one speaks, but the tension is unmistakable.

Then the attendants move, dragging four additional thrones onto the dais. They ’ re smaller than ours but carved from the same dark wood, etched with swirling fae designs that seem alive under the flickering light. My chest tightens. This wasn ’ t part of the plan. At least, not the one I knew about.

"Callen," I say, leaning slightly toward him. "What are you doing?"

"Exactly what needs to be done." He says it lightly, almost carelessly, but his fingers brush mine where they rest on the arm of my throne. It ’ s a quiet reassurance, even as his lips curve into the faintest smirk. "Trust me."

As the final throne is set in place, Callen rises again. He steps forward, standing tall, and gestures toward Lochan first. "Come," he says simply.

Lochan doesn ’ t hesitate. Of course he doesn ’ t. He strides up the steps with that calm, measured confidence I ’ ve come to expect, his hazel eyes locked on mine the entire time. When he reaches the dais, he nods once, then takes the throne to my left without a word. His posture is straight, his hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair, but there ’ s a flicker of pride.

"Rory," Callen calls next.

Rory grins as he bounds up the steps, all shaggy blond hair and easy charm. He winks at me as he passes, earning a few startled gasps from the audience below. Then he drops into his seat with a casual sprawl, one ankle resting on his opposite knee. He leans back, unconcerned about anyone who questions why he ’ s there.

"Tiernan."

Tiernan moves slower, more deliberately. His green eyes sweep the crowd as he ascends, taking in every reaction, every whisper. When he finally reaches his throne, he sits with an air of quiet authority, his broad shoulders relaxed but not slouched. I can see the way his gaze lingers on me, steady and unshaken, like he ’ s grounding himself in this moment.

Finally, Callen speaks Marius ’ s name.

There ’ s a beat of silence before Marius stands. His dark eyes flick toward me briefly, barely a glance. He climbs the steps with a predatory grace. When he takes his seat, he lounges back, one elbow propped on the armrest, his expression unreadable. But there ’ s a sharpness to his focus, a sense of vigilance that never fades.

The audience is stunned. I can feel their reactions like a tide pressing against me. Confusion, anger and curiosity all swirling together. Whispers grow louder, filling the vast hall, until Queen Maywen rises slowly from her seat.

"Enough," she says softly, but the power in her voice cuts through the noise instantly. The murmurs die, replaced by an uneasy silence.

I glance at her again, my throat dry, but she doesn ’ t meet my gaze this time. Instead, she looks at Callen, her expression unreadable, and inclines her head ever so slightly.

Callen sits down beside me, his hand brushing mine once more. "Now," he says quietly, his voice meant only for me, "they ’ ll know who truly stands with you."

I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe. My consorts, my mates, are beside me now. And though the weight of the crown hasn ’ t yet touched my head, I feel the shift beneath my skin. This is real. This is happening. And nothing will ever be the same.

Fiona ’ s voice cuts through the thick silence in the room, sharp and unapologetically loud.

"Atta boy!" she shouts, practically bouncing in her seat. Her hands cup around her mouth as she adds, "About time someone shook things up around here!"

I can ’ t help it—I laugh, a short, startled sound that escapes before I can stop it. The tension in my chest loosens just enough to let me breathe again. Trust Fiona to bring her full, chaotic energy into a moment like this. She ’ s grinning wildly, her glasses slightly askew, her oversized necklace jingling with every movement.

The crowd ripples with unease, some laughs break out nervously, others glare daggers in Fiona's direction. But the goddess that she is, she doesn ’ t care. She holds her ground, clapping enthusiastically now, as if daring anyone to shut her up. And honestly, no one could.

"Sirona," Callen mutters under his breath beside me, just low enough that only I catch it. There's a faint smirk on his lips, but he doesn't look away from the gathered factions.

"She ’ s not wrong," I whisper back, gripping the arms of my throne tighter.

The herald steps forward, his voice booming across the hall. "Brigid Ryan, chosen queen, rise."

My stomach churns, and for a second, I ’ m frozen. It's too much, too heavy, too fast. But Callen ’ s hand rests lightly on mine. When I meet his eyes, there ’ s nothing but steady assurance there, an unspoken reminder that I ’ m not alone in this.

So I stand.