Page 46 of Awakened Destiny (The Dark Ascendant #3)

Brigid

The hall watches, thousands of eyes pinning me in place while the herald continues his speech, something about destiny and balance and ancient rights. The words barely register, distant and meaningless compared to the roar of blood rushing in my ears.

When the crown is brought forward, all sound seems to drain from the world. It glimmers faintly in the light of the fae torches—an intricate weave of gold and obsidian, sharp edges catching the glow like fire. It's beautiful in a way that feels a little bit ominous, like it was made to cut rather than adorn.

The weight surprises me when it's placed on my head, heavier than I expect, pressing down on my skull with a finality that sinks deep into my bones. My knees almost buckle, but I don ’ t let them. Not now. Not ever.

"All hail Brigid, Great Queen of the realm," the herald proclaims, his voice echoing through the cavernous room like thunder.

The room erupts into applause, cheers mingling with cautious murmurs. I force myself to lift my chin, to look out over the sea of faces. Some are watching with awe, others with skepticism or outright hostility. But there are those who smile, genuine, hopeful smiles that remind me why I ’ m doing this.

This crown isn ’ t just a symbol of power. It ’ s a promise. A responsibility. A battle I ’ ve chosen to fight, not because I wanted any of this, but because I refuse to let anyone else dictate my story.

"Callen, son of Cillian, son of Altair," the herald calls, and my gaze shifts to him.

He rises smoothly, his expression calm but unyielding, the kind of control that commands respect without trying. The second crown is placed upon his head, a darker design, carved from gold and sapphire.

"All hail Callen, High Fae King."

The room bows, even the ones who hate it. Because they know, just as I do, that there ’ s no turning back.

Callen ’ s hand finds mine again as we stand side by side, our crowns gleaming in the fractured light of the grand hall. He squeezes my fingers gently, a silent reassurance.

"Together," he murmurs, so soft it ’ s barely audible. “ All of us.”

"Always," I reply.

The hall shifts, a ripple moving through the gathered factions. I can feel it, tense and brimming with expectation. My eyes sweep over the shadow rebels stationed at the back of the crowd, their simple, weathered cloaks standing out against the finer silks and armors of the nobility. They hold themselves still, wary but undaunted, like wolves waiting to see if they ’ ll be welcomed into the pack or driven out again.

One of them steps forward, the woman from the meeting at the cottage, with sharp features and shadows clinging to her shoulders like a second skin. Her eyes meet mine, unblinking, and for a moment, the world narrows to just us. She dips her head, slow and deliberate, a gesture heavy with meaning. I nod back, my chest tight, because I know what this costs her. What it costs all of them. To trust me. To trust us.

The nobles stiffen, some exchanging uneasy glances, others glaring openly. But no one speaks. Not yet. Callen ’ s voice sails through the silence, clear and decisive.

"Today marks the beginning of something new," he says, his tone carrying the weight of command. "A realm where old grudges die and alliances are forged. Not through fear, but through understanding and acceptance."

I glance at him, surprised by the honesty in his words. This isn ’ t the smooth-talking prince who hides behind charm and double meanings. This is Callen, the man who stood by me when I thought I ’ d shatter, the man who sees me not as a weapon or a queen, but as a woman.

The shadow rebels shift, their stances less guarded. From the corner of my eye, I catch Tiernan ’ s approving smile, Lochan ’ s steady gaze, Rory ’ s barely contained grin. Marius inclines his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the moment ’ s significance.

And then Fiona ’ s voice pierces the solemnity once more, loud and unapologetic. "About bloody time!" she yells, throwing her arms up. "Now let ’ s eat before I waste away!"

Laughter bubbles up, hesitant at first, then spreading like wildfire. Even the fae nobles can ’ t resist cracking smiles, though some look scandalized by Fiona ’ s irreverence. Not one of them would dare defy the goddess Sirona, however. I bite back a laugh of my own.

The ceremony dissolves into celebration, the grand hall transforming into a feast unlike anything I ’ ve ever seen. Tables groan under the weight of exotic dishes. There are platters of roasted venison glazed with honey and herbs, bowls of shimmering fruits that glow faintly in the light, goblets brimming with spiced wine and golden mead. Fae musicians play lilting, unearthly tunes that seem to dance through the air, drawing people together despite their differences.

I wander among them, feeling the shattered pieces of this realm beginning to fit together, however tentatively. Shadow rebels converse with druids, their voices low but civil. A group of shifters laughs with a cluster of fae warriors, their shared humor breaking down barriers. It ’ s far from perfect—there are still wary glances, muttered words, but it ’ s a start.

"Brigid," Marius says, appearing at my side. "You did this."

"No," I reply, my gaze sweeping over Callen, Tiernan, Rory, and Lochan, each of them mingling in their own way, forging connections I never thought possible. "We did this."

"Maybe." He tilts his head, studying me with those eyes that always see too much. "But you ’ re the heart of it. Don ’ t forget that."

I don ’ t have a chance to respond, because Fiona barrels into me, nearly knocking the crown off my head. She shoves a goblet into my hand, her cheeks flushed with wine and triumph.

"Drink, oh Great Queen," she declares, her grin wicked. "You ’ ve earned it."

"Careful," I warn, my lips twitching despite myself. "You ’ ll have the entire court thinking you ’ re my royal jester."

"Better than being a boring advisor," she shoots back, and I laugh, the sound surprising even me. We ’ re not back to what we were, but we ’ re creating something new. It ’ s fragile, but it ’ s good.

At this moment, I let myself believe that we might just have a chance.

The music fades. The revelry hums behind me, distant now, though I ’ m still in the heart of it. My feet ache from standing, my shoulders stiff under the weight of this crown—and yet I don ’ t move. I can ’ t.

Callen stands to my left, his hand brushing mine briefly before he steps away, giving space but staying close. Lochan shifts beside me, silent except for the faint sound of his breathing. Rory and Tiernan are off to the side, speaking in low voices, their postures easy, but watchful. Marius lingers a few paces back, watching the crowd with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. They ’ re here, all of them, but I feel their quiet deference, their willingness to let me have this moment.

It doesn ’ t feel real.

I look out over the hall again. Fae nobles sip from delicate goblets, their expressions veiled but less wary than they were an hour ago. Shadow rebels cluster along the edges, their clothing incongruous against the shimmering banners of green and gold. A few brave souls—both fae and rebel alike—have started to mingle, their exchanges tentative but civil. It ’ s delicate, this peace we ’ ve carved out tonight, like glass balanced on the edge of a blade.

"Fragile things can still endure," the thought whispers, unbidden.

The smell of sage and honeywine drifts through the air, mingling with a metallic memory of blood that hasn ’ t quite left me, no matter how much I try to bury it. My fingers curl against the fabric of my gown.

"Brigid."

Lochan again, soft but firm. I glance at him. His face is steady, unreadable, but there ’ s something in his eyes that grounds me. He doesn ’ t say anything else, doesn ’ t need to. He knows what this crown means.

I look past him, across the room where Fiona has cornered Callen, likely teasing him if his exasperated smile is any clue. She catches my eye and winks, raising her glass high in a toast.

I lift my chin, pulling in a slow breath. The weight on my head feels heavier now, not because of the crown itself, but because of what it represents. Sovereignty. War. Fate. Three sisters within one goddess. And now me.

"Great Queen," someone murmurs nearby. A courtier, bowing low as they pass. The title feels foreign, like a garment that doesn ’ t fit right, too tight at the seams.

Queen.

Not freak. Not orphan. Not vessel.

Queen.

I blink hard.

"Is this what you wanted?" I whisper, so low only I can hear. I don ’ t know if I ’ m asking her or myself.

Does it matter?

The answer comes from within. No, it doesn ’ t matter. This is what needs to be done. For Callen, for Lochan and Tiernan, for Rory and Marius, for every faction gathered in this hall who would tear each other apart if given the chance.

"Compassion," I murmur aloud. My voice steadies. "Strength."

"Always," Lochan says, so softly I almost miss it.

I turn to face him fully now, and for the first time tonight, I manage a small nod. Then I glance at the others—at Callen, who straightens when our eyes meet; at Tiernan, whose smile flickers with quiet pride; at Rory, who raises his glass in mock salute; at Marius, who gives me a faint tilt of his head, unreadable but unflinching.

"Together," I say, barely above a whisper.

No one answers, but they don ’ t need to. Their presence is enough.

I look back at the hall, at the rebels who ’ ve dared to come here, at the cracks in their walls of hatred that might—just might—heal with time.

The crown presses down. But I stand straighter, my determination hardening into something unshakable.

This isn ’ t the end.

It ’ s only the beginning.