Page 50 of Awakened Destiny
"Do I?" She tilts her head, studying me like I’m some long-forgotten puzzle piece that finally clicked into place. "You’re descended from Macha, Brigid. You’ve inherited more than just her blood—you’ve inherited her purpose. This isn’t random. It’s been set in motion for a long time."
"Set in motion by who?" My voice edges higher. "The Morrigan? Fate? You?"
"Maybe all the above," she says evenly. "But here’s the thing: this prophecy isn’t just layered on top of the Morrigan’s—it’s tied to it. They’re pieces of the same whole. One doesn’t happen without the other. And you, Brigid..." She leans forward slightly. "You’re at the center of it all."
I look away, focusing on the chipped corner of her desk. "So what happens if I fail? If I can't do whatever this is supposed to be?"
"Then everything falls apart," she says simply. No sugarcoating, no softening the blow. "The supernatural realm splinters. War spreads. Chaos reigns. And the darkness inside you? It’ll consume you completely."
I swallow hard. My throat feels dry, like I’ve swallowed ash. "And if I succeed?"
"Then you don’t just survive, Brigid. You become something greater. Something new." Her voice is calm, but her words hang heavy between us.
Chapter Twenty Eight
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.
