Page 65 of Awakened Destiny
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."
