Page 79 of Awakened Destiny
And they belong to me.
Forever.
Chapter Forty
Laria
Thirteen steps left to right. Thirteen steps right to left. The rhythm of my pacing matches the pounding in my chest as I cross my room for the hundredth time. The Council failed. They fucking failed. Brigid lives.
I grab a ceramic figurine from my desk and hurl it against the wall. It shatters, the sound echoing my thoughts.
"Useless Council. Useless!" My voice bounces off the stone walls of my private room, the only privilege left to me now. "You had one job."
"Control yourself, Laria," I whisper. "Think."
I drop onto the edge of my bed, fingers digging into the silk covers. The Morrigan's power runs through Brigid's veins now. The untouchable goddess-bitch with her shadow magic, breaking every rule while they cheer her on.
The memory of seeing her in the dining hall burns. Her mousy face transformed as she sat with those fucking fawning idiots. And Callen had the nerve to make her his queen. That should have been me.
I pace again, nails digging crescents into my palms. Years of careful planning, perfect grades, perfect control. I earned my place. She stumbled into hers.
They should fear me. Not her.
My fingers find the spine of the book hidden beneath my mattress—small, bound in aged leather too smooth to be animal hide. The book I stole from the restricted section of the archives three nights ago.
I pull it out, my thumb caressing the cover with its single ruby set into the center. No title. No markings. Just ancient power humming beneath my fingertips.
"There's always a way," I whisper. I flip through yellowed pages, the spidery script dancing before my vampire eyes. The language is ancient—older than my sire, older than the Council itself—but I've deciphered enough.
Blood magic.
A knock at my door makes me slam the book shut.
"What?" I snarl.
The door remains closed. Whoever it is knows better than to enter uninvited.
I return to the book, finding the passage I marked with a thread of my own hair. The ritual requires precision, sacrifice. Power calls to power. The diagrams show what happens when the caster succeeds, and when they fail. The failures aren't pretty.
But I won't fail. She's nothing compared to me—Brigid is a nobody with stolen power.
An icy shard settles in my chest. The Council was supposed to execute her, and they failed. Now even the rebels whisper her name like she's their salvation.
I'm running out of time.
The book details the steps: the circles drawn in blood, the words to speak, the life to take. Simple enough, if you have the stomach for it. The elixir requires fresh blood from someone with elemental power. And the price...
Well, what's a piece of my soul compared to destroying Brigid?
I trace the diagram with my fingertip. The book promises power beyond imagining. Power enough to challenge a god. Power enough to tear shadow magic from Brigid's body and make it mine. I've lived too long to be forgotten. Too long to be replaced.
"Go away!" The knock comes again, more insistent. "Failed," I whisper, digging my nails into my palms until blood wells up. "The mighty Council couldn't kill one girl."
I lick the blood from my palm, tasting copper and rage. The Council has hunted shadow magic users for centuries. They built their power on that fear. And now? They're exposed as weak, pathetic frauds.
But I saw this coming. I prepared.
"I won't make their mistake," I mutter to the empty room.
