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."
