Chapter One
The Morrigan
The streetlamps cast long shadows that stretch on the cracked sidewalks, and the night air stirs something primitive in me. I breathe it in deeply, appreciating the coolness as it fills my lungs, and smile. It’s been centuries since I’ve walked among the living, and every step I take, every sound I make, feels deliberate, purposeful. The world around me sings with potential. It’s the music of fate and chaos, life, and death, and I am its conductor.
Brigid’s memories rise to the surface of my mind like ripples in a pond. They’re fragmented, disjointed, but enough to guide me. I see glimpses of this town through her eyes, a dingy, insignificant place that is a remnant of its former glory. But that’s fine. Shadows are where I thrive.
My feet make no sound against the pavement. The streets are empty, save for the occasional stray animal darting into an alley. The surrounding silence is a heavy blanket that muffles the world.
It makes it easier to hear the whispers in my mind.
Brigid’s thoughts.
They’re a jumble of pain and anger, of resentment and fear. But beneath it all, there’s a map, a roadmap of her life, of this town, etched into her psyche. I follow it, letting her recollections guide me. The hardware store. Her uncle’s hardware store. The image of it flashes in my mind—a worn sign, the letters faded, the building itself a testament to neglect, like all the other buildings I’ve passed.
The store stands silently, its darkened windows staring back at me. I sense Brigid’s past here, her suffering when others rejected her. I reach out with my mind, and the pain responds, rising to the surface like a storm about to break.
I smile, letting the bitterness of it wash over me. It’s seductive, this anger, this emotional distress. It’s fuel, and I’m starved for it. I take a step closer, my hand brushing against the dirty glass of the window.
But I don’t do anything. Not yet. I just stand there, absorbing it, letting the darkness seep into my bones. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this alive, this connected to the world. I’m not just a ghost, a faint echo of who I used to be. I’m here. I’m real.
The street stretches out before me, a ribbon of cracked asphalt. I leave the hardware store behind, and walk past more faded storefronts lining the road, their paint peeling like dead skin, their windows cloudy with grime. A few signs creak in the wind, the letters barely legible. Sunshine Diner. Marston’s Auto Repair. Names that mean nothing to me, but they’re ever so familiar to Brigid. I can feel her recognition.
There’s something about this place that feels hollow, like a bone picked clean by scavengers. It mirrors the hollowness I sense in Brigid, the empty space she’s carried with her for so long. I can feel it now, a void inside her, waiting to be filled. And I will fill it. Oh, how I will fill it.
I step into one of the shadows, my silhouette merging with the darkness. For a moment, I am the night itself, unseen and unstoppable. The thought amuses me, and I let out a small laugh. It’s a sound that doesn’t belong here, not in this bleak place. But I do. I belong here. This town, like Brigid, is mine to claim. All the world, every realm, is mine to claim once more.
They called me the Phantom Queen, the Great Queen, the shape-shifter who walked between worlds. Kings and peasants alike trembled at the mere whisper of my name. They offered sacrifices to appease me, desperate to avoid my wrath and curry my favor.
I close my eyes, savoring the echoes of battle cries and death rattles that still ring in my ears. The scent of fear and adoration clings to me like perfume, a reminder of the power I once wielded. I was fate incarnate, spinning the threads of destiny with my sisters. I was war personified, my ravens circling battlefields as harbingers of doom. I was death's mistress, deciding who would fall and who would rise. And I was chaos itself, delighting in the upheaval of order. Mortals bowed before me. They begged for my blessing before marching into battle, offering their blood and their souls for a chance at victory. I walked among them as both destroyer and creator, my very presence enough to turn the tides of war or topple empires.
I keep walking through this meagre nothing of a town, my gaze sweeping over the abandoned buildings. Each one tells a story of its own, of failure, of abandonment, of lives left behind. This kind of despair is a banquet of broken dreams and shattered hopes.
The farther I go, the slower time seems to move. The air is thick with the girl’s memories, her pain, her loneliness, her anger. I can taste it on the back of my tongue, sharp and metallic. I want more of it. I crave it.
I stop beneath another streetlamp, its light buzzing faintly above me. The ground beneath my feet is uneven, the concrete split and overgrown with weeds. I crouch down, running my fingers over the rough surface. It’s cold, stubborn, just like the hearts of the people who call this place home.
Across the street, a hulking structure looms against the night sky. Its windows are dark, save for a single light burning. The building's facade is weathered brick, stained with years of neglect and adolescent existential angst. A tattered banner hangs limply from the front, proclaiming "Home of the Newton Wolves" in faded letters.
Brigid's memories crash over me in waves, and I let them wash through me, savoring each painful recollection. This place, this‘high school’, was a crucible of torment for her. I can feel the phantom aches of bruises long healed, hear the reverberations of cruel laughter bouncing off dull green walls.
I can feel her remembering, her emotions unconscious and turbulent. The memories assault me in rapid succession: jeering faces in crowded hallways, laughter echoing in bathroom stalls, whispered insults that slice deeper than a blade. I see flashes of a younger Brigid, hunched over in a corner of the cafeteria, desperately trying to make herself invisible. I feel the sting of rejection as she's passed over for group projects, the burning humiliation as she's mocked for her clothes and lack of friends.
The building stands like a monolith of misery. An offering of suffering and agony to the gods.
The ingenious cruelty of humans has always been fascinating.
I start walking again, my steps slow and measured. The night presses in around me, alive and pulsing with a rhythm that matches the beat of my brand new heart. I am the storm on the horizon, the shadow that falls across the land.
And this town, this hollow, haunted scrap of misery, is just the beginning.
Chapter Two
Brigid
I feel like a heavy fog is pressing down on me, everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t escape. My mind feels like a cage, the bars closing in tighter with every minute that passes. The Morrigan’s presence is everywhere, seeping into my bones. Her voice whispers to me, though I don’t know what she’s saying. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the suffocating weight of her, the way she fills every corner of who I am, or was, leaving no space for me.
I try to push back, to claw my way free, but there’s nothing to grab onto. My thoughts are scattered, and I feel them leaving me, like sand slipping through fingers. Memories flicker, some sharp and clear, others hazy and distant. I latch onto one.
