I shift my stance, roll my shoulders back, and knock twice, knuckles firm against the wood. The sound echoes down the empty corridor, louder than I meant. Too late to take it back now.
The click of the latch makes me straighten instinctively. When the door opens, Fiona’s standing there, white hair cropped close and messy, her mouth pulling tight at the corners. Her eyes flick across my face like she’s trying to read me, and for a second, neither of us says anything. Her expression unsettles me. She looks tired. Older somehow.
"Come in," she says finally, stepping to the side. It’s not an invitation so much as an expectation.
I hesitate for just a breath before crossing the threshold. The room smells faintly of incense and something herbal coming from the steaming mug of tea on Fiona’s desk, precariously placed amongst the piles of papers and books. I move past her, conscious of how small the space feels now with both of us in it. Her presence is loud, even when she says nothing.
Fiona shuts the door behind me, the snick of the lock settling heavy in the silence.
"Fiona," I start. I clear my throat, clasp my hands together like that’ll keep them from shaking. "Something’s changed. With me."
She doesn’t sit, just rests on her desk, arms folded. Her bracelets clink softly, and she tilts her head in that way of hers, waiting. For once, she doesn’t fill the silence with some half-joke or comment to ease the tension. That almost makes it worse.
I take a breath, steady myself. "I can see them now. Threads. Everywhere. People’s lives. Futures, maybe. They’re woven around everything, and I—I don’t just see them, Fiona. I feel them." The words tumble out faster than I want, but I force myself to meet her gaze. "And it’s not just that. It’s her. The Morrigan. She’s there, in me. I can feel her power, like it’s pooling under my skin, waiting for me to tap into it."
"Have you?" Fiona’s voice is calm, too calm. Her knuckles go pale where they grip her arm, though.
"Not on purpose," I say quickly. Then I falter, remembering the flash of dark energy when I sensed those threads the other night. "But it’s like it’s like it’s always pushing, trying to crawl out." My fingers twitch at my sides. I shove them into my pockets instead. "And I don’t know how to stop it."
Fiona exhales sharply, not quite a sigh. She adjusts her glasses, then looks at me like she’s weighing something.
"Fiona," I push, stepping closer. "What aren’t you telling me? You’ve known more about all this from the start. You knew about her. About me." My voice rises despite myself. "If there’s something—anything—that can help me figure this out, I need to know. Now."
"Alright," she says, holding up a hand. "Alright. Sit down."
"I’d rather stand."
"Suit yourself." She scrubs a hand through her hair, her bracelets jangling again. Then she fixes her eyes on mine, steady, unflinching. "You said you feel her power? The Morrigan's?"
"Yes."
"That’s because it’s yours." She pauses, letting the words settle between us before continuing. "The Morrigan isn’t just some abstract force in your life, Brigid. She’s your blood. You’re descended from Macha—one of her aspects, one of her three selves. The goddess of sovereignty."
"What?" It’s barely a whisper. I hear her words, but I don’t understand what she’s saying.
"Macha," Fiona repeats, her tone firm but not unkind. "She’s one of the three sisters—the Morrigan's aspects. Babh, Ana, and Macha. Macha is sovereignty itself. A warrior, a queen, a protector of land and people. And you, Brigid—you carry her lineage. Her magic. That’s why you can see the threads of fate. Why you feel what you feel. It’s not just the Morrigan trying to control you. It’s Macha. Your Macha."
"That’s..." My throat goes dry. "How is that even possible? Why wouldn’t you have told me this sooner?"
"Because it wasn’t the right time," she says simply, but her voice tightens, a crack in the surface. "And because knowing too much too soon could’ve done more harm than good. You weren’t ready."
"Ready?" My laugh comes bitterly. "I’m barely keeping myself together as it is. How the hell am I supposed to be ready for—" I gesture vaguely. "This?"
"Look, I get it," she cuts in, louder now. Her tone softens again almost instantly. "I do. But you need to understand who you are. Who Macha was. She wasn’t just a goddess of sovereignty. She was also tied to a prophecy, much like her sister. She’s been invoked by kings and warriors alike, and her name still carries weight in realms most mortals can’t comprehend. And now, through you, she’s waking up again."
"Prophecy," I echo. Something cold coils in my stomach. "A different prophecy?"
"One step at a time." She holds my gaze, unyielding. "Right now, you need to focus on understanding this part of yourself. If you don’t, you’re going to lose control, and trust me when I say that’s not something you want."
For a moment, I can’t speak.“I think I will sit down,” I say, as I take a seat in the chair in front of Fiona’s desk. I’m so confused and I feel like my knees are about to buckle.
"Fine," Fiona says, leaning back against the edge of her desk, arms crossed. "Let’s talk about the second prophecy."
I grip the armrests of the chair tightly, my nails digging into the worn leather. "What does it say? What does it mean for me?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Prophecies are never straightforward," she begins. Her tone is lighter now, but there’s a sharpness underneath, like she’s weighing every word. "This one speaks of a queen who rises after chaos, someone who unites the supernatural realm when it’s on the brink of collapse. It’s not just about power. It’s about balance, sovereignty. Restoration."
"That doesn’t sound like me." The words are out before I can stop them. "You’ve got the wrong person."
