Lochan makes a rough sound in his throat. "They won't go quietly."
"They will when they see who stands with me," Callen says, glancing back at me. His blue eyes are sharp with calculated intention.
I don't miss his meaning. The Council doesn't know that I've learned to command both the Morrigan’s and the Raven King’s magic, rather than be consumed by it. That responsibility sits heavy in my chest.
We pass a set of guards who straighten at Callen's approach. Their eyes widen at the sight of the crown, then glance nervously to Lochan's intimidating presence, and finally to me. They don't try to stop us.
"Your father's death has created a power vacuum," I observe, keeping pace. "They think you're the malleable replacement."
Callen nods once.“They’ve never considered me anything other than a feckless halfwit, based on what my father has told them. I was supposed to be easy to control. But then I met you.”
He says it so simply, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. My chest tightens, but I don’t let myself dwell on it. Not now. Not when we’re walking into the lion’s den.
The corridor opens into a grand chamber, its ceiling lost in shadow. A long table dominates the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs carved with intricate runes. The Council members are already there, their voices a low hum of conspiracy that falls silent as we enter.
A man who could only be Eira’s father, his wide eyes a perfect copy of hers, sits near the head of the table, his expression sharp and calculating. His eyes flick to Callen’s crown, and I see the moment he realizes what it means—his jaw tightens, and his fingers curl around the edge of the table like he’s resisting the urge to lunge.
“Prince Callen,” he says, his tone dripping with false politeness.“To what do we owe this unexpected visit?”
Callen doesn’t flinch.“I’m not here as a prince.” He steps forward, and the room seems to hold its breath.“I’m here as your king.”
A murmur ripples through the Council members, some exchanging uneasy glances, others openly sneering. Eira’s father leans back in his chair. Callen takes another step forward, his shoulders squared beneath the weight of his father's crown. The metal catches the light from the enchanted orbs floating near the ceiling, casting golden reflections across his face.
"My father's blood and crown give me the right to rule," he says, voice carrying to every corner of the vast chamber. "But it's his failures that show me how to rule better. The corruption stops now."
I watch the Council members' faces, cataloging every microexpression. Some wear masks of careful neutrality, others can't hide their contempt. These are the people who've orchestrated countless deaths, who planned to tear the power of a goddess from my body without caring if I survived. My fingers tremble slightly, and I curl them into fists.
"Your Highness," a thin-faced woman says, the gems on her elaborate headdress catching the light as she tilts her head. "The Council has governed in accordance with tradition for centuries. One boy with a stolen crown doesn't change—"
"I didn't steal anything," Callen cuts her off. His voice remains level, but there's steel beneath the calm. "Unlike this Council, which has stolen power, stolen lives, and stolen the trust of every being in this realm."
I feel a surge of pride watching him. This isn't the carefree, sardonic Callen I first met. This is a king.
"You framed innocent people during the Shadow War," he continues. "You manipulated events, spread fear of shadow magic to consolidate your power. And when that wasn't enough, you thought to harness a goddess through murder."
I stand motionless beside him, letting his words hang in the air. The power inside me stirs, like a storm building on the horizon. I think of Lochan's family, of all the shadow magic users hunted down and killed because of the Council's lies. Of how they tried to sacrifice me.
"The Council serves the realm," Eira's father says, rising to his feet. His knuckles turn white where they press against the table. "We maintain order. Balance. Without us—"
"Without you," Callen interrupts, "we might finally have justice. Without you, we will be free of corruption."
I remain silent, but I feel the Morrigan's power pulse beneath my skin in response to my anger. My dress ripples slightly, though there's no breeze in the chamber. A Council member nearest to me edges his chair away.
An older man stands up, his silver-threaded robe catching the light as he moves away from the Council table. "Order," he insists, voice rising. "This realm needs order, not the whims of an untested boy playing at kingship."
His gaze slides to me, and the contempt in his eyes makes my skin crawl. "And certainly not the chaos of a human vessel housing power she can't possibly control."
"You mean powers you failed to steal," I think but don't say. I match his stare, refusing to look away.
"We've been quite patient," he continues. "The death of King Cillian was unfortunate, but not irreparable. The ascension ceremony can still proceed as planned—with suitable modifications." He smiles thinly at Callen. "You will take your rightful place, Prince Callen, under our guidance. The binding ritual we've prepared will ensure your reign serves the realm's interests."
My heart pounds harder. Binding ritual. I glance at Callen, whose expression hasn't changed.
"As for the human," Finnegan adds, "the power of the Morrigan cannot remain in such an unstable vessel. For the safety of all realms, she must be neutralized."
Chapter Thirty Four
Brigid
