Callen takes his seat first, his movements smooth and deliberate. His eyes sweep the audience, and for a moment, he looks every bit the cunning, composed king he’s meant to be. There’s no hesitation when he lifts his hand, gesturing toward the attendants stationed near the edge of the hall.
"Bring them in," he says, his voice clear, cutting through the low hum of murmurs.
The room stills.
I glance at him, but he doesn’t look at me. Instead, his gaze stays fixed on the crowd, watching as confusion ripples outward like a stone dropped into water. The factions exchange glances. No one speaks, but the tension is unmistakable.
Then the attendants move, dragging four additional thrones onto the dais. They’re smaller than ours but carved from the same dark wood, etched with swirling fae designs that seem alive under the flickering light. My chest tightens. This wasn’t part of the plan. At least, not the one I knew about.
"Callen," I say, leaning slightly toward him. "What are you doing?"
"Exactly what needs to be done." He says it lightly, almost carelessly, but his fingers brush mine where they rest on the arm of my throne. It’s a quiet reassurance, even as his lips curve into the faintest smirk. "Trust me."
As the final throne is set in place, Callen rises again. He steps forward, standing tall, and gestures toward Lochan first. "Come," he says simply.
Lochan doesn’t hesitate. Of course he doesn’t. He strides up the steps with that calm, measured confidence I’ve come to expect, his hazel eyes locked on mine the entire time. When he reaches the dais, he nods once, then takes the throne to my left without a word. His posture is straight, his hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair, but there’s a flicker of pride.
"Rory," Callen calls next.
Rory grins as he bounds up the steps, all shaggy blond hair and easy charm. He winks at me as he passes, earning a few startled gasps from the audience below. Then he drops into his seat with a casual sprawl, one ankle resting on his opposite knee. He leans back, unconcerned about anyone who questions why he’s there.
"Tiernan."
Tiernan moves slower, more deliberately. His green eyes sweep the crowd as he ascends, taking in every reaction, every whisper. When he finally reaches his throne, he sits with an air of quiet authority, his broad shoulders relaxed but not slouched. I can see the way his gaze lingers on me, steady and unshaken, like he’s grounding himself in this moment.
Finally, Callen speaks Marius’s name.
There’s a beat of silence before Marius stands. His dark eyes flick toward me briefly, barely a glance. He climbs the steps with a predatory grace. When he takes his seat, he lounges back, one elbow propped on the armrest, his expression unreadable. But there’s a sharpness to his focus, a sense of vigilance that never fades.
The audience is stunned. I can feel their reactions like a tide pressing against me. Confusion, anger and curiosity all swirling together. Whispers grow louder, filling the vast hall, until Queen Maywen rises slowly from her seat.
"Enough," she says softly, but the power in her voice cuts through the noise instantly. The murmurs die, replaced by an uneasy silence.
I glance at her again, my throat dry, but she doesn’t meet my gaze this time. Instead, she looks at Callen, her expression unreadable, and inclines her head ever so slightly.
Callen sits down beside me, his hand brushing mine once more. "Now," he says quietly, his voice meant only for me, "they’ll know who truly stands with you."
I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe. My consorts, my mates, are beside me now. And though the weight of the crown hasn’t yet touched my head, I feel the shift beneath my skin. This is real. This is happening. And nothing will ever be the same.
Fiona’s voice cuts through the thick silence in the room, sharp and unapologetically loud.
"Atta boy!" she shouts, practically bouncing in her seat. Her hands cup around her mouth as she adds, "About time someone shook things up around here!"
I can’t help it—I laugh, a short, startled sound that escapes before I can stop it. The tension in my chest loosens just enough to let me breathe again. Trust Fiona to bring her full, chaotic energy into a moment like this. She’s grinning wildly, her glasses slightly askew, her oversized necklace jingling with every movement.
The crowd ripples with unease, some laughs break out nervously, others glare daggers in Fiona's direction. But the goddess that she is, she doesn’t care. She holds her ground, clapping enthusiastically now, as if daring anyone to shut her up. And honestly, no one could.
"Sirona," Callen mutters under his breath beside me, just low enough that only I catch it. There's a faint smirk on his lips, but he doesn't look away from the gathered factions.
"She’s not wrong," I whisper back, gripping the arms of my throne tighter.
The herald steps forward, his voice booming across the hall. "Brigid Ryan, chosen queen, rise."
My stomach churns, and for a second, I’m frozen. It's too much, too heavy, too fast. But Callen’s hand rests lightly on mine. When I meet his eyes, there’s nothing but steady assurance there, an unspoken reminder that I’m not alone in this.
So I stand.
Chapter Forty Six
