"Better than being a boring advisor," she shoots back, and I laugh, the sound surprising even me. We’re not back to what we were, but we’re creating something new. It’s fragile, but it’s good.
At this moment, I let myself believe that we might just have a chance.
The music fades. The revelry hums behind me, distant now, though I’m still in the heart of it. My feet ache from standing, my shoulders stiff under the weight of this crown—and yet I don’t move. I can’t.
Callen stands to my left, his hand brushing mine briefly before he steps away, giving space but staying close. Lochan shifts beside me, silent except for the faint sound of his breathing. Rory and Tiernan are off to the side, speaking in low voices, their postures easy, but watchful. Marius lingers a few paces back, watching the crowd with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. They’re here, all of them, but I feel their quiet deference, their willingness to let me have this moment.
It doesn’t feel real.
I look out over the hall again. Fae nobles sip from delicate goblets, their expressions veiled but less wary than they were an hour ago. Shadow rebels cluster along the edges, their clothing incongruous against the shimmering banners of green and gold. A few brave souls—both fae and rebel alike—have started to mingle, their exchanges tentative but civil. It’s delicate, this peace we’ve carved out tonight, like glass balanced on the edge of a blade.
"Fragile things can still endure," the thought whispers, unbidden.
The smell of sage and honeywine drifts through the air, mingling with a metallic memory of blood that hasn’t quite left me, no matter how much I try to bury it. My fingers curl against the fabric of my gown.
"Brigid."
Lochan again, soft but firm. I glance at him. His face is steady, unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes that grounds me. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to. He knows what this crown means.
I look past him, across the room where Fiona has cornered Callen, likely teasing him if his exasperated smile is any clue. She catches my eye and winks, raising her glass high in a toast.
I lift my chin, pulling in a slow breath. The weight on my head feels heavier now, not because of the crown itself, but because of what it represents. Sovereignty. War. Fate. Three sisters within one goddess. And now me.
"Great Queen," someone murmurs nearby. A courtier, bowing low as they pass. The title feels foreign, like a garment that doesn’t fit right, too tight at the seams.
Queen.
Not freak. Not orphan. Not vessel.
Queen.
I blink hard.
"Is this what you wanted?" I whisper, so low only I can hear. I don’t know if I’m asking her or myself.
Does it matter?
The answer comes from within. No, it doesn’t matter. This is what needs to be done. For Callen, for Lochan and Tiernan, for Rory and Marius, for every faction gathered in this hall who would tear each other apart if given the chance.
"Compassion," I murmur aloud. My voice steadies. "Strength."
"Always," Lochan says, so softly I almost miss it.
I turn to face him fully now, and for the first time tonight, I manage a small nod. Then I glance at the others—at Callen, who straightens when our eyes meet; at Tiernan, whose smile flickers with quiet pride; at Rory, who raises his glass in mock salute; at Marius, who gives me a faint tilt of his head, unreadable but unflinching.
"Together," I say, barely above a whisper.
No one answers, but they don’t need to. Their presence is enough.
I look back at the hall, at the rebels who’ve dared to come here, at the cracks in their walls of hatred that might—just might—heal with time.
The crown presses down. But I stand straighter, my determination hardening into something unshakable.
This isn’t the end.
It’s only the beginning.
Chapter Forty Seven
