14. The Last Dawn of Innocence #3
I hardly register the rest of the conversation, focus already pulled elsewhere.
It’s faint at first, just a whisper tangled in the wind. But then it’s unmistakable— her voice.
“Triona?” I murmur, almost afraid it’s just my mind playing tricks. In the distance, Shadow’s unmistakable neigh cuts through the night, only tightening the knot in my chest.
Then I hear it again, more urgent, drifting through the trees with a haunting clarity that makes my heart seem to stop beating.
“Finn… Help… Please.”
“Triona!” The name rips from my throat, shattering the tense silence and echoing through the trees.
Every head snaps toward me. I see Callan’s face change as the colour fades and dread flickers to life in his hazel eyes.
James’s gaze locks with Callan’s, and a thousand unspoken words pass between them in the briefest of moments.
Something is wrong. And they can feel it too.
The plea slices through me, raw and unfiltered. The world narrows. Nothing exists but her voice—reaching for me like a lifeline.
My legs propel me toward the waiting stallion before I even realise I’ve moved.
Shadow paws at the ground, restless. I vault into the saddle in one motion. Behind me, the others shout, but their voices drown beneath the thunder of my pulse.
“Where the hell are ye goin’?” Callan’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp with alarm, but I don’t stop, almost forgetting to answer entirely. I kick hard, urging Shadow forward. The reins bite into my grip as I finally twist in the saddle, shouting over my shoulder, my voice raw and fierce.
“She’s in trouble!”
In a heartbeat, they all spring into action, mounting their horses with practiced ease.
The air grows colder as I race deeper into the woods.
The trees seem to close in around me, their shadows stretching long and ominous.
I clench my jaw, my grip on the reins so tight my knuckles burn.
Every pounding hoofbeat is a second slipping away—another moment lost when I should already be there.
I lean forward, urging Shadow faster, every fibre of my being pulling toward hers. The whisper of her voice lingers in my mind—fragile, desperate, fueling the urgency clawing at my chest.
Hold on, Triona. I swear to the gods—I’m coming.
The wind picks up, sharp and stinging, shoving me forward as if mocking my urgency. In its gusts, I swear I hear her voice—faint, distant, threading through the trees like a phantom whisper.
Shadow’s muscles bunch beneath me as they veer around a narrow bend, the forest looming taller, thicker. My mind races, every dreadful possibility assaulting me. Every instinct in me screams to reach her, protect her, to bridge the distance between us with sheer willpower if I have to.
Behind me, Callan’s caught up, and shouts something—maybe a command, maybe a warning. I barely register it. The echo of her voice—whether real or imagined—drowns out everything else.
It grips me, relentless. And with it, the chilling thought that whatever awaits us at the end of this reckless race won’t just change everything—it will tear our lives apart.
Another voice—James this time—cuts through the chaos. Desperate. Sharper than I’ve ever heard from him. It tugs at the edge of my focus, but I don’t slow. I don’t give them the chance to stop me.
I drive Shadow harder until their voices are only ghosts in the wind. The world becomes a blur—trees flashing past like streaks of shadow—and all I can hear is the call that started it all.
She called for me . And I know, with a conviction that pulses in my bones, I won’t stop until I’m the one who finds her.
Triona
I’ve tried for over an hour to lose myself in Rob Roy by Sir Walter Scott, but it’s of no use.
Paragraphs blur together, the words slipping away before they can take hold.
I take a sip of the tea beside me—stronger than I’m used to, its sharp taste lingering on my tongue.
Rather than grounding me, it only heightens the restless energy already thrumming beneath my skin.
Outside, the day mirrors my inner unrest. A heavy canopy of ashen clouds dims the day, shrouding the world in quiet desolation.
Wisps of fog curl around the rolling hills, transforming the landscape into something mythical yet haunting.
The wind has deserted the day, leaving a stagnant silence that deepens my sense of unrest, and amplifies the stillness that echoes my thoughts .
Just as I rise to retreat to my bedchamber, a speck of brown adorned with cream-yellow spots catches my eye. It lands on the bay-window windowsill, and the very movement stirs a long-buried memory.
I’m surrounded by a sunlit glen, where a variety of wildflowers bloom in patches of colourful beauty. The air is crisp, filled with the distant sound of a babbling brook.
I’m kneeling in the grass making a flower crown when a butterfly lands on a flower just out of reach. “Look, Da!”
He walks over slowly; the butterfly remains unperturbed by his movements. “It’s lovely, aye, but ye ken the stories, don’t ye? They say speckled wood butterflies can carry messages from the other side.”
“What kinds of messages?”
“They’re seen as symbols of transformation, and can signify positive change to come, but sometimes… sometimes they come with warnin’s. It’s not always good news.”
I look up at him. “What about this one? D’ye think it brings good news or bad news?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It could bring either. When one flutters near, it might be a reminder to pay attention. To be cautious.”
“But what if it’s just a butterfly?”
“In our world, even the simplest things can hold weight. Everything has its own purpose. It’s about knowing where to look and what to feel.”
My father retreats, but I stay to watch the butterfly dance from flower to flower.
I feel an irresistible pull to follow it.
I stand, mesmerised, my worries fading away like the soft whispers of the wind.
Each flutter of its delicate wings draws me deeper into the glen, and soon I’m laughing, chasing it through a riot of wildflowers that sway in the breeze.
With every step, the world around me fades into a blur of colour and light, the joy of the chase lifting my spirits. But then, a sudden stillness creeps in, and I paused, realising something is off.
“Da?” I call, but my voice echoes back at me, swallowed by the silence. The familiar sounds—the babbling brook, the rustle of grass—disappear. I turn in a slow circle, and the vibrant glen I was so enchanted by now feels like a maze of tall, shadowy trees.
Panic bubbles in my chest as I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The butterfly lands abruptly on top of a large, rounded mound. The sun has all but vanished, leaving me alone in a forest that suddenly feels vast and strange .
“Okay, just breathe,” I whisper to myself, trying to remember the way we had come. I glance around, trying to find a familiar landmark, but everything looks the same—an endless sea of dark green and brown.
“Stay calm,” I mutter, but my voice trembles slightly. I am lost, and the magical adventure has turned into something altogether different. Something that makes my heart pound with fear. A silence unlike anything I’d ever witnessed before surrounds me.
That’s when the stone collides with the back of my head.
The memory hits me like a formidable wave.
That familiar foreboding surges through me, echoing similarly to when I was yanked from that strange trance all those years ago.
I had known better that day, much as I do now, to heed whispers of intuition when they warned of danger lurking in the shadows.
But somehow, it was as if I was made to follow the butterfly that day.
The compulsion to do so overwhelmed all reason.
Colina’s voice, soft but urgent, snaps me from my thoughts. She stands in the library doorway. “Yer mother’s askin’ for ye in the stables. It’s Aisling.” Gone is her intensity from earlier, now replaced by what appears to be a surface level tolerance.
My heart lurches at the mention of Aisling.
The stable is quiet when I arrive. Aisling stands in her stall, looking far stronger than she had this morning. Her eyes are bright, her posture steady—nothing like the weak, motionless state I left her in.
The second door, usually left open, stands firmly shut.
I call for my mother, but my voice echoes in the silence.
A wave of dizziness hits me out of nowhere, my stomach twisting as sudden nausea rolls through me.
I grip a stalls frame, swallowing hard, trying to steady myself.
Unease creeps in when there’s no answer, and I turn back to find Colina standing close behind me.
“Oh!” I start, the suddenness of her presence unnerving me. “Colina! You gave me a fright. Where’s Ma?”
She just watches me, unblinking, something cold flickering in her gaze. “It’s just the two of us.”
I force a laugh, though it sounds hollow. “Well, if Ma’s not here, I’ll be heading back then—”
“Stay.” Colina says, as she steps in front of the door, arms crossed behind her back. “Ye know, ye made this simple by walkin’ down here alone. Didnae think it’d be so easy to get ye down from yer room without a fuss. I worried that mouth of yers would ruin my fun. ”
“Colina…” My voice wavers. “This isn’t funny. I don’t know what you’re on about, but I’ll not—”
“It’s no jest, Triona.” Her voice sharpens, eyes narrowing. “Ye should see the look on yer face, thinkin’ yer mother needed help. Nae… Aisling was just a tool to get ye here.” She lets out a dry laugh. “I had ye all believin’ she just fell ill this morning. Got ye here all alone .”
A sickening realisation grips me, tightening a knot in my stomach. “Colina, what have you done?”
“Poisoned her, of course,” she says with a cold, gleeful smile. “A small dose, mind ye. Wouldnae want my precious Finn to lose his mare. Just enough to weaken her, make them worry—force Finn to take yer precious stallion.”