35. Bared Beneath the Stars
Bared Beneath the Stars
Triona
“ C ome on, then. I have already sent for the horses.”
Dana doesn’t wait for a reply. Her violet cloak sweeps behind her as she steps gracefully into the bustling streets.
“Good luck with that,” I mutter. “There’s no way Shadow’s going to—”
But as I glance back, the words catch in my throat.
Shadow is, to my utter disbelief, standing calmly at the end of the dock, reins held loosely by a young man.
He’s tall, lean, with striking features that carry the unmistakable resemblance of Eamon and Saoirse—long, copper-toned hair and a smirk that borders on knowing.
His fingers move with quiet confidence as he strokes Shadow’s neck, and the stallion—my impossible, stubborn stallion—actually leans into the touch.
My jaw drops. “That beastly wee bastard. He’s acting downright obedient,” I mutter under my breath.
Callan snorts behind me, a rare laugh rumbling in his chest. “I’ve officially seen it all.”
Finn chuckles beside him, then leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Should I be worried he didnae even take to me that quickly?”
I blink at him, then glance back at Shadow—who’s still nuzzling into the stranger’s touch like an overgrown lapdog. “Honestly?” I say, deadpan. “I’m not even sure.”
Finn hums, feigning offense. “Come now, before I develop a complex.”
“I wouldn’t dwell on it,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “You’re still doing better than most.”
We fall into step, weaving our way through the throngs of merchants and sailors to catch up to Dana. The noise of the docks fades as Dana leads us down narrower, quieter lanes, the cobblestones uneven beneath our feet.
We arrive at a modest-looking tavern tucked far from the bustling principal streets. Its weathered sign swings faintly in the breeze, creaking on rusted hinges. Despite its unassuming exterior, there’s an air of mystery about the place, as though it has seen secrets unfold within its walls.
Dana pushes the door open with a light touch, revealing a modest interior, lit primarily by a low-burning hearth casting flickering shadows across the room.
“This will suffice,” she says, her voice low and resonant. “Come, Triona. There is much to discuss, and time is not on our side.”
Once inside, I take a moment to admire Dana.
The light of the hearth catches her features in a way that makes her seem otherworldly.
Up close, she is breathtaking—youthful beauty that’s sharp and undeniable.
There is a warmth to her presence, something that feels like home, like safety, yet it is paired with an undeniable authority.
It is that quality, that quiet power, that reminds me of Mannie.
The same timelessness woven from the same thread.
“I trust, since you made landing in Dublin, that word of what lies ahead befell your ears—that you must journey beneath the Hill of Tara to collect the Stone of Fál.”
Her tone is layered with both command and care. “The path within is no gentle road, but it will reveal what must be seen.”
Then her gaze settles on me with solemn finality. “This charge falls to you and Finn… alone. ”
She turns to Callan, tone softening. “You will stay behind. You’re not meant to walk this path—not yet.”
Callan stiffens, his jaw tightening with restrained protest. “Why?” he demands, his voice rough but not unkind.
Dana steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“The mound recognises only those tied to its power. It is not a question of worth, but of design. The magic within allows those chosen by the tome itself. The stone has chosen Triona, and she has chosen Finn. So they are tied to the stone in ways you are not.”
Dana pauses, allowing reasoning to take root.
“Let me explain the intricacies of our world,” she begins, her tone warm yet firm.
“Magic is not something to be taken lightly, nor is it limitless. It is drawn from the primal forces of nature, woven into the fabric of reality by the great celestial bodies—the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, and the Sea. These forces provide a constant flow of power, but only those attuned to their rhythms can access it.”
She shifts closer. “There are five primary schools of magic, each bound to a different source. Solar Magic channels the Sun’s radiance, granting healing and empowerment.
Lunar Magic draws from the Moon’s phases, controlling water and dreams. Stellar Magic harnesses the power of the stars, allowing for prophecy and celestial communication.
Oceanic Magic calls upon the ocean’s currents, granting adaptability and the power of transformation.
And finally, Primordial Magic—the rarest and most powerful of all—harnesses the full breadth of the natural world, drawing from all four elemental forces in perfect balance. ”
“Only three in all of history have ever wielded it,” Dana continues, her voice quiet but resolute.
“It is not a gift that can be learned, nor is it simply inherited. To command Elemental Magic requires more than skill—it demands an unbreakable bond with every force of nature, an innate harmony with the world itself. Those who possess it do not merely use magic; they are magic.”
Dana’s gaze sweeps over us, measuring our understanding before she continues.
“Each school of magic follows distinct rituals, symbols, and traditions, guided by divine patrons among the Tuatha Dé Danann. The land itself reflects this connection—each region of Ireland is attuned to a specific type of magic, governed by its respective deity.”
She pauses, letting the knowledge settle.
“To wield magic, one must either be born with it, like the Tuatha Dé Danann, gifted it by one who already commands its power, or wield it through an object imbued with magic. But know this—magic is not a force to be used recklessly. It demands understanding, reverence, and, above all, balance.”
Her expression grows eerie. “But there are forces—dark, greedy forces—that seek to steal magic. When magic is stolen or approached without welcome, it twists. It corrupts. The mound’s magic is conscious.
It is the oldest and strongest form of magic.
Alive since the beginning of time. It knows when it is not respected, and it does not take kindly to those who attempt to approach without invitation or purpose.
That is why this path is not yours to walk, my son. It’s for your safety… and for theirs.”
Callan bites down on his bottom lip, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His fingers flex against his upper arms, tension rippling through him as his gaze darts to me, then to Finn, and back to Dana, hesitation clear. “So, ye’re saying that if I tried…”
“It would reject you,” Dana says simply.
“And that rejection often comes at a heavy price. This is why there are those who wish to harm Triona. If they can control her, they could force her to act against her will, allowing them to take what they want from her. She has not yet fully come into her powers—she is weak, susceptible, easily manipulated.”
“It is why Triona and Finn must do this alone. Your role is no less important. You are the one who will protect them from what waits beyond the mound. Protect the entry, guard the connection. That is your strength, and it is enough.”
A cold knot forms in my stomach as I listen. My voice comes out quieter than I intend. “How can you all be so sure that I have been chosen for this?” I ask. “What if you’re wrong? What if I don’t have this ability? Or worse—what if the magic rejects me?”
Dana meets my gaze, steady and unwavering. “You will feel the draw, Triona,” she says. “Before you ever reach for it, before you even think of using it, you will know. It will call to you.”
Dana’s gaze softens. “I know the trials you have all faced. What happened has shaped you, but it has also brought you here, with people at your side—people who would never wish you harm, who speak no falsities, and who will not abandon you in times of need.”
I see understanding on Callan’s face. Though reluctant, he nods slowly, his shoulders easing. “If it’s for them, I’ll stay behind.”
She turns back to Finn and me, her voice gaining that divine resonance once more. “Inside, you will face what lies in your hearts and emerge stronger for it. The Stone will answer only to those who prove themselves worthy. ”
Dana reaches into the folds of her cloak and pulls out a rolled parchment tied with a thin, silver cord.
She hands it to Finn, her expression solemn.
“This map will guide you. It shows the path to the Hill of Tara, where you must enter, and where you will emerge. Study it carefully, for there will be no turning back once inside.”
Dana’s gaze darkens, though her voice remains steady. “The magic within the mound does not suffer hesitation. Once you enter, you must complete the journey, or it will reject you entirely. If that happens... the consequences will not be kind.”
The weight of what lies ahead settles heavily on my shoulders. Yet, as I glance at Finn, his determination doesn’t falter. His persistent presence, his quiet strength, radiates something abiding.
“What exactly is it inside me that makes this my task? And how do we know what I’m meant to find is truly there?” The words taste unpleasant, as if voicing them gives life to fear.
Dana’s expression is brimming with warmth, the kind often given maternally. “To have you here now is a gift from the gods themselves… because no one like you has been born in over four thousand years,” she states.