36. Heart in the Dark
Heart in the Dark
M orning arrives with a softness that feels at odds with the intensity of the night before.
Pale sunlight filters through the thin canvas of our tent, casting warm, muted shapes across Triona’s sleeping features.
She lies curled on her side, her hair cascading over the blanket, her breathing steady and calm.
I take a moment to study her—the way her lashes rest against her cheeks, the subtle curve of her lips, the peaceful expression that softens her face. She looks so serene that I almost thank the gods above for granting us this delicate slice of time.
Eventually, I shift away, careful not to wake her. A chill lingers in the air, and gooseflesh rises along my skin as I step into the morning hush. The clearing is wrapped in stillness, broken only by distant birdsong and the soft whisper of leaves overhead.
The fire has dwindled to a whisper, its ashes faintly glowing. I kneel beside it, feeding kindling into the embers, coaxing the flame back to life. The warmth creeps over my hands, a welcome anchor in this quiet moment before the world begins again.
Behind me, there’s the soft rustle of the tent’s flap. I turn to see Triona emerging, her hair tousled from sleep, eyes still heavy-lidded. She offers me a small, wry smile that sends a gentle warmth through my chest.
She settles beside me, stretching her arms overhead with a low groan. “Morning,” she murmurs, her voice soft and husky.
“Mornin’.” My gaze shifts to the sky, which has lightened into a pale, cloudless blue. “We should get moving soon if we’re to make Tara by midday.”
She nods, her expression turning serious as she follows my line of sight. For a moment, we sit in comfortable silence, the weight of our task palpable. Then, with a quiet exhale, I lean in to press a tender kiss to her temple. Wordlessly, we pack away what’s left of our camp.
After a quick breakfast of dried fruit and bread, I unfurl the map again. The shimmering symbols trace a winding path northwest through low-lying hills and gentle farmland.
There’s something different about this land—an ancient hush that seems to listen.
Stones, old trees, even the faint winding streams we occasionally follow: they all carry an agelessness, as though the ground itself holds memory.
With every step, an odd sense of belonging coils in my gut, whispering that we’re moving toward a place meant for us.
Beside me, Triona strides with determined purpose. I steal another glance at the map, unsettled by how naturally I can read it—the symbols speaking to me in a language I never formally learned. As if sensing my thoughts, Triona meets my gaze, her brow creasing with concern.
“You all right?” she asks quietly.
I offer a small smile. “I suppose I am. Just... marvellin’ at everything.”
She exhales a soft laugh. “We’re both far from the people we were a week ago, let alone a month ago, aye?”
“Aye,” I echo, letting that single word convey more than a string of sentences ever could.
As the sun stretches its golden fingers across the land, the world around us shifts—rolling fields give way to a wide sweep of low hills, each one rising and falling in gentle succession until they cradle a singular rise in the distance.
The Hill of Tara.
It doesn’t tower like a mountain, nor cut the sky with jagged stone. It simply rests—majestic in its quiet, ancient in its bearing. As if the land bent to cradle it, shaped not by violence but by time itself.
Something tightens in my chest at the sight—a stirring both timeworn and strangely personal.
It’s as though the hill is calling forth memories I can’t quite name.
The wind sweeping across the hilltop grazes my cheeks with a cool touch, smelling of sun-warmed grasses and distant rain.
I realise I’ve slowed, and beside me, Triona has stopped as well.
“There it is,” I murmur, the words nearly stolen by the breeze.
She inhales softly. “The pull is strong,” she says, her voice touched with awe. “Just as Dana described…”
The silence between us deepens. Not empty but full—of meaning, of memory, of whatever fate we’re walking into.
At the base of the hill, a solitary stone stands—weatherworn, half-swallowed by the earth, but unmistakably deliberate. It hums, faintly. Not sound, exactly, but sensation. A resonance that vibrates through the soles of my boots, syncing to something buried in my bones.
I reach for Triona’s hand. She doesn’t hesitate. Our fingers intertwine, steadying and sure, as we crest the last gentle rise. And there—hidden until now by slope and shadow—waits the archway.
It isn’t perched atop the hill as I’d imagined. It’s etched into the side, nearly erased by time. Overgrown with moss, heather, and the creeping ivy of centuries, it might’ve remained hidden to anyone not drawn by the quiet summons of whatever slumbers within.
Together, we clear it away. Fingers creep through the damp moss, peeling it back in swaths. The stone beneath is cool and dark, patterned in lines we can barely decipher. When my hand brushes a smooth curve of etched spiral, I flinch—not from pain, but from a sudden pulse that travels up my arm.
A spark—not fire, not pain, but energy. Ancient and alive.
My breath snags. I jerk back slightly, eyes widening. Before I can say a word, I glance at Triona.
She’s already looking at me.
Her hand is still pressed to the stone, and the shimmer in her eyes says she felt it too.
For a moment, we just stare at each other—unspoken bewilderment hanging between us like breath in cold air.
“Did that feel like…” I trail off.
She nods, slow and sure. “Aye. Like it… knew us.”
We continue clearing, more deliberate now. Careful not to damage even a scrap of moss that might be more than it seems. The more we reveal, the clearer it becomes—the archway isn’t just stone. It’s carved in the shape of something familiar.
Braided spirals and knotted loops form its arch. Its lines glint faintly with gold-veined quartz, now catching the early morning sun in fleeting sparks of light.
“A crown,” Triona murmurs, her voice barely audible. “Just as Dana said.”
My throat goes dry.
She’s right.
Not a threshold—an invitation. Not a passage—but a coronation. The mound doesn’t just hold power. The archway shaped not like a door, but like a circlet.
It demands it be claimed—curved and knotted like a crown of woven stone, hidden in plain sight.
Ancient symbols curl along the lintel, etched deep into the stone—knots and spirals that almost writhe if you stare too long.
Triona steps closer, her breath quick. “Dana said we had to time it perfectly,” she says, her voice thin with awe. “When the sun strikes just right.”
The pull to the archway is exactly as Dana described. Not physical, but undeniable .
“And we’ll need to speak the correct words to breathe life into it,” I say aloud, more to myself than to her.
Her green eyes meet mine, and there’s a steadfast determination in her eyes that gives me hope that this day will end in her victory.
We stand shoulder to shoulder before the archway. The hum in the air intensifies—no longer faint, but present, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the earth.
Shapes that were once meaningless to my eyes now shimmer with clarity, forming words not written in any language I was ever taught—but one I somehow know all the same.
They rise in my mind, unbidden. Ancient syllables spoken in the tongue of those who walked long before us. Words meant for me. Me alone.
I know what I must say.
My throat tightens. This is not mere speech—it is invocation.
And before us, the crown glows.
The path shall open thrice each day, A path that once kept me locked away. The first for hope, the second for might, The third to reflect in the fading light. Put to the test for strengths I possessed, The same three you once named in me.
I speak the words aloud, etched across the stone in curling script.
Beside me, Triona huffs out air. “Three times a day?”
I nod, my gaze never leaving the softly pulsing arch. “Hope, might, reflection,” I murmur. “They aren’t just virtues… they’re times of the day. Dawn for hope, zenith for might, and dusk for reflection.”
She studies the ancient markings, brow furrowed. “But who’s it referring to?” she asks. “Who speaks those words? Who passed those tests?”
We fall into silence, combing through every myth and whispered tale we’ve ever heard. The ones recited at hearths. The ones half-remembered in dreams.
Her lips part slightly as something clicks into place.
“Lugh,” she breathes.
I turn toward her, caught off guard by the certainty in her tone .
“The God of the Sun,” she says, eyes wide. “They called him master of all arts. The shining one. The champion who possessed every skill, and had to prove himself worthy of entry into their realm. Dana said the magic would respond to what is old… to what is true .”
And suddenly, it all fits.
The sun. The timing. The trial.
“Aye,” I murmur, the truth settling deep in my chest. “Lugh.”
The archway pulses again—stronger now, as though the hill itself has heard and recognised its maker. The ancient lines shimmer faintly, not in response to force, but to understanding. To memory.
“Could it be—” she hesitates, voice lowering. “Could it be that a god laid this path with their own hands? And why? What purpose would drive such power to sleep?”
I shake my head slowly, not in doubt—but with certainty. “I dinnae ken, but I believe you’re right. This magic… it moves with the sun itself. If it’s as old as they said it is—if it’s as old as it feels —then aye… I’d believe a god built it.”
“Maybe it guards more than power? Maybe it guards what was once sacred,” I say softly, “placed inside—something loved—left waitin’ for the soul who once held it to return.”
A hush settles between us, heavy with thought.
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough…” I mutter. “The second moment draws near.”
Only half an hour passes as the sunlight climbs steadily, warming the air and shrinking the surrounding shadows. As the sunlight reaches its zenith, a glowing inscription emerges below the first one, its letters pulsing faintly, as if alive. Triona gasps as the unfamiliar words appear:
A bond with whom remains unbroken, even by death’s blade?
I read it aloud for her. The air hums with anticipation, the question hanging between us like the stillness before a storm. Triona’s lips part, her voice soft. “A bond with a… soulmate?”
“ Anam Cara ,” I say, surprised still by my ability to speak a language I’ve never learned. Triona repeats the words.
I read the second inscription that appears on the other side of the archway:
To the earth, give sacrifice true, Only together shall the way open for you.
“It wants a word and a physical sacrifice…” Without hesitation at my declaration, she draws a dagger from her belt, its blade glinting faintly in the shifting light.
Her hand trembles slightly as she grips the hilt, but her resolve is clear.
I pull my dagger free as well, and we press the edges to our palms. A sharp sting cuts through the stillness, followed by the warmth of blood pooling in my hand.
Together, we step forward and press our palms to the stone. The mingling of our blood traces faint, glowing paths along the carvings. The hum deepens, a vibration reverberating through the earth itself.
We speak the answer together, our voices steady and sure.
“ Anam Cara .”
The carvings ignite in a cascade of golden light, each glowing with an intensity that makes us shield our eyes.
The light spills across the stones, painting the surrounding grass in hues of amber and gold.
Shadows dance wildly on the hill’s slopes, and Triona’s face is bathed in the glow, her expression caught between awe and determination.
The radiance pulses like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
The ground beneath the arch trembles, and a soft gust of wind rushes past us, carrying the faint scent of something archaic.
The archway shudders, and slowly, impossibly, the stone shifts.
The carvings twist and realign, forming a new pattern, and the once-solid entrance splits down the middle, revealing a dark passage beyond.
A low, resonant hum emanates from the corridor, inviting yet foreboding.
The air inside feels different—thicker, older.
I glance at Triona. She stands frozen, her eyes wide and bright as she stares into the passage. “It worked,” she breathes, her voice barely audible .
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Aye. It did.”
As we approach, warmth radiates from the doorway like a living presence.
The golden light fades into a soft glow that illuminates the first few feet of the corridor.
Beyond it lies only darkness, dense and impenetrable.
The threshold’s glow holds it at bay, a lingering line of magic dividing the day from whatever ancient gloom lies inside.
I look at her— really look at her—as her fingers tighten around mine. “Are you ready?”
She smiles, though it’s faint and forced. “With you? Always.”
Emotions upsurge in my chest—fear, determination, a tremor of anticipation. I think of Callan, waiting behind, determined to guard us from any threat that might strike from the outside. I think of Dana’s words, of the spark she claims I carry. Whatever waits beyond, there’s no turning back now.
We step forward together.
The air shifts immediately, cool and damp, carrying with it the faintest whisper of voices—too soft to make out, but unmistakably there.
Behind us, the stone groans.
Light shrinks to a sliver, then disappears entirely as the entrance seals with a deep, resonant thud. The sound rolls through the ground like the toll of a long-forgotten bell. A low vibration hums beneath our feet, settling into my bones.
Then silence. Thick. Final.
The path ahead is dark, and it belongs to us alone.