37. Final Toll
Final Toll
Finn
T he atmosphere within the mound consumes me.
As I cross the threshold, silence folds inward, cool and dense, pressing against my senses until I feel hollowed out by it.
The moment I step inside, something takes hold—a surge of sensation that crashes like a wave.
My vision dips, then swells. For the briefest flicker, I see not my own hands, but someone else’s: broader, sun-browned, brushing along these same walls centuries ago.
Voices echo along the edges of my hearing, indistinct but beckoning. The air pricks across my skin like static. Beside me, Triona stiffens. I feel her fingers tighten around mine. Neither of us speaks.
The corridor before us breathes with age. Stalactites descend from the ceiling, glistening with collected moisture, surfaces adorned with veins of luminescent quartz and streaks of pale malachite. Water drips in measured intervals, pooling in shallow basins carved into the stone floor .
Swirling patterns etched into the stone seem to shift when I look too long, curling like smoke. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and somewhere beyond the stone, I feel—not a presence, but a memory. Not mine. Not fully.
Triona inhales sharply. I squeeze her hand.
We move together, our steps soft and steady.
The air thickens as we descend. The carvings glow faintly, pulsing in rhythm with something I cannot name.
Blue, then green, then gold—like sunlight bleeding through water.
The deeper we go, the more the energy folds in, like a tide pressing from all sides.
A whisper rises.
Not heard.
Felt.
My name—not Finn , but something older.
The corridor arcs downward. Moisture clings to the walls, and faint chanting slithers through the stone, voices overlapping. The further we walk, the more the map shifts in my hand. Lines glisten, moving like veins, guiding us forward as if remembering the path rather than revealing it.
As we round a bend, a draft rises from the depths of the mound, invading my senses with the scent of damp earth and ancient stone. My pulse speeds up as realisation dawns—we are no longer bound by mortal constraints.
We are being watched. Not by eyes, but by the very shape of the place.
I press forward, one hand clutching the map and the other never letting go of Triona’s. She trembles beside me, her breaths uneven and shallow.
“Finn… if I fail—”
“There’s not a chance that happens,” I answer, my voice firm, leaving no room for doubt.
I release her hand only briefly, turning to face her fully.
My fingers trail to her cheek, warm against the coolness of the chamber, compelling her gaze to mine.
My voice lowers, calm and unwavering. “Ye’re not alone in this, Triona. ”
For a moment, she surrenders to the reassurance, leaning into my touch. Then, summoning the remnants of her courage, she surges onward. A ripple distorts the air before her, the walls themselves responding to her movement. A low-frequency hum reverberates, its resonance settling deep within me.
The temperature plunges as we advance, the impact of each step reverberating against the damp stone floor.
Faint rivulets of water trickle along the walls, catching the residual light of the carvings that have thus far guided us.
Unease coils within me, an instinctual warning gnawing at my resolve.
The path beckons, yet it does so with the promise of something neither seen nor understood.
“It’s too quiet,” Triona whispers, her voice a fragile thread against the silence.
My breath stalls as we step around a slight bend—an entrance framed by two imposing stone pillars, their jagged curvature reminiscent of gaping fangs.
“Stay close,” I murmur, my voice tempered and firm. Triona doesn’t need to be told twice; her fingers tighten around mine, and we step into the consuming shadows together.
The walls press in, the passage narrowing until it barely accommodates two bodies abreast. Overhead, the ceiling vanishes into darkness, and the omnipresent hum of magic mutates into a deep, rhythmic resonance. It mimics a heartbeat—steady, ancient, immutable.
As we venture deeper, each corner reveals more of the same endless stone.
The map’s glowing lines guide us still, shifting subtly, as though adapting to the labyrinth.
A prickle of unease runs down my spine as I notice the carvings have ceased.
The once-etched walls are now smooth, featureless, their absence unsettling in its stark finality.
“Finn,” Triona breathes, her voice laced with apprehension.
I follow her line of sight—and freeze. The passage ends into a vast circular chamber, its walls lined with jagged stone spires.
The entire space looks untouched by time, as though it has been sealed away from the world since its creation.
The air is thick with an omnipresent sentience that feels woven into the very fabric of the stone.
There is only one way forward—through this chamber. Our only way out.
At the centre, atop a raised dais, a singular coffin dominates the space. It’s hewn from black obsidian, the surface etched with grooves that glisten faintly in the dim light. An aura of condensed energy surrounds it, permeating the air with an unspoken warning.
To its right stands a solitary stone pillar, taller than me, its surface smooth except for a single jagged inscription that twists down its length. My eyes catch the words.
Recognition slams into me, unbidden.
These words—I have seen them before. Not in the waking world, but in the vision that has haunted me since the moment Mannie placed it into my mind.
The significance is now irrefutable.
My throat tightens as I step toward the monolithic pillar, its very presence exuding an almost otherworldly pull .
Resting atop is an artifact unlike any other—a sphere of flawless peridot, its luminescent core pulsing in synchrony with the chamber’s resonance. The gentle oscillation of light refracts across the walls, a silent beacon embedded within the sanctum.
I have seen this.
I have walked this.
But not as myself. In dreams, in visions, always as someone else—someone who carved these lines—laid that stone to rest. A figure draped in sunlight, grief trailing behind like a shadow.
Triona steps forward, her gaze flashing between me and the weathered stone.
“What does it say?” she asks, her voice edged with anticipation.
“A great power lies within,” I answer, keeping my voice steady as I pull a linen from my bag. “Something ancient… and waiting reclamation.” Another lie rolling off my tongue with ease.
“What is this place?” Triona whispers, her voice trembling, steeped in awe. Her gaze flits between the coffin and the glowing artifact. “It doesn’t feel real,” she adds, her words hushed, as though afraid to disturb the sanctity of the room.
“It is real,” I affirm. The low hum beneath our feet deepens, resonating within our bones. “And aware .”
She takes a hesitant step forward, eyes locked on the black coffin at the centre of the dais. Her voice wavers. “Do you think…”
I turn to her fully, meeting her gaze without flinching. “We both know what this place is… and what’s likely restin’ in that coffin.”
My fingers hesitate as I reach for the peridot sphere. Carefully, I enshroud it in the linen, veiling its radiance. I wait, expecting something to happen—a shift in the chamber, a surge of power, anything—but only the steady hum continues, vibrating faintly through the air.
I ensure the artifact is securely wrapped, its glow now imperceptible.
Turning to Triona, I hand it to her with a resolute expression.
“You need to keep it bundled until you get to Uisneach Hill…. Standing precisely where it tells you.” I say, my voice firm.
She nods, clutching it close. The chamber seems to breathe around us, watching silently as we prepare to leave.
The air shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. My pulse quickens as an unseen presence brushes against my senses, like a shadow stirring in the dark .
And then, a figure steps into the chamber from within the shadowy depths of the cave. The dim, shifting light catches on the green hue of his hair. His features are sharp as carved glass, angular and ageless.
“The concern with breaking a seal,” he says, his voice smooth and venomous, “is that one must mend what is sullied. Otherwise you... well, I suppose I need not speak of consequences to you, being as apparent as they are.”
His attire is as peculiar as his presence—intricate gold trim lines his cloak, its flowing layers resembling something torn from the pages of a centuries-old legend.
The fabric bears arcane patterns and gilded accents, their craftsmanship hinting at power long forgotten.
A gold-belted sash cinches his waist, and ornate bracers clink faintly as his arms cross.
The malevolent curve of his lips and piercing green eyes burn with a cold intensity, promising no mercy.
His echoing steps create an aura of silent menace, as though the very air around him bends to his will.
He says nothing, waiting silently. I instinctively move in front of Triona, hands reaching to my sides as I pull both daggers free in one fluid motion.
I grip them tightly, squaring my stance, ready for whatever comes next.
“Keep yer eyes off her,” I growl, daring him to challenge me. The smirk on his face widens, but he does not shift his gaze.
“Who are ye?” I demand, my tone even despite the storm building in my chest.
An unsettling smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He remains silent, watching us with the patient menace of a predator savouring the moment before the pounce.