34. THIRTY FOUR
THIRTY FOUR
THE JOURNAL
T he sky ominously darkened. Maybe it was my imagination, but the clouds seemed to move faster above the monoliths. With relief, I knew Horous was gone, at least for now. My body trembled as I moved away from the gate.
Fionn plunged the weapon deep into one of the four Gatemen’s necks, then into another, slicing his throat. Both men gave bloodcurdling screams and stumbled to the ground, dark brown blood spurting from their wounds. Muttering a string of curses, the two-remaining moved toward Fionn.
Fionn swung down from the horse, his boots striking the earth with a sharp sound that cut through the energy buzzing in my ears. I didn’t have to look to know what was in his eyes. I could feel it, cold and merciless, like the edge of the blade he held in his hand.
“Run, Tilly!” he shouted, casting me a quick glance before lunging for the men.
“Keep running and don’t stop for any reason! ”
Gasping for breath, I rose to my feet on trembling legs and stumbled away. By now, an eerie mist rose from the sea and drifted across the land, enshrouding the abbey in a spectral veil.
***
I looked back for a split second, catching the way Fionn stood against the Gatemen.
He looked like a fallen God in the way he brutally attacked, he was lethal, swinging his sword withterrifyingprecision.
But I didn't let the heroism fool me. I knew he wasn’t fighting to save me; he was fighting to make sure the prophecy was completed.
To him, I wasn't a person to be rescued. I was amarkedsoul he refused to lose to a rival.
Suddenly,amysterious figure emerged from seemingly nowhere, his billowing cloak obscuring his face.
I made a wide detour, determined not to risk capture again.
My heart pumped hard against my ribs. I had survived a celestial ritual and being sacrificed to theGate; I wasn’t about to let a ghost in a cloak be the end of me.
He held out his hands and motionedforme to stop.
Terrified by the gnarled hands that reached toward me, I dodged the cloaked figure even as his fingers brushed againstmy skin.
The bitter taste of fear rose in my throat.
Feeling the adrenaline course like fire through my veins, I bolted toward the vortex, the biting chill of the windscouringmy face and fanning my hair like a tangled veil.
I didn’t dare look back, too afraid to see what might be following me, or what might have happened to Fionn. Through the eerily whistling wind, I heard the fleeting clink ofsteeland a distant cry .
Beyond the craggy edge of the cliff, the thundering surf crashed against the rocks with a relentless boom and hiss.
I made my way toward the shoreline trail, almost twisting my ankle on the rocks littering the path.
The only reason I was able to run at all was because Fionn had somehow found me and come to my rescue.
But the Gatemen were ruthless monsters with the strength of demons.
What would happen if they killed Fionn? What would happen to me then?
Where was I running to? All that I could see was the vortex.
As I wound my way toward the shore, the cloaked figure appeared again from the mist shrouding the sea and walked toward me.
I skidded to a stop and glanced over my shoulder.
I had only just fled from him, but here he stood yet again, strolling through the sand as if he could vanish in and out of thin air.
The wind billowed through his cloak, this time revealing the face of a monk so weathered by time and the elements that it was impossible to determine his age.
He extended his hands. The same hands I had barely escaped moments ago.
Gasping for breath, I desperately scanned the bleak terrain.
There were no roads, no buildings, nothing but desolate, wind-scoured moors and the stormy ocean.
“Don't be afraid, Miss Rose,” the monk called out with an accent I couldn’t identify. “You must believe me. I wish you no harm.”
I stared at him, prepared to run if he came any closer. But he remained where he was, his feet planted in the sand. I didn’t know who I could believe or trust. For all I knew, this was another ploy to capture me and hand me to the Gatemen.
I looked back towards the Gate, wondering if he had come through it or if he belonged to this world already. Or maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me.
“Who are you? I demanded .
“Miss Rose, you don’t know me, nor would you know my kind. But I know the truth of your mark.”
I stepped back warily. “What do you know about me?”
“I am a keeper of visions,” he said, his words sounding unbelievable. He stared almost entranced at me.
“My Order came to this world long before your histories began. We were taught to watch for certain signs and bloodlines.” His gaze drifted to my forehead, then to the scars on my arms.
“Yours is one of them.”
A cold ripple moved through me.
“Your mark is not a symbol of power,” he continued softly, “but of inheritance. A fragment of magical energy that once existed in full—a force tied to the constellations themselves. Most would never sense it. Most would never recognise it. But those who guard the old knowledge… we see it, we know it exists.”
My pulse hammered.
“Why me?”
“Because a piece of what was lost survives in you,” he said. “A thread of star-born energy woven into your blood. It is faint, but real. And the world has begun to feel its stirring.”
“Why?” The wind shifted, cold and sharp against my skin.
“We are here because that fragment has awakened,” he said. “And when it awakens, balance shifts.”
I swallowed hard, unsure whether to run or listen.
“Miss Rose… the time for visions and stories has passed,” the monk said quietly. “What matters now is the truth of your mark.”
Time seemed to stand still as his words resonated in my mind. I could only wonder how much of it was true.
“I was instructed to wait here at this time,” the monk continued. “My task is simple, to give you what was meant for you. Nothing more. ”
I said nothing as he reached into his robe and retrieved a rolled-up document tied with a leather string. He held it reverently and gazed at me with earnest dark eyes.
“I’ve heard too many stories, most designed to mislead or confuse me. I've no reason to believe you.”
The monk watched me.
“ I’m not here to convince you,” he said. “I’m merely an instrument, sent to deliver what has been guarded for generations. This parchment was never meant for anyone else.”
“Another tale, another story.” I muttered, stepping away. “Another attempt to tell me who I’m supposed to be.”
“Not who you are supposed to be,” he corrected softly. “What you already are.”
A chill rippled through me.
“Why now?”
The monk’s gaze drifted to my forehead, then to the scars on my arms. “Because your mark has begun to stir. And when it stirs, it calls to the factions who know how to listen.
My pulse hammered.
“Your blood carries a fragment of a power that was lost long before your world named it,” he said. “An energy that's in your blood and tied to the constellations themselves. It’s faint… but it’s awakened the gate.”
I swallowed hard. “You say you can help me.”
“ My words are neither tales nor stories born of Gods or curses,” he replied. “We seek only to restore what was broken. And your mark—your blood is part of that restoration.”
“What is the journal?
“I know only that the ancient writings belong to you,” the monk said.
“They contain guidance and understanding of what sleeps in your blood. ”
Shivering in the wind, exhausted from fear, I realised I had no choice but to listen.
“I understand that you’re afraid,” he said. “But my duty ends here. I was told only to find you and to place this in your hands.”
He extended the scroll to me, the leather string flapping in the wind.
“Take it, Miss Rose. And leave this place. Your mark has awakened and others will feel it soon.”
I hesitated, afraid to approach yet unable to deny the truth in his voice.
Seeing my doubt, the monk tossed the scroll onto the sand. For a moment, I glimpsed something ancient in his eyes. Not a spirit or a prophecy, it was recognition.
Thunder bellowed overhead. The monk gazed at the sky, bowed, and stepped back.
“I must go. My duty is done.”
He turned and walked down the beach, his cloak billowing around him. Glancing around to ensure the Gatemen were nowhere behind me, I scrambled toward the journal and snatched it from the sand. As I touched the faded, brittle parchment, the monk’s final words drifted on the wind.
“Remember this… Ancient magic shadows you. What sleeps in your blood will wake. The essence of the stars is locked within you.”