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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.

37

Final Toll

Finn

The 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.