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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.