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The Stone of Fál pulses faintly in his pack, its light piercing the corner of my vision. I hate it. And yet, I can’t seem to stop staring at it, as though it holds the answers to questions I’m too afraid to ask.

The first day passes in a haze. I remember very little beyond the sound of our footsteps and the icy wind biting at my cheeks. Callan doesn’t push me to talk, and I’m grateful for it. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed into the walls of that cursed cottage.

By the time we stop for the night, my legs ache, and my chest feels like it’s caving in. Callan builds a fire, the flames flickering weakly against the encroaching darkness. I sit on the opposite side, staring into the embers until my eyes burn. When I finally close them, all I see is Finn’s face.

His bright smile, and his golden-brown eyes.

If I let myself think of him only in the quiet of night, as my body descends into slumber, maybe I can have him in my dreams every night.

Maybe then I won’t ever forget the way he looked at me—as if I was the centre of his entire being.

The second day is worse. Rain starts early, soaking us through and turning the dirt paths into rivers of mud. My cloak clings to me, heavy and uncomfortable, but I can’t bring myself to complain. What’s the point? Callan slows his pace to match mine, though I can tell he wants to move faster. The air between us is thick, and it feels as if he’s waiting for me to break.

I don’t. I can’t.

By midday, the rain finally lets up. We find a stream to refill our waterskins, and light a fire to dry our clothes, best we can.

I kneel at the water’s edge, my fingers trembling as I scoop the icy water into my hands. It’s cold enough to sting, but I let it drip over my face, hoping it will wash away the numbness clinging to me like a second skin. It doesn’t.

“We’re getting closer,” I mumble. “I can feel the same pull I felt before.”

“I follow yer lead,” he says. His words are quiet but firm, as if they’re meant to anchor me. “I’m here. Every step of the way.”

I want to tell him to stop, to leave me in my misery and let me crumble. But some small, stubborn part of me—the part Finn loved—won’t let me. So I nod, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

My body is heavy with exhaustion, but it’s nothing compared to the weight on my chest. Every time I think I can’t take another step, I hear Finn’s voice in the back of my mind, urging me on. Keep going, Triona. Don’t stop now.

By the third day, I feel like a spectre, drifting through the world without truly belonging to it. The land shifts around us—the hills rising steeper, the air turning sharp with cold. The paths grow rougher, winding through jagged outcrops and narrow valleys, each step heavier than the last.

As the sun dips low on the horizon, Uisneach Hill emerges—a faint shadow against the fiery sky. A breath stutters in my chest, and for a moment, something stirs deep inside me. Not hope. Not yet. But something close to it.

“Almost there?” Callan asks.

I glance at him, his face tired but resolute, and nod. “Almost.”

The final climb is brutal. The wind howls around us, tearing at my cloak and stinging my skin. I can feel The Stone’s pulse quickening as we near the summit. It feels alive, its energy humming in my chest, mingling with my grief in a way that makes me want to scream. But I press on, one step at a time, until we reach the top.

The view alone is enough to quiet some of the unrest in me. It’s a wild, vast, and untamed sort of beauty.

Land stretches out in every direction, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. The Stone is nearly blinding now. Even tucked away in Callan’s pack, its brilliance slices through the cold air like a blade of firelight, defiant against the dusk.

I stand there, staring out at the horizon. Callan steps beside me and gently takes my arm, turning me around with quiet purpose.

“There,” he murmurs, nodding toward a patch of grass just beyond the crest of the hill.

I follow his gaze—and see them.

Callan’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “The hill became a place of reverence,” he says, reciting the words as if they were etched into him, “where violets bloomed year-round as a reminder of her sacrifice and endurin’ protection.”

The line hits hard—one we heard our mother recite, over and over, until it was part of us.

I glance at Callan—and see his eyes shine with the same unshed tears burning in mine. “That story—all this time. She told it like a legend, like a bedtime tale, and we never realised…”

I stare fondly at the spot and grin for the first time in what feels like weeks. “If Ma were here… if she could see this… she’d be in absolute awe.” He just nods, jaw tight, tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes.

I take a step forward, the ground firm beneath my boots—but it feels like stepping into another world. The hum of The Stone grows louder, resonating through my chest.

Finn’s voice echoes in my mind, as clear as if he were standing beside me: “…keep it bundled until you get to Uisneach Hill… Standing precisely where it tells you.”