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My legs propel me toward the waiting stallion before I even realise I’ve moved.
Shadow paws at the ground, restless. I vault into the saddle in one motion. Behind me, the others shout, but their voices drown beneath the thunder of my pulse.
“Where the hell are ye goin’?” Callan’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp with alarm, but I don’t stop, almost forgetting to answer entirely. I kick hard, urging Shadow forward. The reins bite into my grip as I finally twist in the saddle, shouting over my shoulder, my voice raw and fierce.
“She’s in trouble!”
In a heartbeat, they all spring into action, mounting their horses with practiced ease.
The air grows colder as I race deeper into the woods. The trees seem to close in around me, their shadows stretching long and ominous. I clench my jaw, my grip on the reins so tight my knuckles burn. Every pounding hoofbeat is a second slipping away—another moment lost when I should already be there.
I lean forward, urging Shadow faster, every fibre of my being pulling toward hers. The whisper of her voice lingers in my mind—fragile, desperate, fueling the urgency clawing at my chest.
Hold on, Triona. I swear to the gods—I’m coming.
The wind picks up, sharp and stinging, shoving me forward as if mocking my urgency. In its gusts, I swear I hear her voice—faint, distant, threading through the trees like a phantom whisper.
Shadow’s muscles bunch beneath me as they veer around a narrow bend, the forest looming taller, thicker. My mind races, every dreadful possibility assaulting me. Every instinct in me screams to reach her, protect her, to bridge the distance between us with sheer willpower if I have to.
Behind me, Callan’s caught up, and shouts something—maybe a command, maybe a warning. I barely register it. The echo of her voice—whether real or imagined—drowns out everything else.
It grips me, relentless. And with it, the chilling thought that whatever awaits us at the end of this reckless race won’t just change everything—it will tear our lives apart.
Another voice—James this time—cuts through the chaos. Desperate. Sharper than I’ve ever heard from him. It tugs at the edge of my focus, but I don’t slow. I don’t give them the chance to stop me.
I drive Shadow harder until their voices are only ghosts in the wind. The world becomes a blur—trees flashing past like streaks of shadow—and all I can hear is the call that started it all.
She called for me. And I know, with a conviction that pulses in my bones, I won’t stop until I’m the one who finds her.
Triona
I’ve tried for over an hour to lose myself in Rob Roy by Sir Walter Scott, but it’s of no use. Paragraphs blur together, the words slipping away before they can take hold. I take a sip of the tea beside me—stronger than I’m used to, its sharp taste lingering on my tongue. Rather than grounding me, it only heightens the restless energy already thrumming beneath my skin.
Outside, the day mirrors my inner unrest. A heavy canopy of ashen clouds dims the day, shrouding the world in quiet desolation. Wisps of fog curl around the rolling hills, transforming the landscape into something mythical yet haunting. The wind has deserted the day, leaving a stagnant silence that deepens my sense of unrest, and amplifies the stillness that echoes my thoughts.
Just as I rise to retreat to my bedchamber, a speck of brown adorned with cream-yellow spots catches my eye. It lands on the bay-window windowsill, and the very movement stirs a long-buried memory.
I’m surrounded by a sunlit glen, where a variety of wildflowers bloom in patches of colourful beauty. The air is crisp, filled with the distant sound of a babbling brook.
I’m kneeling in the grass making a flower crown when a butterfly lands on a flower just out of reach. “Look, Da!”
He walks over slowly; the butterfly remains unperturbed by his movements. “It’s lovely, aye, but ye ken the stories, don’t ye? They say speckled wood butterflies can carry messages from the other side.”
“What kinds of messages?”
“They’re seen as symbols of transformation, and can signify positive change to come, but sometimes… sometimes they come with warnin’s. It’s not always good news.”
I look up at him. “What about this one? D’ye think it brings good news or bad news?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It could bring either. When one flutters near, it might be a reminder to pay attention. To be cautious.”
“But what if it’s just a butterfly?”
“In our world, even the simplest things can hold weight. Everything has its own purpose. It’s about knowing where to look and what to feel.”
My father retreats, but I stay to watch the butterfly dance from flower to flower. I feel an irresistible pull to follow it. I stand, mesmerised, my worries fading away like the soft whispers of the wind. Each flutter of its delicate wings draws me deeper into the glen, and soon I’m laughing, chasing it through a riot of wildflowers that sway in the breeze.
With every step, the world around me fades into a blur of colour and light, the joy of the chase lifting my spirits. But then, a sudden stillness creeps in, and I paused, realising something is off.
