Page 192 of The Violet Raven

Something tightens in my chest at the sight—a stirring both timeworn and strangely personal. It’s as though the hill is calling forth memories I can’t quite name. The wind sweeping across the hilltop grazes my cheeks with a cool touch, smelling of sun-warmed grasses and distant rain. I realise I’ve slowed, and beside me, Triona has stopped as well.

“There it is,” I murmur, the words nearly stolen by the breeze.

She inhales softly. “The pull is strong,” she says, her voice touched with awe. “Just as Dana described…”

The silence between us deepens. Not empty but full—of meaning, of memory, of whatever fate we’re walking into.

At the base of the hill, a solitary stone stands—weatherworn, half-swallowed by the earth, but unmistakably deliberate. It hums, faintly. Not sound, exactly, but sensation. A resonance that vibrates through the soles of my boots, syncing to something buried in my bones.

I reach for Triona’s hand. She doesn’t hesitate. Our fingers intertwine, steadying and sure, as we crest the last gentle rise. And there—hidden until now by slope and shadow—waits the archway.

It isn’t perched atop the hill as I’d imagined. It’s etched into the side, nearly erased by time. Overgrown with moss, heather, and the creeping ivy of centuries, it might’ve remained hidden to anyone not drawn by the quiet summons of whatever slumbers within.

Together, we clear it away. Fingers creep through the damp moss, peeling it back in swaths. The stone beneath is cool and dark, patterned in lines we can barely decipher. When my hand brushes a smooth curve of etched spiral, I flinch—not from pain, but from a sudden pulse that travels up my arm.

A spark—not fire, not pain, but energy. Ancient and alive.

My breath snags. I jerk back slightly, eyes widening. Before I can say a word, I glance at Triona.

She’s already looking at me.

Her hand is still pressed to the stone, and the shimmer in her eyes says she felt it too.

For a moment, we just stare at each other—unspoken bewilderment hanging between us like breath in cold air.

“Did that feel like…” I trail off.

She nods, slow and sure. “Aye. Like it… knew us.”

We continue clearing, more deliberate now. Careful not to damage even a scrap of moss that might be more than it seems. The more we reveal, the clearer it becomes—the archway isn’t just stone. It’s carved in the shape of something familiar.

Braided spirals and knotted loops form its arch. Its lines glint faintly with gold-veined quartz, now catching the early morning sun in fleeting sparks of light.

“A crown,” Triona murmurs, her voice barely audible. “Just as Dana said.”

My throat goes dry.

She’s right.

Not a threshold—an invitation. Not a passage—but a coronation. The mound doesn’t just hold power. The archway shaped not like a door, but like a circlet.

It demands it be claimed—curved and knotted like a crown of woven stone, hidden in plain sight.

Ancient symbols curl along the lintel, etched deep into the stone—knots and spirals that almost writhe if you stare too long.

Triona steps closer, her breath quick. “Dana said we had to time it perfectly,” she says, her voice thin with awe. “When the sun strikes just right.”

The pull to the archway is exactly as Dana described. Not physical, but undeniable.

“And we’ll need to speak the correct words to breathe life into it,” I say aloud, more to myself than to her.

Her green eyes meet mine, and there’s a steadfast determination in her eyes that gives me hope that this day will end in her victory.

We stand shoulder to shoulder before the archway. The hum in the air intensifies—no longer faint, but present, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the earth.

Shapes that were once meaningless to my eyes now shimmer with clarity, forming words not written in any language I was ever taught—but one I somehow know all the same. They rise in my mind, unbidden. Ancient syllables spoken in the tongue of those who walked long before us. Words meant for me. Me alone.

I know what I must say.