Chapter 2 The Climb

There's a moment, right before you commit to something irreversible, where time seems to slow. Your instincts whisper warnings, your muscles tense, and your breath stalls in your chest. I felt that moment as we stared up at the Silent Ridge.

The trail wasn't welcoming. It wasn't even clear. The path wound through loose rock and spindly pines that bent as though trying to turn back. We packed up camp in silence that morning. No birdsong, no rustling leaves. Just the crunch of boots and the metallic click of gear.

"I've hiked Afghanistan. I've hiked the Andes. Never felt anything like this," Derek muttered beside me. He wasn't scared. But he wasn't comfortable either.

Will had stopped taking photos. That said enough.

The climb started steep and only got worse. We zigzagged through narrow switchbacks, loose shale threatening to give underfoot. Derek led the way, carving a cautious path. Samir checked the terrain obsessively, pausing now and then to examine odd rock formations-smooth, almost melted, like they'd been shaped by something unnatural.

Hours passed without a single sound-not even our own breathing seemed to echo.

And then, halfway up, I felt it.

A vibration in the air. Faint. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat just under the earth.

"Do you feel that?" I asked.

Derek paused and looked down at the ground. "Yeah. Not good."

Samir pressed his palm to a rock face. "Could be geothermal... but it's too steady. Almost mechanical."

Will's drone hovered briefly, then spun and crashed into the ground without warning.

"No signal," he said, staring at the wreckage. "Not even interference. It's like the tech just... gave up."

We kept going.

At the summit, the sky shifted. What had been overcast all day suddenly turned gold with a strange amber hue, like the sun had changed color. We crested the ridge-and stopped.

Before us lay the valley.

It was real.

Massive stone pillars rose from a forest floor of brilliant green. A lake shimmered at the center, glowing faintly as if lit from within. Shapes-structures, maybe buildings-peeked through the trees, covered in moss and time.

And then I saw it: carved into a flat stone facing the ridge, nearly thirty feet across, were the same markings from my grandfather's map. Spirals. Runes. A compass etched in deep red stone, pointing not north, but deeper into the valley.

"It's like we crossed into another world," Samir whispered.

But I was focused on something else.

At the edge of the clearing stood a stone slab, weathered but intact.

Scratched into its surface, barely visible, were three letters:

C.E.G.

1947.

My grandfather had been here.

He wasn't chasing legends. He found them.

We made camp just past the ridge, too overwhelmed to speak. That night, I didn't sleep. I stood on the edge of the cliff and looked down at the impossible valley.

Whatever we had started... we couldn't go back.

And for the first time, I wasn't sure I wanted to.