The path to the ridge was overgrown, just enough to make Eliza wonder when it had last been walked. Sunlight slanted through the trees, dappled gold and amber on mossy ground. The trail curved like an invitation—or a dare—toward the heart of the mountain.
She moved carefully, booted feet silent on the pine-needled earth. Somewhere above her, a hawk cried once, sharp and distant. She didn't know what she was looking for. Maybe it wasn't something you could find by looking.
Maybe you had to listen.
The forest was thick, fragrant with sap and damp bark, alive with the quiet breath of the wild. Her grandmother's journals had spoken of a stone outcropping on the north face, a place where, in certain light, the mountain shimmered like it had a soul. The Heartstone, she'd called it.
Eliza hadn't come looking for it. But that's where she ended up.
The clearing opened suddenly, like a secret given up by the trees. The air felt charged here—brighter, somehow. Like a thin veil separated this place from the rest of the world.
The Heartstone was exactly as described—smooth, wide, and silver-gray, its surface veined with quartz that caught the light and scattered it. She stepped forward slowly, her hand brushing the stone. Warm, despite the chill.
A breeze stirred behind her.
"You shouldn't be here alone."
The voice came from the edge of the clearing, deep and low, edged with caution rather than threat.
Eliza turned quickly. A man stepped from the trees. Broad-shouldered, mid-thirties maybe, with sun-dark hair tucked under a worn cap. His eyes were a stormy shade of green, piercing and quiet. The kind that saw more than they said.
"I wasn't aware the mountain was off-limits." She kept her voice even, not defensive.
"It's not." He stepped closer, glancing at the stone, then at her. "But this part of it… has its own rules."
"And you enforce them?"
A brief smile. "Not enforce. Just… watch."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're the mountain's keeper?"
"Something like that."
He extended a hand. "Beck Wilder."
"Eliza Callahan."
His expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. Recognition. Maybe even wariness.
"You're Maeve Callahan's granddaughter."
"I am."
"She was…" he hesitated. "Respected. Some would say feared. She had a way of hearing things others didn't."
"She said the mountain speaks," Eliza said quietly.
"She said a lot of things. Some of them were true."
Beck's gaze held hers for a long moment, unreadable. Then he looked away, toward the peak above them.
"She used to come here often. To this spot. Said it was where the mountain showed its heart."
Eliza stepped back from the stone, suddenly self-conscious. "I didn't mean to intrude. I just… I'm trying to understand why she left everything to me. Why now."
"You'll find out," Beck said, but his voice held no comfort. Just certainty. "The mountain tells its story in pieces. If it's talking to you, it'll keep doing it. Whether you're ready or not."
He turned to go, then paused. "There's a storm coming tomorrow. Don't be out on the ridge after dark."
And then he disappeared into the trees as suddenly as he'd arrived.
Eliza stood in the clearing long after he'd gone, the light shifting around her, the wind curling softly through the leaves.
The mountain was watching.
And it was waiting.