Page 39 of Beckett's Fate

Beck’s brow furrowed as he listened, his wolf making sympathetic noises at the undercurrent of pain in her voice.

“They spent months in these mountains,” Irene continued, her gaze distant. “Hunting for clues, following leads that most people thought were just myths. And they found something. Something big. But whatever it was, it cost them everything. Only Isaiah made it back. The others—” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. “They never returned.”

“What happened to Isaiah?” Beck asked, his voice gentler now.

Irene shook her head. “No one really knows. He came back to town, raving about what he’d found, but before anyone could get the full story, he disappeared too. Some people thought he went back for the treasure. Others said he was silenced—by someone who didn’t want the truth to come out.”

“You believe this treasure is real?” Beck asked, his sharp gaze studying her face.

“Absolutely,” she said. “Because I have his journal. It’s fragmented, damaged by time, but the entries I’ve been able to decipher point to something. And if there’s even a chance it’s still out there, I have to find it.”

Beck exhaled slowly, his mind racing. He’d heard plenty of stories about the treasure over the years, but this was the first time he’d encountered someone with a direct connection to its history.

“Let me see the journal,” he said.

Irene hesitated, her fingers brushing against the strap of her pack. “Not yet,” she said finally. “It’s... fragile. And honestly, I’m not sure it would make much sense to anyone but me.”

“Fair enough,” Beck said, though his curiosity burned brighter. “But if this journal is as important as you say, the hunters must know about it, too.”

“They do,” Irene admitted, her voice tight. “At least, I think they do. It’s why they’re after me. They think I have answers they don’t. And the truth is... I might.”

Beck’s protective instincts roared to the surface. “Then we need to move carefully. If they’re looking for you, they won’t stop until they’ve either caught you or gotten what they want.”

“Which is why we need to stay ahead of them,” Irene said. “I’m not going to let them take this from me, Beck. I can’t.”

Beck stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. “I’m not going to let them take anything from you,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “Not while I’m here.”

Before he could say more, he heard a faint sound—a distant rustling, too deliberate to be the wind. His gaze snapped to the tree line, his body tensing.

“We’re not alone,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Irene stiffened, her hand moving to the hilt of her knife as she followed his gaze. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the stillness almost oppressive.

Beck motioned for her to stay close, his senses on high alert as he scanned the shadows. The hunters were near—he could feel it. And if they were smart, they were watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.

“Stay with me,” Beck said, his voice a quiet command. “And don’t let your guard down.”

Irene nodded, her jaw set as she gripped her knife tightly. Together, they moved deeper into the forest, but even as they pressed on, Beck couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched—and that the danger was closer than either of them realized.

14

BECK

The narrow, almost overgrown trail twisted through the dense forest, the faint outline of what had once been a well-worn path now barely visible beneath layers of fallen leaves and tangled underbrush. Beck crouched down, brushing his fingers against the faint impressions in the dirt—a sign that this path had seen traffic recently, even if not by hikers.

“This is it,” Irene said quietly, her voice steady despite the rigidity in her shoulders. She glanced at Beck. “The journal mentioned a hidden trail leading to another set of markings. If we’re right, they should be just ahead.”

Beck nodded, his gaze sweeping the surrounding trees. “Let’s move, but carefully. If we found this, there’s a chance the hunters did too.”

Irene didn’t argue, her silence speaking volumes as she adjusted the strap of her pack and followed his lead. Her steps were light, deliberate, but Beck couldn’t miss that she was on edge, and he didn’t blame her. The deeper they went, the quieter the wilderness became, the usual chorus of birds and insects replaced by an eerie stillness. Beck’s wolf stirred restlessly inthe back of his mind, its instincts prickling at the sense of being watched.

“I don’t like this,” Beck murmured, his voice low as he glanced back at Irene. “Stay close.”

“Wasn’t planning on wandering off,” she replied, sarcastically. But the way she moved a step closer to him told him she felt it, too—the unseen eyes, the creeping threat that seemed to follow them.

The trail led them to a small clearing, the sunlight that filtered through the canopy above casting dappled patterns on the ground. At the center of the clearing stood a jagged rock formation, its surface marked with faint carvings that were almost lost to time. Irene dropped to her knees beside the formation, her fingers tracing the faint symbols etched into the stone. She reached into her pack, pulling out the small, worn, leather journal. Opening it, her eyes scanned the pages as she skimmed through them. Finally, she looked from the page to the rock and back again. Her expression lit up with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

“This is it,” she said softly, her voice reverent. “The markings match the journal. This confirms it.”

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