Page 11 of Bear Love's Hidden Destiny
“Yeah,” I said, kneeling beside her, my hand resting on the blanket. “But we need to talk. You said a name in your sleep. Eldrin. Mean anything to you?”
Her eyes widened, her hand reaching for the journal beside her. “I heard it in a dream,” she said, flipping through the pages, her fingers pausing on the Veilborn symbol. “A voice, not mean or anything, just… familiar. Like family. It wasn’t clear, like it was speaking in pieces, pulling me toward something buried. I think it’s tied to the archive my grandfather wrote about.”
I nodded, sitting next to her, the fire’s warmth barely cutting through the chill in my bones. “The forest is reaching for you, Isabella. Those sigils outside, they’re Veilborn marks, only activated by your bloodline. It means part of Esoterra still recognizes your family’s power. There’s something waiting for you, not a trap, but a legacy.”
She looked at me, her eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to her. “Legacy? Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my hand resting on her knee. “But if the forest is calling you, it’s because you’re meant to find it. We need to get to the Root Archives, under the oldest tree in Esoterra. Your grandfather’s research is probably there.”
She nodded, closing the journal with a soft thud. “Then let’s go. Now.”
“Before sunrise,” I said, standing and offering her my hand. “It’s a long walk.”
We packed quickly, grabbing our gear, dousing the fire, and stepping out into the fog. The sigils in the dirt glowed faintly, their light guiding us as we left the hollow. The forest was alive, the air thick with the scent of pine and magic, the trees leaning closer as we moved deeper into Esoterra. I kept Isabella close, my senses sharp, the forest’s new energy humming under my skin. The trail was narrow, twisting through ancient trees, their bark rough and gnarled, their branches heavy with moss that swayed in the faint breeze. Every step felt heavier, like the land was testing us, watching her. I glanced at Isabella, her flashlight beam cutting through the fog, her face set with determination.
“The Root Archives,” I said, breaking the silence as we ducked under a low branch, “it’s a sanctuary, used to be only for Veilborn. When the bloodlines faded, it was sealed, locked with a language only their kin could speak. If your magic’s waking up, the path should open for you.”
“Magic?” she said, glancing at me, her backpack bouncing as we climbed a steep incline. “You think I have magic?”
“Your blood’s doing something,” I said, steadying her as she stumbled over a root. “The sigils, the voice, the vision, it’s all tied to you. Veilborn weren’t just shifters, they were the forest’s keepers, wielders of its power. You’re part of that.”
She was quiet for a moment, her boots crunching on the pine needles. “That’s a lot,” she said finally, her voice steady but thoughtful. “My grandfather never told me any of this. Why hide it?”
“Probably to keep you safe,” I said, my hand brushing hers as we walked. “The Council doesn’t like loose ends. Your bloodline’s a threat to their control.”
“Great,” she said, her voice dry. “So I’m a walking problem.”
I chuckled, squeezing her hand. “You’re my kind of problem.”
She nudged me, a smile breaking through. “Smooth, bear man. Keep that up, and I might stick around.”
“Hope so,” I said, my voice softer than I meant. The trail grew steeper, the trees denser, their trunks so wide it would take three of me to circle one. The fog thickened, curling around us like it was alive, and the air pulsed, a low hum that matched the beat in my chest. I could feel the forest reacting to Isabella, its energy shifting, like it was waking up to greet her. A faint glow flickered in the underbrush, more sigils forming and fading as we passed, their light guiding us deeper. Isabella’s eyes darted to them, but she didn’t say anything, just kept moving, her hand tight in mine.
We stopped to rest at a small clearing, the ground soft with moss, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth. Isabella sat on a fallen log, pulling out her journal to check the map. “How much farther?” she asked, her pen tapping the page.
“Couple hours,” I said, crouching beside her. “The Root Crown’s deep in. We’re close, but the forest might test us first.”
“Test us?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Like that tree with the eyes?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice low. “The guardians are waking up. They’re tied to the Veil, same as you. If they’re showing themselves, it’s because they sense your blood.”
She nodded, her eyes on the journal. “My grandfather wrote about a tree, called it the heart of Esoterra. Said it held the truth. That’s the Root Crown, right?”
“Has to be,” I said, standing. “Come on, we need to keep moving.”
By late afternoon, we reached the Root Crown, a massive tree that towered over everything, its bark dark and veined with silver threads that pulsed like a heartbeat. Its roots stretched out like roads, twisting into the earth, some as wide as my cabin. At the base, half-hidden under a curtain of moss, was a carved arch, its edges sharp with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. I stopped, my hand on Isabella’s arm. “This is it,” I said. “The entrance to the archives.”
She stepped forward, her eyes wide, her fingers brushing the moss aside to reveal the runes. “It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice soft. “Like it’s alive.”
“It is,” I said, watching her closely. “Go on. See if it opens.”
She took a deep breath, her hand pressing against the stone. The moment her fingers touched the runes, the roots above the arch shifted, unfurling like fingers to reveal a set of stairs descending into the earth. The air hummed, a low vibration that made my bear stir. Isabella glanced at me, her eyes steady but bright with excitement. “Guess it likes me,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“Guess so,” I said, stepping beside her. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” she said, gripping her backpack. We descended together, the stairs cool and smooth under our boots. The tunnel was narrow, the walls etched with runes that glowed as we passed, lighting our way. The air grew heavier, smelling of moss, ancient paper, and something sharper, like ozone. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, its walls lined with scrolls, their leather bindings untouched by time. Runes glowed faintly from the stone, casting a soft light across the room. Shelves carvedinto the walls held artifacts, small stone carvings, medallions, and sealed jars, all marked with the claw-and-flame rune. In the center stood an altar, simple but solid, and on it was a single sealed box, its surface carved with the same rune that marked Isabella’s journal.
Isabella moved toward it, her steps slow, like she was drawn to it. “This is it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My grandfather’s work.”
