PART 2 — THE MOUNTAIN HAS TEETH
Darkness arrived before Mara finished repairing the roof.

At that altitude, November nights did not fall so much as collapse.

One moment there was gray light beyond the trees.

The next, the mountains had disappeared behind a wall of black.

Mara backed the wagon beneath the limestone shelf and unloaded what mattered most.

Food first.

Then blankets.

Then the hay.

Everything else could wait.

She dragged old boards from the collapsed lean-to and built a raised platform for the hay.

Bracken stood nearby, shivering.

“Just one night,” she whispered.

She knew it was a lie.

There would be many nights.

She tied him beneath the remaining section of roof and rubbed his neck until his breathing steadied.

Then she built the fire.

For perhaps ten minutes, everything seemed fine.

Then the smoke stopped rising.

It rolled sideways.

Straight toward her.

Mara coughed.

She moved the fire closer to the entrance.

The wind caught it.

Flames jumped.

Sparks flew toward the hay.

She threw herself forward and stamped them out with both hands.

Pain shot through her palms.

“Damn it!”

She dragged the burning wood backward.

The smoke followed.

Soon the entire shelter was gray.

Her eyes watered.

Her lungs burned.

She dropped to her knees.

For one terrible moment, panic took control.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t see.

She couldn’t think.

She stumbled outside and fell into the snow.

Cold struck her face.

She stayed there, gasping.

Behind her, the fire continued smoking into the shelter.

Mara closed her eyes.

This is how it ends.

Not with a bullet.

Not with hunger.

Not even with the man who had stolen her home.

Smoke.

A stupid fire.

A broken shelter.

A mountain nobody remembered she was on.

She almost laughed at the cruelty of it.

Then she remembered her mother’s voice.

Fear is loud, Mara. Don’t let it think for you.

Her eyes opened.

She crawled back inside.

She picked up the lantern.

And forced herself to look.

Not at the fire.

At the ceiling.

The lantern flame moved.

Barely.

But it moved.

Toward the rear wall.

Mara raised the lantern.

There was a narrow crack between two slabs of limestone.

Air was moving through it.

Her father had once told her that old mountain shelters were built wherever the rock allowed hunters to make use of natural ventilation.

She grabbed the hammer.

For the next two hours, she worked.

Stone by stone.

Chip by chip.

Her hands shook from cold and exhaustion.

Once the hammer slipped and struck her knuckles.

She bit down on a cry.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Then—

A small piece of limestone broke away.

Cold air rushed through the opening.

Mara froze.

She waited.

The fire crackled.

Smoke twisted upward.

This time it didn’t roll toward her.

It climbed.

Slowly.

Steadily.

Into the crack.

Mara sank onto the floor.

She laughed once.

Then covered her face and cried.

Not because she was happy.

Because she had survived one more hour.

Outside, snow continued falling.

The mountain offered no mercy.

But it had given her one thing.

A chance.

Mara wrapped her burned hands in cloth and finally lay beneath the blankets.

Bracken shifted outside.

The wind howled.

She closed her eyes.

For the first time all day, she allowed herself to imagine tomorrow.

She would repair the roof.

Find water.

Check the traps her father had once shown her how to set.

Measure the remaining food.

Maybe she could make it through December.

Maybe January.

Maybe spring.

Then she heard it.

A sound beneath the wind.

Three slow knocks.

Mara opened her eyes.

Silence.

She sat up.

Nothing.

Only snow.

Only trees.

Only the fire.

She told herself it had been a branch striking stone.

Then came the sound again.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Not from the entrance.

From behind her.

Mara slowly turned toward the limestone wall.

Her father’s tools lay beneath the wagon seat.

She reached for the hammer.

Another sound came from inside the mountain.

A scrape.

Then a dull metallic click.

Mara’s breath stopped.

There was something behind the wall.

Something—or someone—had been there before her.

She raised the lantern.

The light fell across the old stone.

And there, half-hidden beneath layers of soot, she saw marks carved into the limestone.

A name.

Her father’s name.

THOMAS ELLISON.

Mara stared.

Her father had never told her he had returned here.

Never told her he had carved his name into the wall.

Never told her there was something hidden inside this mountain.

Then the stone shifted.

Only an inch.

But enough.

A thin black gap appeared behind it.

Mara stepped closer.

Inside was a small iron box.

Her heart began pounding.

She reached toward it.

Then stopped.

Because carved beneath her father’s name were four words.

Words that made the cold inside the mountain suddenly feel warmer than the cold inside her blood.

DO NOT TRUST CALEB.

Mara stepped backward.

The lantern trembled in her hand.

Her father hadn’t merely known this place.

He had been hiding something.

And whatever it was—

Her uncle had been looking for it long before he threw her out of her home.

Outside, Bracken suddenly began to scream.

Not neigh.

Not whinny.

A sharp, terrified cry.

Mara turned toward the entrance.

Through the curtain of snow, she saw a faint orange glow moving between the trees.

A lantern.

Then another.

Then a third.

Someone was climbing toward the shelter.

Mara extinguished her own lantern.

Darkness swallowed everything.

She grabbed the hammer with both hands and pressed herself against the stone.

The voices outside were still too far away to understand.

But one sentence carried clearly through the wind.

“She came up here.”

A second voice answered.

“Then she has the box.”

Mara’s blood went cold.

They weren’t searching for her.

They were searching for what her father had hidden.

And now they knew exactly where she was.