The ride to the private airstrip was rushed, hushed, and heavy with anticipation. Nate felt like a fugitive—not from the law, but from understanding. From forces too old to name and too vast to outrun.
Inside the SUV, Iris briefed the team. "The Greenland site is remote. No nearby military presence. But that doesn't mean we're alone."
Tuck, still bruised from the Mojave signal pulse, grunted. "What are the odds we fly halfway across the world and nobody's waiting to shoot us down?"
"Better than the odds of staying here and surviving the next sweep," Mallory said sharply. "We need to follow the signal. The shard wants it."
Nate kept silent, staring at the shard resting inside its shielded case. Even through layers of copper and carbon alloy, it pulsed with a steady rhythm—like a heartbeat syncing with a forgotten god.
---
The private jet belonged to an anonymous donor—one of Iris's "silent friends."
Tuck whistled low when he boarded. "Leather seats. Custom avionics. Mini bar. I'd almost forget we're flying into the Arctic void."
Mallory muttered, "Don't get comfortable."
Nate sat across from her. "You okay?"
She nodded, but her fingers trembled. "Just... this Greenland site. My grandfather mentioned something once. About Project Snowveil."
"Snowveil?"
"An old black program. Cold War era. Disavowed. They said it was a weather station. But he said they found something under the ice. A structure. Geometric. Alive."
Nate leaned forward. "You think the anchor's part of it?"
"I know it is."
---
Six hours later, the plane touched down on an unmarked ice runway cut into the eastern flank of Greenland's ice shelf. Temperature: -35°C. Visibility: falling snow. No sound but wind and the whisper of approaching truth.
They exited into biting cold. A snowcat awaited, its driver masked and silent. He handed Iris a sealed case, saluted, and drove away without a word.
Inside the case: old maps, a data drive, and a red military badge marked SNOWVEIL – CLASS VI.
Tuck frowned. "This is a Level 6 clearance. That's two levels above the President."
Mallory opened the maps. "There's the site. 82.6°N, 42.1°W. It's buried under 300 feet of ice."
Iris clicked her radio. "Then let's start digging."
---
The drilling took 14 hours. Machines screamed, blades dulled, fuel froze.
By nightfall, they'd uncovered it: a steel hatch embedded in black rock that wasn't native. A circular platform engraved with the same sigils from Mojave—only here, they glowed faintly before the shard came near.
Nate approached.
The shard vibrated.
Then, the hatch opened by itself.
A hiss of ancient pressure released, carrying with it a wave of warmth that didn't belong. Nate's breath caught as the cold was chased from the air. The opening led downward—into a space lit by green-blue phosphorescence.
Mallory whispered, "This is no bunker."
Iris added, "This is alive."
---
They descended in silence. The walls pulsed with light. The air grew thicker, richer.
Then they reached it.
A chamber. Circular. The size of a football field. Metallic walls covered in unreadable text that shimmered when looked at sideways.
At the center: another disc, larger than the Mojave anchor. It hovered a few inches above the ground. Rotating slowly.
As Nate stepped forward, the shard leapt from its case and slammed into his palm. No pain—only pressure.
A voice spoke inside his mind. Not English. Not a language at all.
Meaning.
"Two of Three. Sequence nearing threshold."
Mallory gasped. "It's counting down."
Tuck shouted, "We've got movement!"
From the walls, shapes emerged. Human silhouettes. Transparent. Glowing. Watching.
---
One stepped forward. A man. European features. Military uniform, dated 1960s. He spoke in crackled English.
"You have awakened the Signal Path. The First Protocol is compromised. The Warning is passed."
Nate approached. "Who are you?"
The man smiled sadly. "A remnant. One of many. We were tasked with holding the silence. But you brought sound."
Iris raised her weapon. "Are you a threat?"
"No. But others will be."
The ground shook. A pulse of energy radiated out, north and south. Systems within the chamber blinked alive. Holographic stars floated upward.
A display formed in the air—showing Earth, with three glowing points.
One still dormant: in the Amazon.
The man said, "The Third Anchor must remain sealed. If you open it—"
"What happens?" Nate asked.
"Your world learns the answer to a question it was never meant to ask."
---
They emerged hours later, shaken. The shard no longer pulsed. Instead, it hummed. As if remembering.
Back at their makeshift camp, Mallory sat by the fire, silent.
Tuck walked over. "You alright?"
She nodded slowly. "That man. He wasn't just a recording. He was trapped. Like he volunteered to die so the rest of us could stay deaf."
Tuck rubbed his eyes. "I miss when our biggest worry was student loans."
Nate and Iris huddled over the maps.
"The Third Anchor is in Peru," Iris said. "Deep jungle. Surrounded by tribal lands and protected zones. We'll need allies."
Nate traced the coordinates. "We'll also need to choose. Because once that anchor opens, there's no going back."
---
In Langley, Vox stood before her superior—a woman known only as Director Vane.
"Anchor Two has gone active," Vox reported.
Vane frowned. "Have the Dreamless moved?"
"Not yet. But they will."
Vane turned to a monitor showing Nate's team in Greenland.
"Send a warning. Then prepare contingency seven."
Vox nodded. "And if they ignore it?"
"Then we make sure they never reach the Amazon."
---