The phone rang once. Twice.
In the silence between rings, Stella heard three things: the wind’s rising scream, her own heartbeat pulsing in her temples, and Hunter’s steady breathing beside her. He had shifted position, his back to the tree trunk, eyes scanning the perimeter. Guarding. Waiting.
Third ring.
Then, a click. Not a voice answering. A recording.
“You’ve reached Freya. If this is Stella, you’re exactly seven minutes ahead of schedule. Mother would disapprove of imprecision. I’ve always found her obsession with timing… limiting.”
A soft laugh, warm and surprisingly close, as if the speaker were leaning toward the microphone.
“There’s a geothermal vent three hundred meters northwest of the birch tree. Follow the steam. I’ve left coordinates in the phone’s map app. Come alone.
