The road stretched before them like an unbroken ribbon of ice and dust, the narrow tracks of their convoy carving transient lines through the endless white, tire marks that would be swallowed by the next storm, erased without a trace, as if no one had ever passed through this frozen wasteland, as if no men had ever dared to challenge the silence of Alaska's forgotten veins, where gold lay buried beneath centuries of untouched wilderness, waiting—always waiting—for men greedy enough, desperate enough, foolish enough to tear open the earth and take what did not belong to them.
Anderson Jr. Seely sat in the passenger seat of the rented Toyota Hilux, the leather still holding a faint warmth from the last person who had occupied it, though the cold—insidious, creeping, relentless—seeped through the smallest cracks in the doors, through the floor, through the very air they breathed, as if Alaska itself resented their presence, as if the land sought to remind them that they did not belong here, that no man truly did.
The Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company logo on the dashboard was partially obscured by a thin layer of dust, its golden print dulled, muted, a reminder that all gold, no matter how bright, no matter how precious, would eventually be covered, hidden, lost—unless someone was willing to dig, to scrape, to fight against time itself to unearth it again.
T.B. drove in silence, his grip on the wheel steady, controlled, the kind of grip that belonged to a man who had spent years in places where control was the difference between life and death, where losing focus, even for a moment, could mean the end. Behind them, two other trucks followed, their headlights cutting through the early twilight, engines humming like distant, patient animals, the weight of their cargo—survey equipment, food, emergency supplies—pressing them deeper into the frozen road, making them a part of the landscape they sought to conquer.
Anderson Jr. Seely sat rigid in the driver-side rear seat, his fingers absently tracing the stitched edge of his jacket, his gaze flickering between the convoy of trucks trailing behind them and the reflections of Layla Smith—her delicate yet sharp features caught in the rearview mirror and again in the passenger-side mirror.
She sat in the shotgun seat, illuminated by the ghostly glow of her iPhone 15 Plus, her delicate yet sharp features cast in the sterile light of the screen. The resemblance to Kimberly Smith was undeniable—same high cheekbones, same full lips, same aura of effortless detachment—but while Kimberly exuded an intoxicating warmth beneath her sultry demeanor, Layla was a slab of ice, untouched and unmoved. She had barely spoken a word to him since their first encounter, and even now, as they hurtled deeper into the unknown, she seemed lost in some unreadable thought, existing in the same space but entirely apart from it.
Anderson wondered why she was even here. Could she truly contribute to the survey team, or was she just another rich heir tagging along, getting in the way? Was she here of her own volition—or was she sent to watch him by her uncle, William Smith?
A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips as he thought of William Smith. The man moved through life with an unshakable certainty, as if every decision he made was already written in stone. His words weren't commands, not exactly, but they had a weight that made refusing impossible.
People feared William Smith, not because he was loud or violent, but because he didn't need to be.
And yet, Anderson saw through the act.
William Smith played the role of the untouchable patriarch, but his leadership style was outdated—a relic of another era, something pulled from old Inupiat traditions that no longer fit in the modern world.
And, worse, his skepticism would be his downfall.
Sending Layla and T.B. along on this expedition? That was a clear sign. He didn't trust Anderson. He wanted watchdogs—people who would report back to him, people who would ensure Anderson didn't act outside of his carefully constructed boundaries.
But what William Smith failed to understand was that trust could not be forced.
Anderson smirked. If a stranger offers you money to save your sinking company, the logical response is gratitude. Not suspicion. The fact was very simple: someone had brought money. Those people were your lifeline. You didn't question them. You thanked them. And you thanked God for bringing them in.
But William Smith had never operated by logic alone.
He operated by control.
Anderson had put money into this project. He had taken risks, invested resources. And yet, he was being watched like a man under investigation.
Fine. Let them watch.
Anderson exhaled slowly, watching the frozen road stretch endlessly ahead. At night, when he was alone in Anchorage, he never went home.
His house—a vast, empty space filled with memories of his childhood—had become something else. Once a place of safety, it now felt like a mausoleum, haunted by the ghost of his adoptive father. The man who had raised him, taught him discipline, given him the name Seely. And yet, with his death, all the warmth had vanished, leaving Anderson adrift in uncertainty.
He spent his evenings in the bars of Anchorage, drowning in alcohol and unfamiliar conversations. He never drank enough to lose control, but he drank enough to keep the doubts at bay.
Every good thing in his life disappeared too quickly.
Every good thing was temporary.
His foster father had once told him, "You're still young, Anderson. Why don't you explore? Meet people? Take a risk. Find something beautiful before it's too late. And thank God for giving you those things."
"Thank God for giving me those things," Anderson murmured to himself, bitter.
He reached into the pocket of his 5.11 Tactical pants, fingers closing around the stone that Professor David had sent him. Its surface was rough, ancient, its significance still unknown.
In his other pocket, the USB.
And in the survival bag beneath his seat, the fairy tale book.
Three objects. Three messages from a dead man.
Why had Professor David given me these things? Why not just tell me before he died? What had he been too afraid to say out loud?
"What did you want to say, my dear professor, my dear friend?"
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely."
Layla Smith rarely addressed him by his full name, stopping his train of thought.
Anderson turned his head slightly, catching her gaze in the rearview mirror. Layla sat stiffly. Her sculpted features thrown into relief by the light so uncanny that for a moment, time folded in on itself. It was like looking at a photograph of Kimberly Smith, but stripped of warmth, of softness.
Did she hate him? Did she think he was unnecessary, a liability, an outsider in a world she had already claimed as her own? Or worse—was she here to monitor him, to make sure he stayed within the invisible lines that William Smith had drawn?
The last time they had spoken—if you could call it that—had been during the online meeting where he presented his field survey plan. She had shaken his hand afterward, but her grip had been impersonal, her words clipped, her eyes unreadable. That was the second time they had met. The first?
He had knocked her down.
And since then?
Nothing.
She wasn't looking at him.
She was looking at the stone in his hand. Somehow, he had taken it out of his pocket without realizing it.
And in her eyes, something flickered.
Not curiosity.
Not detachment.
But expectation.
Because she, like everyone else in the Smith family, was searching for something.
They all were.
Gold.
It always came back to gold.
"Did you discover any more clues from the stone?"
Anderson curled his fingers around it.
What none of them understood—what none of them realized—was that he was searching for something else entirely.
Something more than gold.
Something greater than God.
Because he was willing to take the risk.