The Omega Knotting a Stranger

12

ARCHER

T he ancient mahogany desk beneath my fingertips carries the scars of generations, much like the half-map spread beneath the heavy sheet of glass atop it. Hunter’s grandfather had a flair for the dramatic—splitting a treasure map in half between cousins who can barely stand to breathe the same mountain air.

Flames crackle in the stone fireplace across the study. The room wraps around Hunter and me like a leather-bound embrace—our sanctuary in the cabin fortress. Floor-to-ceiling shelves groan under the weight of books and weathered journals. The scent of aged paper and wood smoke feels more like home than any place I’ve ever owned.