Chapter 2: The Valley That Does Not Exist

By morning, the rain had stopped, but the Highlands still looked as though they belonged to another world.

Mist moved between the hills in slow white ribbons. The grass shone with water. Dark mountains stood in the distance, half-hidden behind clouds, and the narrow road outside Glenmoor village disappeared into a line of ancient pines.

Elena Ross stood beside her rented Land Rover with the forgotten map spread carefully across the hood.

Beside it lay her modern survey map, her compass, her GPS device, and a notebook already filled with questions.

None of the answers made sense.

The ancient map showed a valley north of Glenmoor.

A wide valley.

A river.

A road.

A city marked in crimson ink.

But every modern map showed only mountains there.

No valley.

No road.

No settlement.

Nothing.

Elena checked the coordinates again.

Then again.

The result stayed the same.

Impossible.

She hated that word.

In her profession, impossible usually meant one of three things: bad data, bad instruments, or bad assumptions.

Elena trusted her instruments.

She trusted her data.

Which left the third option.

Maybe her assumptions were wrong.

The thought both excited and frightened her.

Malcolm Fraser stood near the monastery gate, watching her with obvious concern.

You could still leave it alone.

Elena looked up.

You said that last night.

And I'll say it again this morning.

She folded the modern map.

You also said the valley exists.

I said it doesn't let itself be found.

That is not the same thing.

Elena placed the old map inside a protective case.

Then I'll find out why.

Malcolm sighed deeply.

You sound exactly like the last man who tried.

That made her pause.

What man?

A professor from Inverness.

When?

Twenty-three years ago.

What happened to him?

Malcolm looked toward the mountains.

He came back after three days.

Couldn't remember his own name.

Elena studied his face.

You're serious.

I wish I wasn't.

The warning should have stopped her.

Instead, it made the mystery feel more real.

Elena had spent years chasing forgotten places, but forgotten places did not whisper in dark archives.

They did not reseal wax with glowing symbols.

They did not frighten old caretakers into silence.

Something waited beyond those mountains.

She could feel it.

And for better or worse, the map had led her here.

Elena packed her gear, started the Land Rover, and drove north.

The village disappeared behind her within minutes.

The road narrowed, twisting between stone walls and fields dotted with sheep.

Soon even the farms vanished.

Only hills remained.

Then forest.

The ancient map showed an old route beginning near a broken standing stone called the Thorn Marker.

Elena found it after nearly an hour.

The stone stood alone beside the road, taller than a man and split down the center by age or lightning.

On its surface was the same symbol from the wax seal.

A crown surrounded by thorns.

Elena turned off the engine.

For a moment, she simply sat there.

The symbol stared back through the windshield.

This was no coincidence.

She stepped outside.

The air felt colder than it should have.

Her GPS flickered.

Then the screen went blank.

Elena frowned and pressed the power button.

Nothing.

She checked her phone.

No signal.

That was possible in the Highlands.

Annoying, but possible.

Then her compass needle began spinning.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

Round and round.

Elena's mouth went dry.

Bad instruments, she told herself.

Moisture.

Magnetic interference.

Anything except magic.

She secured her backpack and followed the path behind the standing stone.

At first, it was barely visible.

A narrow trail swallowed by heather and wet grass.

But after several minutes, the ground changed.

The path became clearer.

Older.

Stone steps appeared beneath the moss.

Not natural stones.

Placed stones.

A road.

A forgotten road.

Elena's excitement returned.

She knelt and brushed dirt from one of the stones.

A carved line appeared.

Then another.

Not random marks.

Writing.

She couldn't read it.

Not Latin.

Not Gaelic.

Something older.

Or stranger.

The forest thickened around her.

Tall pines rose like dark pillars.

Mist drifted between them.

Every sound softened.

Birdsong faded.

Wind faded.

Even her own footsteps seemed quieter.

After an hour of walking, Elena checked the old map again.

According to the parchment, the trail should lead to a ridge overlooking the hidden valley.

According to her modern map, there should be only cliffs ahead.

She climbed steadily.

The air grew colder.

The mist grew thicker.

At one point, she looked back and could no longer see the path behind her.

Only white fog.

A rational part of her mind warned that this was dangerous.

She was alone.

Without GPS.

Without phone signal.

Following an ancient map connected to a legend.

Any sensible person would turn around.

Elena continued climbing.

Near midday, she reached the ridge.

The mist covered everything.

She could see no more than a few feet ahead.

Then the old map warmed in her hands.

Elena froze.

The parchment was glowing faintly.

The crimson ink at the center of the map pulsed like a heartbeat.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

A low sound moved through the mist.

Not thunder.

Not wind.

A horn.

Deep.

Distant.

Ancient.

Elena slowly stepped forward.

The mist began to part.

At first, she saw only shapes.

Mountains.

Trees.

A river shining like silver thread.

Then the fog opened fully.

Elena stopped breathing.

Below the ridge stretched a vast valley that did not exist.

Green fields rolled between dark mountains.

A wide river curved through the center.

Forests surrounded stone villages.

And at the heart of the valley rose a city of red towers and high walls.

Banners moved in the wind.

Crimson banners.

In the center of the city stood a castle built from dark stone, its highest tower crowned by a blood-red flag.

The Crimson Kingdom.

Elena stared, unable to move.

It was real.

Impossible.

Hidden.

Alive.

Then bells began ringing from the city below.

One bell.

Then many.

The sound rolled across the valley and climbed the mountain toward her.

Birds exploded from the trees.

The river flashed with light.

Something in the valley had noticed her.

Elena stepped back.

Behind her, the mist closed over the trail.

The path home vanished.

A voice spoke from somewhere nearby.

You should not have crossed the ridge.

Elena spun around.

A man stood among the mist.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

A sword at his side.

His clothes looked medieval, but his eyes were sharp and modern in their suspicion.

He studied Elena as though she were a threat.

Who are you?

She asked.

The man did not answer.

Instead, he looked at the glowing map in her hands.

His expression changed from suspicion to alarm.

Where did you get that?

Elena tightened her grip on the parchment.

I found it.

No one finds that map.

He stepped closer.

It chooses.

Those were the same words from the monastery.

The map has chosen.

A cold shiver moved down Elena's spine.

Below them, the bells continued ringing.

The man looked toward the city.

They know you're here now.

Who knows?

He turned back to her.

The king.

Elena looked at the impossible valley.

Then at the mist behind her.

There was no road back.

No signal.

No compass.

Only the hidden kingdom below.

The man placed one hand on the hilt of his sword.

Come with me, outsider.

Elena swallowed.

And if I refuse?

His answer was quiet.

Then the forest will decide what to do with you.

Something moved among the trees behind him.

Large.

Low.

Unseen.

Elena heard branches crack.

The man did not smile.

I would not recommend letting it decide.

Elena looked once more at the Crimson Kingdom.

Five hundred years of legend waited below.

And every instinct told her her life had just crossed a line it could never uncross.

She folded the map carefully.

Lead the way.

The warrior turned toward the hidden road.

As Elena followed him down into the valley that did not exist, the mist closed behind her like a door.