Chapter 2: The Fate Stone’s Secret

The day I landed in Silver Hollow, I happened to see Father Hank deciphering the old runes on a stone marker, while Greg Montgomery told Charlie Randall to jot them down.

The sun was setting, painting the marsh in gold and rust, when I saw Father Hank hunched over the marker. I almost didn’t recognize him at first—he was bent low, lips moving as he traced the grooves with a trembling finger. Charlie stood nearby, notebook open, pencil tapping, catching every word as if it might save his soul.

Once the cryptic script was translated, the front read, “Act as the Hand of Fate,” and the back said, “Loyalty and Brotherhood Above All.” It even listed the names of all 108 pack leaders.

The marker itself looked ancient—weathered, moss-eaten, but proud. The names carved on the back shimmered faintly in the dusk, as if the stone itself remembered every handshake and promise ever made in Silver Hollow.

Greg, with his weathered, coal-black beard, addressed the group: “Turns out I’m supposed to be the one in charge. Who’d have thought? All you folks were chosen too. Now that the rankings are set by fate, no more fighting about it. We can’t go against what’s written.”

He spoke with the kind of authority you get from years of being overlooked, his voice echoing off the rafters. Folks shuffled their feet, glancing at one another, the weight of destiny settling heavy on their shoulders.

Everyone murmured, “If it’s fate, who are we to argue?” The boards creaked as they all dropped to one knee.

There was a moment’s hesitation, then a collective sigh as knees hit the floorboards, boots scuffing against old pine. The gesture wasn’t one of worship, but of unity—a silent agreement that, for once, they’d let fate call the shots.

Among them, I recognized Big Luke Shepherd in his patched-up rodeo shirt, Sam Wolfe in a faded monk’s hoodie, and Clay Knox with two hatchets on his belt. Every legend from the old stories was here. Real as day.

The room buzzed with quiet awe. Big Luke’s laugh rolled out like thunder, Sam’s eyes darted with mischief, and Clay spun his hatchets in his palms, restless as a caged bear. It felt like stepping into the pages of a dime novel, every face a piece of American folklore come to life.

I found myself ranked third. Turns out I was Wyatt Young, the pack’s strategist.

The realization hit me like a cold shower. Well, so much for flying under the radar. Strategist—third in line, the one folks looked to when the chips were down. The weight of it settled in my gut, heavier than any secret I’d ever carried.

After everyone stood, Greg kept shooting me meaningful glances.

He’d catch my eye and nod, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s, as if he expected me to read his mind. I shifted, uncomfortable, wondering if I’d missed some unspoken cue.

I’d just arrived and didn’t get what he wanted.

My hands fidgeted in my pockets. I tried to play it cool, but the truth was, I was more lost than a city kid at a county fair.

“Strategist!” Greg, seeing my blank look, subtly pointed at Father Hank, who’d translated the runes, then mimed money.

He did it quick—flicked his fingers like he was counting bills, then jerked his chin at Hank. Real subtle, if you were blind and deaf.

“Oh!” It clicked. I reached into my flannel and actually found two gold coins.

For a second, I almost laughed. Who the hell carries gold coins in their shirt pocket? But there they were, heavy and real. Go figure.

“Father Hank, thanks for the help. Really appreciate it.” I pressed the coins into his hand. “Just a small thank-you—go on, take it.”

I made sure to grip his hand a little too long, like we were old friends settling a bet after Sunday service. The crowd watched, murmuring approval.

Father Hank grinned, pocketed the gold, then turned his back to the crowd and gave Greg a little nod.

The glint in his eye said he’d done this dance before. He moved off, whistling a tune that sounded suspiciously like "Amazing Grace."

If this guy didn’t know Greg, I’d eat Clay Knox’s hatchets on TikTok live. Not that I’m planning on it.

Seriously, the way they moved together, you’d think they’d been running cons since high school. I pictured myself gnawing on a hatchet, viral in all the wrong ways.

But in the backwoods, you mind your business and keep your mouth shut.

Old rules die hard here. That’s just how it is out here. You don’t poke around in another man’s hustle unless you want trouble. I kept my thoughts to myself and my eyes on the ground.

Besides, this clumsy little scam was probably my own idea I’d given to Greg before.

The realization made me smirk. Maybe I’d always been the brains behind the curtain. Hell if I know.

That day, I had a huge maple-yellow banner raised with “Act as the Hand of Fate” painted on it, and threw a wild barbecue in the Hall of Brotherhood. Greg even handed out command badges and keys to all the leaders.

The air was thick with the smell of smoked brisket and sweet corn, laughter bouncing off the log walls. Greg, grinning ear to ear, slapped badges on chests and tossed keys like he was Santa on Christmas Eve. The old hall had never felt more alive.

The beer flowed, and everyone drank themselves silly. Wouldn’t be a real party otherwise.

Kegs lined the back porch, and by midnight, half the county was singing old country ballads and telling stories that got taller with every round. Someone strummed a guitar, and even Big Luke tried to dance, boots thumping against the floor.