The warmth of the early morning sun promised a day devoid of clouds, a stark contrast to the internal storm of questions and uncertainties that swirled within me. Karen's voice broke through my contemplation of Clivilius's unforgiving weather, bringing me back to the immediate concerns at hand.
"Did those two seem a little odd to you?" Her question, seemingly casual, hinted at underlying worries.
"I'm sure they're just being men," was my attempt at light-hearted dismissal, though it felt hollow even to my own ears. The simplicity of the explanation did little to address the complex web of concerns that had entangled us since our arrival at the mysterious lagoon.
Karen's persistence, however, unearthed the deeper apprehensions I had been trying to tamp down. "You don't think that maybe there's something weird going on with the water?" she probed further. "I mean, look what we discovered with the soil."
As we walked, my foot disturbed the dust beneath us, creating small clouds that the breeze whimsically erased from existence. It was a momentary distraction from the weight of our conversation. "I believe the water has some interesting healing properties. I suspect the healing process hurts a little," I mused aloud, trying to piece together the puzzle of the lagoon's powers with the scraps of evidence I had gathered.
Karen's scoff at my explanation, labelling our companions' stoicism as a "manly façade," elicited a brief, shared moment of levity between us. "Exactly!" I agreed, clinging to the camaraderie that helped to lighten the burden of our situation.
However, her next words, left hanging as I abruptly stopped and grasped her arm, were a stark reminder of the fine line we walked between discovery and danger. "I'm sure they'll be fine. Chris will come and get us if they have any problems," I reassured her, and perhaps myself, with more confidence than I felt. The reality was, we were navigating uncharted waters, both literally and metaphorically.
Karen's sigh was heavy with resignation, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of our shared concerns and the unspoken fears that lingered between us. As she attempted to withdraw, I tightened my grip on her arm, not out of restraint but in a silent plea for connection, for reassurance in the face of the unknown. It was then that my eyes caught sight of the scratch marring her forearm, a stark contrast against her skin.
"How did you get that scratch?" My inquiry was more than casual curiosity; it was tinged with the undercurrent of anxiety that was becoming my constant companion.
Karen's demeanour shifted at my question, her previous resolve dissolving into a visible unease. The shadow that suddenly loomed over us seemed to echo the dark turn our conversation had taken, amplifying the sense of foreboding that had been simmering just beneath the surface.
Brow furrowing deeply, my heart skipped a beat with the fear that Karen was another victim of the shadow panther.
"Duke accidentally scratched me when Chris and I attempted to help Jamie and Duke." Her explanation, intended to allay my fears, only served to deepen the mystery, prompting more questions than it answered.
My suspicion, impossible to mask, pushed me to probe further. "Why did Jamie and Duke need help?"
Karen's hesitation, the visible struggle to articulate her next words, did little to quell the growing apprehension within me. "You haven't heard?" Her question, hinted at a tale of loss and despair that I had yet to uncover.
"Heard what?" I asked, tentatively.
"Duke," she began, the difficulty with which she spoke betraying the gravity of what she was about to disclose. My heart clenched in anticipation, a dreadful premonition taking root as I waited for her to continue.
The pause that followed, filled with Karen's attempt to compose herself, seemed to stretch on indefinitely, the silence punctuated only by her cleared throat. "Duke was attacked last night too. He didn't make it."
The revelation of Duke's fate sent a shockwave through me, my reaction instinctive as my hand flew to my mouth, a barrier against the audible gasp of disbelief. The notion that a shadow panther, a creature of such lethal grace and power, had claimed Duke was almost too surreal to digest. Karen's nod only solidified the grim reality, anchoring the tragedy firmly in the harshness of our current existence.
A sharp sting pricked behind my eyes, the onset of tears for a small dog that, despite our lack of a warm relationship, had become a part of my extended family in this wild place. "I know Duke and I weren't exactly on the friendliest of terms, but..." My voice faltered, a mixture of sadness and disbelief muddling my words. The silence that followed was heavy with the unspoken acknowledgment of our loss. I can't believe this is happening, I thought, struggling to wrap my mind around the cruel twist of fate.
"Are Duke and Kain our only losses?" The question, while necessary, felt cold, clinical even, as if trying to quantify our grief could somehow make it more bearable.
Karen cast me a sideways glance, "We haven't lost Kain yet,” she rebuked.
"Of course not," I retorted, the correction doing little to ease the tension that had woven itself tightly around my heart.
"But yes, I'm pretty sure that Duke and Kain were the only ones injured."
The news was unfortunate, but I was grateful that there were not more serious injuries sustained. Processing the gravity of our situation, Karen and I continued toward camp, the silence allowing us both to consider our own thoughts and emotions.
The silence that greeted us upon our return to camp was disconcerting, a stark contrast to the usual morning bustle that signified the start of another day's struggle for survival. My unease grew with each step, the absence of familiar faces only adding to the growing apprehension within me. Besides Kain, Chris and Karen this morning, I hadn't seen Joel, or anybody else for that matter.
Entering Joel's tent with a sense of foreboding, the emptiness that met me was a silent scream in the quiet of the morning. No Joel, no Jamie, no Henri, and, of course, no Duke. The realisation that so many were unaccounted for sent a shiver down my spine, the implications of their absence weaving a tapestry of fear in my mind.
"Where are Jamie and Duke?" The question was directed at Karen, who had quietly followed me into the tent. Her response, “I’m not sure,” accompanied with a simple shake of the head, did nothing to quell the unease that had settled over me like a heavy cloak.
As we stepped back outside, the sound of voices drew my attention. Moving towards the source, the sight that unfolded before me was one of solemnity and grief. Jamie, standing by the river's edge with a small, lifeless form cradled in his arms, was a poignant reminder of the loss we had suffered. My heart sank at the confirmation of Duke's fate, a sight that, despite the preparation, was no less harrowing to witness.
Paul, Charity, and a woman I didn't recognise were engaged in what appeared to be a tense conversation with Jamie. The strain in their voices, even from a distance, was palpable, a clear indication of the stress and sorrow that had enveloped our camp.
As I approached, the need to account for everyone became paramount. A quick scan of the faces confirmed that all were present, save for Joel. The realisation tightened its grip around my heart, the worry for our missing companion casting a long shadow over the already sombre mood. My brow furrowed, a physical manifestation of the turmoil within, as I braced myself for the challenge of piecing together the events that had led to this moment.
"Has anyone seen Joel this morning?" The urgency in my question was palpable, my voice betraying the panic that had steadily been building within me. The absence of Joel, especially under these circumstances, was a concern that I couldn't shake off, each passing moment adding to the fear that something else had gone terribly wrong.
The response from the shorter woman, a newcomer to our group whose presence was as striking as it was mysterious, did little to ease my worries. "I've been with Jamie since I arrived," she stated, her voice calm, betraying none of the chaos that seemed to envelop her appearance. My gaze lingered on her, taking in the contrasting details - the long silver hair that seemed almost ethereal, the cuts that marred her arms, and the tattered state of her dress. It was a visage that spoke volumes of the night's events, a silent testimony to the ordeal she had endured. The screams that had haunted the night, now had a face, and the realisation sent a chill down my spine.
Paul's input, though well-intentioned, offered no comfort. "I've not seen him at all this morning. I just assumed he was still resting in his tent. Is he not there?"
"No," was all I could manage, the word sharp, a clear indicator of my escalating worry. The conversation was abruptly cut short by Jamie's sudden collapse, the distress in his movements drawing our collective attention. The sight of him, struggling to maintain his grip on Duke even as he fell, was a poignant reminder of the grief that we were all grappling with.
"Jamie!" Our voices merged into a singular cry of alarm, our individual concerns momentarily set aside as we rushed to his aid.
Crouching beside Jamie, the urgency of the moment sharpened my focus as I quickly scanned his chest, searching for any indication that the blood might be his own and not solely Duke's. The sight of Jamie's face, marked by the unmistakable signs of a night spent in turmoil—swollen, red eyes devoid of rest—painted a vivid picture of his suffering. It was a silent testimony to the depth of his grief.
I directed Paul with a sense of purpose. "Gather everyone to the campfire," I instructed, my voice carrying the weight of both command and necessity. As I turned my attention back to Jamie, a second, more thorough assessment confirmed my initial observation: his physical condition, while marred by the evident signs of a night spent in grief and the minor injuries sustained in his fall, bore no trace of more serious harm.
"You must be Glenda," the silver-haired woman's voice broke through my focused assessment, her cautious gaze meeting mine as I stood. Her presence, both intriguing and enigmatic, added another layer to the already complex tapestry of our situation.
"I am," I confirmed, the act of brushing dust from my clothes serving as a brief interlude to the morning's grim proceedings. "I'm going to find something suitable to wrap Duke in. Please help Jamie get himself cleaned. I'll meet you back here before we take the dog to the campfire." My instructions were clear, each task a step towards not just preserving Duke's dignity but also allowing us a moment to come together in our shared grief.
"Yes, doctor," the woman's response, formal yet tinged with an undercurrent of shared understanding, acknowledged the role I had assumed within our group.
As I turned away to fulfil my grim duty, the weight of leadership pressed heavily upon me, a mantle borne of circumstance rather than choice. The task ahead, while simple in its execution, was laden with significance. It was not just about finding a suitable shroud for Duke; it was about providing a semblance of order, a moment of collective mourning that might offer a measure of solace to our fractured spirits.
Finding a suitable sheet for Duke was a small mercy in the midst of our turmoil, allowing me to act with a semblance of purpose. However, as I exited the tent, my resolve was momentarily sidetracked by the sight of Charity examining the carcass of the shadow panther that had caused so much grief. My steps, initially brisk with intention, slowed as curiosity and concern drew me towards her.
"Was there only one shadow panther?" The question emerged almost reflexively, my scientific mind grappling with the need to understand the extent of the threat we faced.
Charity's response sent a chill down my spine. "They are pack hunters. There would have been at least four or five of them in the area last night." The implication of her words, the realisation that we had been surrounded by such lethal predators, was staggering.
"That many?" My response was a whisper, disbelief and fear mingling in equal measure. The notion that we had been so close to a larger catastrophe was unnerving.
Charity's confirmation, though expected, did little to quell the growing unease within me. Her next revelation, however, was utterly unexpected and shifted the ground beneath my feet. "Now that they have lost two of their pack, it's unlikely that they..." Her words trailed off as my interruption, sparked by surprise and confusion, cut through the air.
"They lost two?" The question was out before I could temper my reaction, my eyes darting around in search of evidence of another fallen predator.
Charity's explanation, far from clarifying the situation, only deepened the mystery and widened the chasm of my understanding. "There's this one and the second one followed Beatrix through the Portal to Earth."
"What!?" The exclamation was a reflex, a verbal manifestation of the whirlwind of questions that assaulted me. "We can get back to Earth now? And who's Beatrix?" The possibility of a return, of escape from this relentless survival, was a beacon of hope in the dense fog of our predicament.
Charity's response, however, quashed that flicker of hope as swiftly as it had ignited. "We can't, but there are some creatures, like Guardians and these shadow panthers, that can." The distinction she made was a bitter pill to swallow, a reminder of the barriers that still stood firmly between us and home.
"And Beatrix?" The question hung between us, a thread seeking to weave through the tapestry of confusion that enveloped me.
"The silver-haired girl," Charity clarified, indicating the direction of Joel and Jamie's tent. The pieces began to fall into place, albeit slowly, the mention of Beatrix now linked to the mysterious newcomer with striking silver hair. "I believe she is your newest Guardian."
My eyes widened in disbelief, a sensation akin to a cold shiver cascading down my spine. "There's more than one Guardian?" The words tumbled out of me, tinged with a mix of awe and incredulity. The very concept seemed to unravel everything I thought I knew, expanding the boundaries of my understanding in an instant.
Charity, with her ever-present calm demeanour, chuckled softly, a sound that somehow managed to be both comforting and unsettling in this strange new context. "It would seem you've got a lot more to learn," she remarked, her voice a gentle nudge towards the vast unknown that lay ahead of me. As she spoke, her actions belied the softness of her tone. She deftly pulled a knife from the sheath strapped to her waist, the metal gleaming ominously under the morning light, and with a precision that spoke of countless such instances, thrust the blade into the black panther's neck.
The immediate stench that burst forth from the incision was like a physical entity, assaulting my senses with such ferocity that my stomach executed violent somersaults. My mouth gagged reflexively, a bitter taste clawing at the back of my throat. The smell was a vile mixture of death and decay, so potent it seemed almost tangible, a miasma that clung to the air and threatened to overwhelm me.
Undeterred, Charity began to work the blade across the beast's throat with a grim determination, her movements efficient yet brutal. "It's unpleasant," she acknowledged, her voice strained as she hacked and ripped at the bloody flesh. The understatement of her words did little to mask the gruesomeness of the task. "But the scent will warn the pack members to keep their distance." Her explanation did little to comfort me.
"I'm not surprised," I mumbled, the words barely audible even to my own ears. Pressing the back of my hand against my mouth in a vain attempt to shield myself from the assault on my senses, I quickly backed away, eager to put as much distance between myself and the source of my discomfort as possible.
It was then, in my haste to escape, that I nearly collided with Beatrix as she exited the tent, her arms laden with fresh clothes for Jamie. The suddenness of our near encounter elicited a soft, startled gasp from her, a sound that, under different circumstances, might have sparked a moment of shared amusement between us.
"Please take this with you and give it to Jamie," I told her, my voice steadier now, the urgency of the situation lending me a semblance of composure. I offered her the folded sheet, a makeshift solution for a problem that seemed both immediate and trivial in the grand scheme of things. "He can wrap Duke in it until we can organise more suitable arrangements."
With a silent nod, Beatrix took the sheet from me. Her actions, though simple, were imbued with an understanding and a sense of solidarity that transcended the need for words.
"Charity is right, Beatrix," Paul's voice cut through the tension, clearly continuing a conversation that had been happening before I arrived. His words hung in the air as he emerged from the tent, his presence commanding yet weary.
As my eyes darted suspiciously between the two, trying to piece together the context I had missed, Paul approached with a weight in his steps that seemed to press down on the very atmosphere around us. Beatrix's response was immediate, her frustration palpable. "You take charge of it then," she huffed, her tone laced with resignation and a hint of challenge before she turned on her heels, her departure swift and final.
Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I turned to Paul, my gaze questioning, seeking clarity in the midst of confusion. Before Paul could reply, Charity chimed in, her actions as decisive as her words. "The dog needs to be cremated," she declared, getting to her feet. Her movements were precise, almost ritualistic, as she wiped the bloodied blade across the bottom of one of the tassels that hung from her short leather skirt before sheathing it with a finality that left no room for argument.
I frowned, my discomfort growing. This new woman, Charity, with her blunt statements and stark pragmatism, was an enigma. She has even less tact than I do, I noted mentally, a wry observation that did little to lighten the gravity of her words. And that's saying something! My internal dialogue stumbled over itself as I struggled to articulate a response, my mouth opening and closing in silent protest. But it's not okay, I admitted to myself, the worry lines etched deeply into my forehead a testament to the turmoil within. Hardly anything about this place is okay.
Just as the weight of the situation threatened to engulf me, Paul's voice offered a momentary reprieve. "Look! Karen and Chris are returning with Kain," he announced, his finger pointing towards the dunes behind me, pulling me back from the edge of despair.
"And Lois too," I managed to add, a flicker of warmth igniting at the mention of familiar faces. A brief smile found its way to my lips, a rare beacon of hope in a landscape marred by uncertainty. I crouched down, my arms open in anticipation, ready to embrace the energetic girl who bounded towards me with an innocence that stood in stark contrast to the grim realities we faced. In that moment, as Lois reached my embrace, the harshness of our situation was momentarily softened by the purity of her unbridled joy.
The approach of the three settlers towards our makeshift camp was measured, their movements punctuated by the rugged terrain that seemed to challenge every step. The older couple, with a resilience born of necessity, took turns supporting Kain, whose determination to walk was evident despite his stagger.
"The feeling has returned in my good leg," Kain announced, a broad smile lighting up his face, casting a brief shadow of normalcy over the grave situation. His optimism was contagious, yet it carried with it an unspoken acknowledgment of the challenges yet to come.
"Well, that's a relief," I found myself saying as I pushed myself to my feet, drawn to the hint of hope in his words. "And the injured one?" I inquired, my professional curiosity mingling with a genuine concern for his wellbeing.
"Seems to be quite the miracle," Karen interjected, her voice tinged with a mixture of surprise and gratitude as the group came to a halt near the warmth of the campfire. The morning air, cool and crisp, seemed to pause in anticipation of my assessment.
Crouching in front of Kain, I took a closer look at the wound. A miracle indeed, I mused silently, my fingers gently probing the fresh skin that had begun to knit together with astonishing speed. The healing properties of the water here had exceeded my wildest expectations, compensating for my less than perfect sutures. A moment of professional pride flickered within me, quickly tempered by the realisation that nature here held powers beyond my understanding. I won't have to redo them after all, I thought, a small victory in the grand scheme of things.
Rising to my feet, I addressed Kain with a mix of sternness and care. "You'll still need to give the leg plenty of rest," I cautioned, aware of the fine line between recovery and relapse in such unpredictable conditions.
"We can make you some crutches," Chris offered. He shifted his weight, subtly adjusting to Kain's movements as he leaned heavily on Chris's shoulders for support.
"Forget making crutches," Karen huffed, her voice cutting through with a mixture of impatience and pragmatism. "Just get Luke to bring us some real ones, okay?"
"That's a much better idea..." I began, my voice trailing off as I caught myself.
The atmosphere around the campfire shifted palpably as Beatrix and Jamie emerged from behind the tents. My gaze, drawn irresistibly to the small bundle cradled in Jamie's arms, became heavy with the weight of unspoken grief. Beneath the sheet lay a silent testament to our sorrows, a reminder of loss in a place where every life held the weight of a community.
Feeling Lois tug at the frayed edges of my emotions, I instinctively pulled her closer, my hand finding solace in the softness of her head. The air around us seemed to thicken with her soft whimper, a sound that pierced the veil of gathered silence. "I know," I whispered back, crouching to meet her gaze with a tenderness I scarcely felt in my own heart. "He was your new friend." The words felt hollow, a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm of her understanding with my own. I pressed a soft kiss atop her head, a gesture of comfort that felt achingly inadequate, and stood once more.
Paul's voice broke through the gathering, his usual composure frayed at the edges by the strain of the moment. His voice cracked, a rare display of vulnerability that mirrored the collective unease. His eyes, searching the faces around the campfire for any semblance of readiness, found only a shared hesitance.
"Jamie," he began, the weight of his duty as a leader evident in his faltering start. "I know things are a bit painful right now, but we need to know when you last saw Joel."
Jamie stopped abruptly, taking a moment to think. "It was just before the attack last night. He was in his bed in the tent when I took off after Duke," the reply was measured and heavy with unspoken guilt.
Paul's next question was delicate, a careful navigation through the minefield of our collective dread. "And when you returned?" he asked.
Jamie's response, a simple shrug, carried the weight of finality, his face a mask of resignation that mirrored the sinking feeling in my own heart.
"Then it's settled," I found myself saying, the words forming a barrier against the tide of despair threatening to overwhelm me. My arms crossed over my chest in a feeble attempt to ward off the chill of realisation that crept through the gathering. "Joel is missing."
As Charity brushed past me, her presence commanding and determined, she addressed the group with a certainty that both alarmed and galvanised us. "I am certain Joel has been taken by the Portal pirate. I will hunt him down and bring Joel back." Her words, decisive and bold, sliced through the heavy air of despair that had settled around us.
Portal pirate? The term ricocheted around the confines of my mind, a myriad of questions springing to life, each vying for precedence. My mouth, however, failed spectacularly to articulate any of them, opening and closing in a futile attempt to give voice to the whirlwind of thoughts and concerns.
Jamie's declaration cut through my internal chaos. "I'm coming with you," he stated, the resolve in his voice leaving no room for doubt or debate. It was a testament to his courage, or perhaps the depth of his desperation.
Charity's nod in response was swift, her agreement sealing their pact with an urgency that underscored the criticality of the situation. "Prepare your things. We leave immediately." Her command, though directed at Jamie, seemed to ripple through the rest of us, a call to action that was both thrilling and terrifying.
As Jamie's gaze fell upon Duke, the magnitude of what lay ahead seemed to crash down upon him. His eyes, wide with a mix of terror and determination.
Charity moved towards Jamie with long, confident strides. The moment she placed her hand beneath his chin, compelling him to meet her gaze, was charged with an intensity that drew a collective breath from those of us watching. "If you want any chance of finding Joel alive, we must leave immediately." Her words, though meant to steel Jamie for the journey ahead, reverberated through the group, a stark reminder of the peril Joel faced and the slim window for his rescue.
My heart plummeted into my empty stomach at the realisation of the direness of Joel's situation. The audible gasps from our small assembly echoed my own feelings of dread and helplessness. In that moment, as we faced the reality of embarking on a rescue mission into the unknown, the bonds that tied us together as a community were both tested and reinforced.
"I need to say farewell to Duke first," Jamie's voice cracked as he spoke to Charity, the tremble of his bottom lip a silent echo of the heartache in his words. It was a moment of raw vulnerability, a painful reminder of the cost of survival in this harsh new world.
Charity, with her gaze unwavering, held onto Jamie's eyes with a determination that seemed to anchor him amidst the storm of his emotions. "Life is full of decisions and consequences, Jamie. You need to make a choice: Joel or Duke." Her words, though spoken with a certain hardness, carried the weight of our grim reality. The necessity of her stance was clear, yet it did nothing to soften the blow of the ultimatum she presented.
The harshness of the choice laid before Jamie struck me deeply, sending a sharp pang through my chest. Despite the emotional turmoil unfolding before my eyes, I couldn't look away. My hand moved instinctively, seeking comfort in the familiar warmth of Lois' fur, the softness a stark contrast to the harshness of our situation. I could never make such an impossible choice! The thought circled in my mind, a whirlwind of empathy and despair for Jamie's predicament.
Finally, Jamie's slight nod towards Beatrix was a silent surrender, a relinquishment of one heartache in the hope of preventing another. Beatrix, her own sorrow mirrored in her slow approach, accepted the unspoken transfer of duty with a grace that belied the heaviness of the moment. The tear that traced its way down her cheek caught the sunlight, a single, glistening testament to the collective grief that hung over us.
Carefully, with a tenderness that spoke volumes, Beatrix took Duke from Jamie's arms, her voice soft and soothing as she tried to offer comfort. "Duke knows you love him, Jamie. He won't ever forget that." Her words, meant to heal, were a balm to the open wounds of our hearts, yet the ache they carried seemed to only deepen the sorrow.
Tears broke freely from Jamie's eyes, each one a silent bearer of the love and regret that filled him. Leaning in, he placed a gentle kiss on Duke's wrapped form, his whisper barely audible above the crackle of the campfire. "I'm so sorry, Duke." The simple, heart-wrenching apology was a final goodbye, a moment of closure amidst the horrors that threatened to engulf us.
An unexpected surge of anger swelled within me, its intensity taking me by surprise. It coursed through my veins like a tempest, directed not only at the situation at hand but at Clivilius itself, the mysterious and cruel force behind our predicament. In that moment, I made a silent vow, promising to harbour a grudge against it as unforgiving and relentless as the arid wasteland that stretched endlessly around us.
As I wrestled with my inner turmoil, Jamie's resolve seemed to solidify. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he stood with a newfound determination. "I'll grab my things," he announced to Charity, his voice carrying a mix of resolve and underlying sorrow. I couldn't help but admire his courage, even as my heart ached for him.
My gaze followed Jamie's retreating back with a mix of anger and concern. It was a silent protest against the unfairness of it all, the dangerous mission he was about to embark on, and the sacrifices being demanded of us. Then, unexpectedly, Jamie paused and threw a glance over his shoulder. "Take good care of Henri for me." His voice, tinged with a vulnerability he rarely showed, cut through the tension like a knife.
Henri, ever the oblivious companion, perked up at the sound of his name. He snorted several times, a sound that momentarily lightened the heavy atmosphere, before his attention was diverted by a scent near one of the logs by the campfire. It was a small, almost comical moment that provided a brief respite.
Paul scooped the chubby dog into his arms with a gentle ease. "We'll keep him safe, Jamie. You have my word." His assurance was firm, a solemn promise in the midst of uncertainty.
As Jamie continued towards his tent, with Charity following close behind, a wave of sadness washed over me. If only you knew you could keep that promise, I thought despairingly. My mind was plagued with doubts, the fear that the growing list of dangers we faced might one day be insurmountable. The thought that we might not all make it through this ordeal lingered in the back of my mind, a shadow that even the promise of safety couldn't dispel.
Watching them prepare for what could very well be a mission from which they might not return, I felt a profound sense of vulnerability. The reality of our situation was stark and unyielding; the safety of our small group was a fragile thing, easily shattered.
Glenda! The voice of my father boomed within the confines of my mind, echoing with a sternness that transcended time and space. Ich habe dich eines besseren belehrt! His words, laden with disappointment, sent a jolt through me, igniting a tumultuous wave of guilt that threatened to overwhelm my senses. Ich weiss. Es tut mir leid, Vater. I replied silently, the acknowledgment of my shortcomings mingling with a deep-seated yearning for his guidance.
In the midst of this emotional tempest, my thoughts drifted unexpectedly to the Chewbathian coins, now secured to the chain around my neck, their cold presence a stark contrast to the warmth of my skin. The coins, a tangible link to my father's past and now, seemingly, to the presence of a Chewbathian Hunter, felt heavier against my chest. Was this alignment of events merely a coincidence?
There are no coincidences, Glenda, the soft, insidious whisper of Clivilius infiltrated my thoughts, bringing with it a chilling sense of inevitability. Your father...
The implication hung in the air, tantalisingly out of reach. My heart skipped a beat. My father is alive? The hope that sprang forth was immediate and overwhelming, a beacon in the darkness of uncertainty.
There are no coincidences, Glenda, the voice echoed, its repetition doing nothing to quell the storm of emotions within me.
Clivilius, answer the god damn question!
But there was only silence, a void that seemed to mock my desperation.
Clivilius!?
Silence.
Hot saline tears scorched my cheeks as I called out to the void, “Clivilius!” My plea was both a scream into the abyss and a silent beg for answers, for a sign that I was not alone in this fight. Sinking to my knees, the barren ground beneath my fists became the physical manifestation of my anguish.
As I lifted my head, the sudden awareness of the settlers' eyes on me was a jolt back to reality. A strange warmth began to stir within me, growing hotter, spreading through my veins like fiery tentacles seeking out the cold fear that had taken root in my heart. My hand reached for the Chewbathian coins, their heat intensifying, becoming an extension of my burgeoning resolve.
"Glenda, are you alright?" Paul's voice, laced with concern, barely registered as I clutched the coins tighter, their heat a beacon of hope in the growing darkness.
The fire behind my eyes, fuelled by determination and a newfound hope, met Paul's gaze with an intensity that felt foreign yet empowering. A grin began to form, unbidden, spreading across my face as the realisation took hold.
The words, once a whispered hope, now rang out with conviction, a declaration that cut through the despair and uncertainty that had shrouded us.
"My father is alive!"
