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As I cinched the coat tighter, the fabric's rough texture offered scant consolation against the biting chill that seemed to seep into my very bones. My legs, aching from the cold and my own inertia, served as a reminder of the time spent in vigil at the cavern's mouth. The wind, a relentless force, tore across the entrance with a ferocity that seemed to mock our attempts at shelter, its howl a constant companion in this desolate landscape. Snowflakes, caught in the tempest's embrace, swirled and settled momentarily on the hard rock surface before succumbing to the inevitable melt, a fleeting resistance to the freeze soon to claim the land.

Inside, the cavern's attempt at warmth was a battle half-lost to the omnipresent cold. The kerosene lamps, scattered and flickering, cast long shadows that danced eerily against the walls, their light struggling to pierce the pervasive chill.

The two large translucent screens along the cavern's highest side, stood as silent gateways of my domain. One screen, in particular, held a significance that weighed heavily on my heart—a reminder of the Guardians' dormant state, a visual testament to the once-vibrant force now stilled. This screen, a portal, stood an unmoving testament to the memories and legacies of those who had stood watch over Belkeep, now served as a poignant marker of what I had lost and what I still fought to preserve.

Reflecting on the early days of my guardianship, the rationale behind choosing such a desolate, frozen, and isolated place for our settlement often plagued my thoughts. The barren, unforgiving landscape of Belkeep seemed an improbable choice for a community. Yet, any questions regarding the decisions of Clivilius were met with a firm doctrine—Clivilius made no mistakes. This belief, instilled within me, served as a cold comfort amidst the challenges we faced.

I sighed deeply, a melancholic gaze fixed on the two vacant Portal screens that stood as silent witnesses to a once vibrant connection. One of these screens, now dormant, had once buzzed with the life force of two Guardian companions, their energy a beacon in the bleakness of our surroundings. Their absence left a void, a palpable silence where once there was the comforting hum of camaraderie and shared duty. They, like me, were natives of South Australia, a detail that lent an additional layer of connection and loss to their absence. This shared origin had fostered a sense of familiarity, a bond that had transcended the mere coincidence of birthplace to become a cornerstone of our shared identity as Guardians.

I sighed deeply, looking forlornly at the vacant Portal screen. It had been dormant for many years now. The memory of Jeremiah's words echoed in the hollows of the cavern and the hollows of my heart. “I’ve been watching them closely for a long time. Just as I have you,” he had said, his voice imbued with a knowledge that seemed to stretch beyond the confines of our present circumstances. “You will be good for each other.” His assertion, spoken with the certainty of one who had peered into the depths of fate, had been a guiding light. Soon after, he had equipped them, as he had equipped me, with a device, a Portal Key—a tangible link to the duty we were bound to and a symbol of the trust placed in us.

The arrival of Freya momentarily pulled me from the depths of my reverie. Her presence, marked by the shedding of her winter cloak’s hood, and the cold air, playing across her flushed cheeks, served as a stark reminder of the harshness of our environment, a reality we all bore with a resilience born of necessity.

"Can you get these things for Chief?" Her voice, breaking through the solemn quietude of the cavern, brought my focus back to the immediate challenges we faced. The list she handed me was a small, yet significant, testament to our continued efforts to thrive in an environment that offered little concession to human habitation.

I couldn't help but scoff at the request, a reaction not directed at Freya but at the broader situation. The list in my hand was a bitter reminder of our technological backwardness, a jarring juxtaposition to the advancements I knew Earth continued to make—a reality unknown to those like Freya, who had never seen anything beyond the rugged confines of Belkeep. Tucking the list beneath my coat, I felt its weight as a symbol of our enduring struggle, a tangible representation of the gulf between the world I came from and the world I was trying to sustain.

Jeremiah is right, I found myself reflecting, the thought of the two remaining Portal Keys weighing heavily on my mind. The decision to let Gladys choose the recipient of the final device lingered as a strategic move, a part of a larger plan that required careful manipulation. Anyone but Beatrix, I resolved, understanding the necessity of keeping the two sisters apart for the plan to succeed. It was a calculated effort to coerce Luke into finding us, a manoeuvre that carried both risk and potential reward.

"Our settlement is struggling to survive. We are at the worst that I have ever seen," Freya’s admission, laden with a grave sincerity, mirrored my own perceptions. Her words were a sobering affirmation of the dire circumstances we faced, a reality that demanded action, resilience, and hope.

"Luke Smith will find us. I promise," I assured her, my voice heavy with a conviction I needed her to believe in. The certainty in my declaration was not just for her, but a mantra for myself, a beacon of hope in the challenging times we navigated.

Freya's reaction, however, was a mixture of frustration and resignation, her belief in my assurances waning. "Go listen to Chief. He has a good plan," she pushed, her tone carrying the weight of weariness interlaced with a sense of urgency. It was clear she held little faith in the promises of guardians yet unseen, her patience thinning against the backdrop of her reality.

I couldn't help but frown at my daughter, the complexity of our relationship deepening in the moment. Freya, who had once hung on my every word, captivated by the stories of my past and the world beyond our harsh existence, had shifted. She had grown resistant to the prophecies, to my promises of a time when a new Guardian would unite the Clivilius world. The resilience and wonder that had once defined her were now marred by the scars of loss and the relentless fight for survival. She had grown, not just in age, but in perspective, becoming a figure of pragmatism born from the ashes of disillusionment.

"It's time," I found myself saying, an announcement that felt both monumental and heavy with the burden of what it entailed. My hands rested on her shoulders, a gesture meant to ground both of us in the moment.

Her shoulders tensed under my touch, rising in a shrug that spoke volumes of her internal struggle. "Time for what?" Freya's voice was tinged with a sadness that cut through me, a reminder of the innocence lost to the trials we faced.

"It's time to complete the team," I stated, the words ringing with a sense of finality and resolve.

Freya's gasp cut through the cavern's chill like a knife. "Is it safe?" Her question, laden with fear and the desire for reassurance, echoed the internal conflict that raged within me.

"No," I found myself admitting, the truth heavy on my tongue. "It's never safe." The reality of our existence, fraught with danger at every turn, was a bitter pill to swallow, yet it was our reality nonetheless.

"Then why?" Her frustration, a mirror to my own internal turmoil, demanded an answer. "Haven't we seen enough death already?"

The weight of her questions compelled me to shed the layers that shielded me from the cold, a symbolic disrobing that felt almost ritualistic in its intent. My winter coat, a barrier against Clivilius's unforgiving chill, was discarded over the rocks, revealing the stark contrast of my attire—jeans and a polo shirt, ill-suited for the climate yet emblematic of a connection to a world beyond. This act of shedding my coat was a transition, a preparation for the journey back to Earth.

Turning to face the silent Portal, I paused, the weight of my Guardianship pressing down on me. Glancing back at Freya, her eyes searching mine for an explanation, a justification for the risks, the pain, and the uncertainty that shadowed my every step, I realised that there was none to offer, no way to halt the inevitable cycle of life and death. Yet, I carried within me a burning ember—hope.

"Hope," was all I could muster, the word barely a whisper, yet it carried the entirety of my conviction. Approaching Freya, I placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, an act imbued with the promise of a future, of possibilities yet to unfold.

With my mind set on the destination, Gladys Cramer kitchen, I silently invoked Clivilius's power. The dormant Portal sprang to life, its screen a canvas of swirling colours, a gateway to a world beyond the harshness of Belkeep. Casting a final look at Freya, I stepped through the Portal, the vibrant hues enveloping me, as the gateway closed behind me, leaving behind the cold, the uncertainty, and the promise of hope that fuelled my perseverance.