A Gracious Child

“You don’t expect your fiercest opponent to be six years old, in lace, and holding your wine bottle like a verdict.”

A cold gust of wind blew in from the cavern’s entrance, sharp and sudden, slicing through the thin fabric of my clothes like icy fingers. It carried with it a flurry of pillowed snowflakes, soft and silent, that spun in lazy spirals around me before dissolving into the stone underfoot. The air bit at my skin, leaving my cheeks raw and my fingertips aching.

"Cody wasn’t joking about Belkeep being cold," I murmured to myself, my voice barely audible above the whispering wind. I rubbed my free hand along my arm, the skin already puckered with goosebumps. The other hand, the one still gripping the neck of the wine bottle, felt stiff and clumsy, as though it no longer belonged to me. The chill had sunk into the bones.

Slowly, cautiously, I turned on the spot, my boots crunching faintly on the frosted ground. My breath caught in my throat—not from the cold this time, but from the sheer scale of what surrounded me.

The cavern was enormous. Vast. It stretched upwards into a ceiling lost in shadows, the walls rough-hewn and ancient, as if carved not by tools but by time itself. I stared in awe, neck craned, as the space seemed to bend perception.

Three large, translucent screens stood in a wide arc before me. They glowed faintly, pulsing with a subtle, otherworldly energy, each one rising majestically from a curved base on the cavern floor. They were immense—at least three metres wide and just as high—standing like ancient gateways cut from glass and light.

So this was how Luke drove those trucks through. My earlier scepticism faded in the face of sheer scale. The size made sense now, in the way thunder makes sense once you've seen lightning.

The air shimmered faintly around the screens, and I felt the hairs on my arms rise again, this time not from cold but from something more primal—an awareness of power barely contained.

Around the Portals, flickering torchlight added to the scene’s strangeness. Dozens of torches stood mounted in iron sconces, their flames guttering in the breeze but holding fast. The firelight played tricks across the walls, casting tall, distorted shadows that moved in jerky synchrony with the wind. They danced a silent, haunting ballet across the rugged stone, twisting like spectres.

Another gust of wind swept in, fiercer this time. I flinched, teeth chattering, the bottle in my hand shifting unsteadily. My coat—if it could still be called that—was useless. Thin cotton layered over denim and grief.

Then I saw it.

A large fur coat hung on a thick iron hook beside the Portal I had emerged through. Its dark fur rippled slightly in the breeze, heavy and warm-looking. Without hesitation, I crossed the space between us, drawn by the silent promise of warmth like a moth to flame.

As my fingers brushed the soft fur, a smell met my nose—faint but unmistakable.

“Cody,” I whispered, my heart skipping a beat. The scent was familiar—wood smoke, worn leather, something faintly herbal—clean, masculine, comforting. A scent that clung to memory.

He must’ve left it here before returning to Earth.

I lifted the coat gently from its hook, cradling it like something sacred. Then, almost without thinking, I pressed my face into the collar. The smell enveloped me, seeping into my skin, unearthing a hundred little moments I’d tried not to think about. His voice. His laugh. The way he listened.

"I miss you so much," I whispered into the thick lining, my words muffled by the fabric, but none the less real. The weight of the coat was nothing compared to the weight that pressed against my chest.

Standing there, wrapped in the coat that still carried his warmth in trace amounts, I felt my eyes begin to sting again. The tears never seemed far away these days. Grief had a way of waiting in the wings, ready to step out the moment silence gave it room.

And here, in the hollow stillness of a frozen cave in a world I didn’t understand, with nothing but torchlight and loss for company, it stepped out again—quietly, insistently.

A cold silence had settled in the cavern, thick as the snow that drifted through the entrance. I stood still, Cody’s coat heavy on my shoulders, my breath fogging faintly in the torchlight. The Portal Key remained clutched in my hand like a relic.

Then a voice—gentle and unexpected—broke through the hush.

“Are you our new Guardian?”

I spun, startled. My shoes scraped against the icy floor, the echo bouncing off the walls. My heart kicked up a gear.

A small figure stepped hesitantly from the curtain of falling snow. A girl. Petite, young. She walked with a dancer’s grace, her delicate form framed by the soft swirl of white behind her. The sight was both disarming and surreal—an apparition stepping from a dream.

"I guess I am," I said, the words escaping before I could second-guess them. My voice was barely more than a breath, laced with wonder and uncertainty. I looked down at the Portal Key in my hand, suddenly aware of its weight. It no longer felt like a tool—it felt like a contract. A key not just to places, but to responsibilities I barely understood.

The girl moved toward me, her long, dark curls bouncing gently with each step. Her dress was black and frilly, old-fashioned in a way that made it look like she’d wandered straight out of a Victorian portrait. It should have looked out of place here, but oddly, it didn’t. Nothing did. Not anymore.

She ran the last few paces and wrapped her arms around my waist. The gesture was so immediate, so full of certainty, that it caught the breath in my throat.

“I knew you would come,” she said into my coat, her small voice warm and steady. As if this moment had always been a given.

I looked down at her as she released me, her tiny fingers unravelling from the fur. She stepped back and dipped into a curtsy with a practiced flourish—graceful, composed, somehow solemn.

“I’m Krid,” she said, her voice lilting like a song played softly in the background.

“Gladys,” I replied, hesitant, thrown off by her formality but charmed despite myself. “How old are you?”

She beamed. “I’m six.”

Of course she was.

The dress, the posture, the conviction in her voice—it all seemed too knowing for six. But who was I to question what passed for normal in a world like this? You’re not in Hobart anymore, Gladys, I reminded myself. Heck, you’re not even on Earth anymore... supposedly.

Before I could process another thought, she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at me, suddenly intense.

“Why are you sad?” she asked. “Didn’t you want to be our Guardian?”

Then, with no hesitation whatsoever, she reached out and plucked the wine bottle from my hand. Just like that. Her tiny fingers closed around it with shocking authority.

“Hey—” I started, trying to retrieve it. But my body resisted, as if moving through sludge. My limbs were slow, uncooperative, as if numbed by the cold or hijacked by something I couldn’t explain.

No sound came. I wanted to speak—wanted to tell her to give it back, to explain, to ask what the hell was going on—but I couldn’t.

I stood there, frozen and mute, watching this small child study the bottle with casual curiosity. Her nose wrinkled as she sniffed at the mouth of it. Then came a swift recoil, followed by a sputtered cough as the strong scent hit her.

Without pause, she turned and marched toward the edge of the cavern. The wine sloshed gently inside the bottle as she moved with disturbing purpose.

“What? Wait! Stop!” I cried out, the words finally tearing free as I stumbled after her. Instinct overrode paralysis. I rushed forward and snatched the bottle from her hands, clutching it protectively against my chest like she’d tried to steal my last shred of sanity.

She barely flinched. Just looked up at me with those big, round eyes—calm, unbothered.

“We’re not allowed alcohol here,” she said, matter-of-factly.

You’re not allowed to, I thought stubbornly, my eyes narrowing as I cradled the bottle like a wounded bird. I brought it to my lips and drank.

It was more rebellion than refreshment. The wine was cold now, tart and sharp on my tongue. But it burned just enough to remind me that I was still here. Still me.

“No,” Krid corrected softly, “it’s against Belkeep law.”

I choked mid-sip, caught off guard. A fine mist of shiraz sprayed into the cold air as I spluttered.

“That needs to change,” I muttered, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve, more indignant than apologetic. I tilted the bottle back and emptied what little remained.

Finished, I held it out for her, as if offering proof of surrender.

She took it without hesitation.

And before I could say a word, she launched it like a stone.

The glass exploded against the cave wall, shattering into a hundred jagged pieces. The sound echoed, long and violent, ricocheting through the cavern like a gunshot.

“Fixed,” said Krid, grinning up at me with unmistakable satisfaction. Her bright eyes gleamed with something more than mischief—something that danced just beyond reach. Clever. Controlled.

I chuckled, nervous and unsteady. It was the only response I could muster.

Be careful, Gladys, I warned myself silently, watching her as she twirled in a small circle on the icy floor. She had the innocence of a child, yes—but also the calm certainty of someone who knew things. Things I didn’t.

There was more to Krid than frilly dresses and sweet smiles.

There was more to this world than I was ready for.

"Is Cody far away?" Krid asked innocently, her wide eyes shimmering with the kind of curiosity only a child can hold without understanding its gravity. "I haven't seen him for a few days."

The words hit like a silent punch to the gut. I was thankful, in a bitter sort of way, that there was no more wine in my system to splutter across the cavern floor. But the emptiness in my chest returned instantly, carving out the air in my lungs, leaving me hollow. My heart plummeted into the pit of my stomach, heavy and unmovable. His name alone was enough to fracture the fragile quiet I’d managed to build around my grief.

Krid’s bright countenance dimmed in an instant. Something passed over her face—a flicker of realisation too deep for someone so young. A stillness. A shadow of understanding that made her look, for a heartbeat, much older than six.

"He's dead, isn't he?" she asked bluntly.

The words hung in the air, unsoftened. Unmistakable. They cut through the silence like a knife—clean, merciless, final.

I couldn’t speak. My throat closed up, clogged with the ache of unshed tears. I simply nodded, my face stiff with the effort of not breaking again. Numbness wrapped itself around me like the cold, but it did nothing to soften the truth.

Krid’s eyes welled immediately. Fat tears broke free and trickled down her rosy cheeks, carving silent paths through the innocence of her expression. "I thought so," she said quietly. Her voice was fragile now, the certainty gone. What remained was raw sadness. Honest and unfiltered.

It undid me.

"I'm very sorry, Krid," I managed, my voice paper-thin, cracking under the strain. It felt inadequate—painfully so. I stood paralysed, torn between my own grief and the unfamiliar need to comfort someone else. A child. It was too much. How do you console a child over a death you haven’t even begun to process yourself?

But Krid, astonishingly, didn’t crumble.

"It's not your fault," she replied, wiping her cheeks with the back of one sleeve. Her voice was steadier than mine. Measured. Older than her years. She sniffed, loudly and unapologetically, then reached out and took my hand in her own. Her fingers were warm, small, but full of purpose. She squeezed gently and gave a light tug—an invitation, not a command.

"You must meet Freya. She will be delighted to meet you."

The name struck me like a shard of ice down my spine.

Freya.

Even hearing it caused my skin to prickle. A dozen memories flashed through me in an instant: the crawlspace beneath the stairs, the smell of rot, the way Cody's body had shifted in the darkness like it still remembered pain. It was too much.

"No, I can't," I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. I yanked my hand free from Krid’s, my breath coming faster. The thought of facing anyone else—especially Freya—dragged me back into that claustrophobic crawlspace, into the unbearable reality of loss and rot and failure.

"It's okay," Krid said gently, undeterred. Her voice was a balm, soft and even. She reached for my hand again with a kind of patience that unsettled me. "She won't be mad at you."

I stared at her. This girl—this tiny person in a black frilly dress, living in a place buried beneath snow and silence—was offering me a kind of peace I hadn’t dared hope for. Her eyes didn’t judge. Her voice didn’t push. And somehow, that calm was enough to still my feet.

How can such a young child be so gracious? So understanding? So calm? The questions swirled in my mind, unanswered and unanswerable. She moved like someone who had already seen too much of the world—and had learned to carry it without complaint.

I turned my gaze to the cave's entrance. Snow drifted steadily down beyond the rocky threshold, falling in thick, weightless clumps. Belkeep’s infamous cold enveloped everything. Cody had spoken of it once—how it was unrelenting, isolating. No wonder Krid was the way she was. You had to be resilient to survive in a place like this. Tough as the stones underfoot. Soft as the silence that surrounded them.

I followed her.

Each step crunched through the snow, the chill biting through the soles of my shoes, curling into my bones. Krid didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. I was following now, not just with my feet, but with something deeper—curiosity, perhaps. A flicker of purpose. A whisper of what it might mean to belong to this world.

Despite the grief, despite the fear, I wanted to know more. About Freya. About Belkeep. About what Cody had really seen in this strange, frozen place. About what it meant to be a Guardian.

And there, in the shadow of the cave and the quiet fall of snow, Krid led me forward. A guiding light through the dark. A beginning, cloaked in endings.