Hope of Chewbathia

“Grief is an anchor. But sometimes, it marks the spot where the fire starts.”

Finding a suitable sheet for Duke was a small mercy in the midst of our turmoil, a simple task that grounded me with its clear purpose. The fabric, a faded remnant from some other life—one with laundry days and folding lines—now carried the weight of something far more solemn. Cradling it to my chest, I stepped out of the tent, intending to return quickly and quietly. But the sight that greeted me diverted my path and splintered my focus.

Charity stood over the carcass of the shadow panther, her posture rigid, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. Her expression was unreadable—somewhere between fascination and a grim kind of mourning. The beast’s body, despite its lifelessness, retained a presence that was deeply unsettling. Its sinewy form, so elegant in death, spoke of a predator designed by nature with ruthless efficiency. The morning sun threw harsh light across its obsidian coat, revealing details I hadn't dared examine the night before: deep claw marks in its flank, blood darkened to black where it had seeped into the ground.

My steps slowed, curiosity and concern overriding the pull of my original errand. As I approached, the air felt cooler somehow, the stillness more profound.

"Was there only one shadow panther?" The question tumbled from my lips before I could weigh it. It wasn't just a need to know—it was a need to quantify the terror, to make sense of it with logic and numbers, to corral the unknown into the realm of data and patterns where I felt safest.

Charity didn’t look at me right away. Her gaze remained fixed on the creature at her feet. When she did speak, her voice was quiet.
"They are pack hunters. There would have been at least four or five of them in the area last night."

The air left my lungs in a single, silent exhale. The weight of her words settled heavily in my chest.

"That many?" I whispered, barely trusting my own voice. It was as though I could still feel them—ghosts of the night—moving unseen around us while we’d huddled in the dark, one hand in blood, the other clinging to hope.

Charity’s silence was confirmation enough. I followed her gaze to the carcass again, seeing it anew—not just a lone animal but a fragment of something larger, something coordinated, intelligent. Predators who moved in silence and shadows, capable of encircling a camp full of humans and nearly succeeding.

Then came the revelation that shifted everything. Her voice was calm, measured, but what she said landed like an aftershock.
"Now that they have lost two of their pack, it's unlikely that they..."

My head snapped toward her before she could finish.
"They lost two?" I cut in, the force of my voice sharper than intended. My mind scrambled to process the new variable, a fresh sense of dread pushing at the edges of my rationality. Two? My eyes scanned the horizon instinctively, as though another carcass might suddenly materialise from the dust.

The sheet in my hands, momentarily forgotten, slid slightly from my arms as a thousand questions surged forward, clamouring for attention in my already frayed mind. One dead panther lay before us—but where was the other? And more haunting still, what had killed it? The ground beneath me seemed to tilt slightly as if the very foundations of understanding were beginning to give way.

Charity’s response landed like a stone dropped into murky water, sending ripples of unease outward. "There's this one and the second one followed Beatrix through the Portal to Earth."

"What!?" The exclamation escaped before I could filter it, sharp and immediate, a vocal outburst to match the cacophony of thoughts crashing through me. "We can get back to Earth now? And who's Beatrix?" My heart stuttered, unable to decide between hope and dread. The word Earth struck a deeply buried chord, vibrating with longing—the idea of home, of a world that didn’t bleed and growl in the shadows.

But Charity’s calm, even voice drew that hope back like a tide retreating too soon. "We can't, but there are some creatures, like Guardians and these shadow panthers, that can."

The word can’t echoed like a cold gust against the brief warmth I’d felt. That door—once imagined open—slammed shut again, its lock more formidable than ever.

"And Beatrix?" I asked, more subdued now. The name sat awkwardly on my tongue, as if invoking it might further unravel the fragile understanding I still clung to.

"The silver-haired girl," Charity replied, nodding towards the tent where Joel and Jamie had last been seen. I followed her gaze, the image of the girl with hair like spun frost forming vividly in my mind. She had seemed otherworldly—damaged, beautiful, quiet. Now she was something else entirely. "I believe she is your newest Guardian."

My breath caught in my throat, skin prickling. "There's more than one Guardian?" My voice cracked on the last word, as though my disbelief alone could puncture this strange new reality. It felt as though the universe had doubled in size in an instant, rendering all my previous assumptions small and brittle.

Charity chuckled softly, the sound curiously at odds with the blood-soaked creature before her. There was a worn wisdom to it, a knowing that somehow both soothed and unsettled. "It would seem you've got a lot more to learn."

And then, without ceremony, she drew a long, curved knife from the sheath at her hip. The blade glinted with cold promise in the growing sunlight. Her expression didn’t change as she stepped forward and, in a single, practiced movement, drove the knife deep into the shadow panther’s neck.

The sound was wet—visceral. A hot, coppery stench hit me with almost physical force. My stomach clenched violently, twisting in protest. The foulness of it was unlike anything I’d ever encountered—thick and cloying, like decay soaked in sulphur. It flooded my nostrils, coated the back of my throat, and made my eyes water.

I gagged, instinctively recoiling, the sheet slipping entirely from my arms as I clamped a hand over my mouth. Charity worked with ruthless efficiency, the blade sawing through tendons and muscle with a grim rhythm, as if she'd done it a hundred times before.

"It's unpleasant," she offered, barely audible above the wet noises of torn flesh. Her arms moved in controlled arcs, each cut deliberate and final. "But the scent will warn the pack members to keep their distance."

Unpleasant hardly seemed adequate. The sight alone was horrific, but it was the smell—that death-drenched fug—that forced me to retreat.

"I'm not surprised," I mumbled, though my voice sounded distant, as if muffled by the overwhelming sensory assault. I stumbled backwards, my boots crunching over dry dirt, eyes stinging, stomach turning. Pressing the back of my hand hard against my lips, I turned away, needing distance—not just from the panther, but from the awful, burgeoning truth of what this place was turning us into.

It was then, in my haste to escape the stench and brutality of Charity’s grim task, that I nearly collided with Beatrix as she stepped out of the tent. Her arms were full—fresh clothes stacked precariously, clearly intended for Jamie. The near impact drew a small, startled gasp from her, a delicate sound that trembled in the tense morning air. Under any other circumstances, we might have shared a chuckle, a brief moment of levity in an otherwise unbearable day. But humour felt a lifetime away now.

"Please take this with you and give it to Jamie," I said, extending the folded sheet with what composure I could summon. My voice had found a steadier rhythm again—perhaps not calm, but focused. "He can wrap Duke in it until we can organise more suitable arrangements."

Beatrix took the sheet in silence, her expression unreadable but not unfeeling. Her hands, pale and fine-boned, clutched the cloth as if understanding its purpose instinctively, no words required. There was something in the way she moved—quiet, deliberate—that suggested she carried far more weight than her slight frame revealed. Her silence wasn’t void; it was thick with something unspoken. Grief? Guilt? Or perhaps simply exhaustion, familiar as breath.

"Charity is right, Beatrix," came Paul’s voice, rough with fatigue, slicing cleanly through the fragile quiet between us. He stepped out behind her, emerging into the light like a figure surfacing from deeper waters. His tone made it clear that their conversation had been running long before I’d arrived.

My eyes flicked between them, sharp and uncertain, catching the unfinished echoes of their dialogue in the charged space between them. What had I just walked into?

Beatrix stiffened as Paul approached, her jaw tightening. Whatever he had said, it landed poorly. "You take charge of it then," she snapped, thrusting the burden back at him in a single breath. Her voice was tight with restrained emotion—more than just irritation. A current of something heavier ran beneath it. Then she turned, her back straight, her departure swift and deliberate. No wasted movements. No glance back.

I took a long breath, steadying myself in her wake. My nerves buzzed, frayed by the morning’s endless revelations and the dark momentum of things still unspoken. I turned to Paul, seeking clarity in the way one might seek solid ground after walking too long on ice. But before he could offer even a word, Charity’s voice pierced the moment.

"The dog needs to be cremated," she said bluntly, rising to her feet like a verdict being handed down. She moved with a soldier’s precision, unsentimental and efficient. I watched, both fascinated and slightly appalled, as she dragged her knife across one of the tassels that hung from her skirt, cleaning the blade in one grim, practiced motion. The sound of it—the soft, gritty slide of metal on leather—was final. When she returned the blade to its sheath, the gesture had the weight of ritual, like the closing of a chapter none of us had chosen to read.

I frowned, caught somewhere between protest and uncertainty. Charity—this woman of bone-dry logic and battlefield steadiness—was unlike anyone I had yet encountered in Clivilius. She was sharp edges and scorched truth, and I hadn’t decided yet whether I admired or resented her for it.

She has even less tact than I do, I mused bitterly. And that’s saying something. The internal note should have amused me, but instead it landed like a dull thud, hollow in the pit of my chest. My mouth opened instinctively to respond, to challenge her perhaps, but no words came. The truth was, she was right. In this place, there wasn’t time for ceremony. Still, that didn’t make it okay.

Nothing about this place is okay.

And the weight of that realisation settled on my shoulders like ash.

Just as the weight of the situation threatened to engulf me—threatened to pull me under like a tide too strong to fight—Paul’s voice broke through with the force of a life ring thrown across dark water. "Look! Karen and Chris are returning with Kain," he announced, his outstretched arm slicing the horizon behind me, finger pointing towards the distant crest of the dunes. I turned instinctively, the swell of dread pausing for breath as my gaze found the small group descending toward camp.

"And Lois too," I added, almost before the thought had fully formed, my voice hitching on a small breath. Just saying her name lit something within me—something tender, something unbroken. A flicker of warmth ignited in my chest, not blazing, but enough to push back the encroaching chill. My lips curved into a smile—genuine, fleeting, and desperately needed.

I crouched, arms wide, braced to receive the force of Lois's sprinting devotion. She came barreling toward me in that gangly, jubilant way only a dog could muster—ears flopping, tongue flailing, her paws pounding the sand like she’d outrun the night itself just to reach me. The collision was perfect. She flung herself into my arms, her wiry body quivering with joy, and I let out a laugh—a sound that surprised even me with how free it felt.

Behind her, the approach of the three settlers was less exuberant but no less compelling. Each step they took bore the weariness of the long night and the fragile hope of a morning that had not yet turned on them. Karen and Chris flanked Kain like bookends to a story still being written, their strength lent to his faltering stride. He was walking—not well, but walking.

"The feeling has returned in my good leg," Kain announced, the words accompanied by a grin so wide it threatened to split his face in half. He beamed like a boy who had just outrun death—and perhaps he had.

"Well, that's a relief," I said, rising to my feet, compelled by the lightness in his voice. Hope—a rare, quivering thing in this place—pressed gently at the corners of my mind. "And the injured one?" My tone shifted, instinctively slipping into the cadence of a doctor, even as the friend in me leaned forward, hungry for reassurance.

"Seems to be quite the miracle," Karen said, and for once, there was no edge in her voice—only a quiet wonder. Her gaze met mine as they reached the fire, and I saw the truth of it reflected in her eyes: this was something beyond the ordinary. Something sacred.

I crouched before Kain, my focus narrowing to the leg I’d stitched together by phonelight and instinct. The bandages were slightly damp but no longer saturated with blood. I peeled them back gently, heart hammering in my ears.

The flesh underneath was… healing. Already. Not just scabbing over, not merely surviving—but truly knitting itself together with an alacrity that defied both logic and biology. I could see the fine lines of new skin forming along the crude track of my sutures, pink and raw, but strong. Nature—this place—had taken my imperfect work and finished it with a grace I could never replicate.

I won’t have to redo them after all, I thought, a quiet flicker of pride blooming beneath my exhaustion. A small win, but hard-earned.

"You’ll still need to give the leg plenty of rest," I told him, straightening with a click of my knees, letting the authority of my role steady me once more. The optimism in his expression was contagious, but I couldn’t let it carry him too far. “Healing this fast doesn’t mean indestructible.”

"We can make you some crutches," Chris offered, shifting to steady Kain as he leaned more heavily against his shoulder. His voice was matter-of-fact, already solving the next problem in the long chain of survival.

"Forget making crutches," Karen interjected, crossing her arms, ever the practical force in our group. "Just get Luke to bring us some real ones, okay?"

"That's a much better idea..." I began, but the sentence faltered midway, my mind snagging on the name.

Luke.

A fresh ripple of unease spread through me.

Luke.

Another question. Another person unaccounted for. The name echoed through my thoughts like a stone dropped into still water, sending widening circles of dread across the surface of my already unsettled mind. How many more names would we be forced to speak in this way, with that careful weight of concern? How many more might vanish before we had answers?

The atmosphere around the campfire shifted, subtle but unmistakable, as Beatrix and Jamie emerged from behind the tents. The slight crunch of sand underfoot gave way to a silence that seemed to wrap itself around the clearing like gauze over an open wound. My gaze was drawn—irresistibly, unwillingly—to the small bundle in Jamie’s arms. The folded sheet held no movement, no life. Yet it was so heavy, I could feel it pressing against all of us like the weight of our collective grief embodied in one quiet, heart-breaking form.

Duke.

A silent testament to our sorrows. Proof that this place, this world we had been hurled into, had teeth—and didn’t care who it bit.

Lois, always so attuned to things I couldn’t name, shifted beside me. Her body pressed tighter against my leg, her soft whimper barely audible—but to me, it was like glass shattering. I reached down, almost without thought, letting my hand drift to her head. The warmth of her fur grounded me, though my fingers trembled. I didn’t trust my voice to say much, but still, something surfaced.

“I know,” I whispered, crouching low so our eyes could meet. Her amber gaze held a sadness I hadn’t thought a dog could carry. “He was your new friend.”

The words tasted wrong, thin and pointless, but they were all I had. I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, the gesture automatic, instinctive. It wasn't enough—how could it ever be?—but in that moment, it was the only comfort I could give. And then I stood again, because if I didn’t, I was afraid I might not be able to.

Paul’s voice broke through the heavy silence, frayed and strained, like a rope pulled too tightly for too long. There was something in it—some cracking, raw edge—that made me glance toward him. He wasn’t just speaking as our leader; he was speaking as a man who had carried too much for too long, and who now had one more burden to bear.

“Jamie,” he began, and the name alone seemed to summon a fresh wave of tension. “I know things are a bit painful right now, but we need to know when you last saw Joel.”

Jamie stopped in his tracks. His grip on the bundled sheet shifted slightly, and for a moment he just stood there, as if combing through the memory cost him something physical. Finally, his voice came—quiet, flat, but steady. “It was just before the attack last night. He was in his bed in the tent when I took off after Duke.”

The guilt that clung to him wasn’t loud, but it was suffocating.

Paul’s next words came gently, but each one seemed to step carefully, as if afraid to trigger something fragile. “And when you returned?”

Jamie’s shrug said everything. No words followed—just a sagging of the shoulders, a downward tilt of the head. The silence that followed was more damning than any confirmation could have been.

I felt something inside me settle—not in relief, but in grim acceptance.

“Then it’s settled,” I said, the words pressing past my lips like stones, heavy and unyielding. My arms folded tightly over my chest, as though I could somehow shield myself from the chill that had seeped into my bones. “Joel is missing.”

There. Spoken aloud, the truth felt like the last breath of warmth before a storm. Around the fire, I saw it reflected in every face: the growing, inescapable fear that nothing here was as safe as we’d once tried to believe.

As Charity brushed past me, her presence was like a blade drawn through silk—cutting, assured, and leaving no room for uncertainty. Her voice rang out, firm and crystalline, addressing 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 landed like thunder on dry ground, disrupting the brittle silence we had been standing in. Portal pirate? The term jolted through my thoughts like an electric current. My mind scrambled for context, images, explanations—anything to ground the absurdity of what I had just heard—but came up with nothing but a spinning kaleidoscope of half-formed questions.

Portal pirate. Portal. Pirate.

The words refused to reconcile.

My mouth opened slightly, then closed again without sound, as if some part of me recognised I couldn’t yet make sense of it. I glanced around, searching for clarity in the faces of those beside me, but all I saw was shared confusion reflected back like a hall of mirrors.

Then Jamie’s voice rang out, clear and filled with the kind of resolve that doesn’t ask permission.

“I’m coming with you.”

There was no doubt in his tone—no hesitation. His words dropped like an anchor, stilling the surrounding air. Courage or grief, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps both. But it was the kind of statement that didn’t need second-guessing.

Charity didn’t question him. Her nod came quick, professional, already anticipating what needed to be done. “Prepare your things. We leave immediately.”

The finality of her words struck like a starting gun, even as the rest of us stood frozen. The stillness broke only when Jamie turned his gaze downward. To Duke. The bundle of cloth cradled in his arms seemed to gain weight in that moment, its significance sharp and unbearably poignant. Jamie’s shoulders stiffened, his expression cracking open under the strain of two losses: one already real, and the other looming.

Charity crossed the space between them in several long, assured strides, her authority making the air around her hum. When she placed her hand beneath Jamie’s chin and lifted it, compelling him to meet her gaze, I felt something tighten in my chest.

“If you want any chance of finding Joel alive,” she said, her voice low and unwavering, “we must leave immediately.”

The effect was immediate. Her words rippled outward, latching onto every person in the clearing. My breath caught—sharp and shallow—and beside me I heard gasps, small sounds of shock that matched the thudding in my own chest.

My heart sank, plunging into the hollow pit of my stomach. There was no time. No room for further mourning, or for the safety of measured decisions. We were balanced on the edge of something immense and terrifying. A rescue mission, not into a forest or over a dune—but into the unknown, where the very laws that governed survival shifted with the wind.

“I need to say farewell to Duke first,” Jamie’s voice broke as he spoke to Charity. His words trembled, their edges frayed with grief, and the subtle quiver of his bottom lip betrayed the depth of his pain. It was a raw, unguarded moment—an emotional wound laid bare for all to see, and it cut deeply into the silence around us.

Charity didn’t flinch. Her gaze held his, unwavering and firm, a pillar of resolve in the face of his unravelling. “Life is full of decisions and consequences, Jamie. You need to make a choice: Joel or Duke.” Her words fell like iron into the dirt between them—sharp, unyielding, absolute. There was no malice in her tone, no cruelty—but neither was there comfort. Only the unrelenting truth of our reality.

The ultimatum hung in the air like a blade suspended above us, ready to fall. I felt it pierce me too. The breath caught in my lungs. My hand instinctively found Lois, my fingers curling into her fur in search of grounding. Her body pressed closer, as if she too sensed the weight of the moment, her soft breath warm against my wrist. I could never make such an impossible choice! The thought coiled inside me, twisting painfully through my chest. Love or duty. Mourning or hope. One or the other.

Jamie’s shoulders slumped. The slight nod he gave Beatrix wasn’t just agreement—it was surrender. A quiet, noble yielding to the brutal demands of survival. I saw the moment it broke him, the flicker of light behind his eyes dimming as he relinquished one pain in the desperate hope of staving off another.

Beatrix stepped forward slowly, as if drawn by a silent call. Her movements were fluid, reverent. As she reached for Duke, her expression held a grace I hadn’t expected. There was no hesitation in her hands, only understanding. The tear that tracked its way down her cheek shimmered in the morning light, a glistening echo of all the grief we had yet to voice.

“Duke knows you love him, Jamie. He won’t ever forget that.” Her voice was quiet, intimate. The kind of tone used in whispered prayers or final lullabies. I watched Jamie’s hands reluctantly release Duke’s small, swaddled body, his fingertips lingering a moment longer before they let go.

Tears streamed freely now, unchecked, each one carving a fresh wound across his face. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss—gentle, final—against the sheet-wrapped form of the dog who had followed him through fear and fire. “I’m so sorry, Duke,” he whispered, the apology slipping into the flames and dust like a fading spell.

And then it happened—something inside me cracked. A surge of fury roared through me, fierce and unbidden. It seared its way through my veins, burning away the numbness that had settled around my heart. It wasn’t directed at Jamie or Charity, or even the choices laid bare before us. No—it was aimed at Clivilius itself.

This brutal land. This merciless sky. This cruel riddle of a world that seemed to demand so much from us, yet offered so little in return.

I clenched my fists at my sides, jaw set, and made a silent vow: I will never forgive this place. I will carry this resentment like a blade, honed on sorrow and sharpened by every unanswered cry. Whatever Clivilius was—however it came to be—it would never take from me without resistance again.

As I wrestled with my inner turmoil, Jamie’s resolve seemed to solidify before my eyes. Something in his posture shifted—shoulders no longer slumped beneath the weight of sorrow, but squared with fragile purpose. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he stood with a calmness that betrayed the storm within. "I'll grab my things," he announced to Charity, his voice carrying a mix of resolve and underlying sorrow. It was not bravado—there was nothing performative about it. It was survival, stripped to its rawest form. I couldn't help but admire his courage, even as my heart ached for him.

My eyes followed his retreating figure, and with it, a mix of emotions swirled—anger at this cursed place that forced a man into decisions no person should have to make, and concern that this growing pattern of sacrifices might soon stretch us past breaking point. Then, unexpectedly, Jamie paused. He glanced back over his shoulder, and there was something in that moment—a flicker of the man he had been before Clivilius began to shape him into something harder, more brittle.

"Take good care of Henri for me." The words were soft, fragile, spoken without ceremony. Yet they landed with weight, piercing through the tension like a shard of glass.

Henri, ever the oblivious companion, perked up at the mention of his name. He snorted several times, snuffling in the way only he could, his tail giving an uncertain wag. He padded forward slightly, tongue lolling, and then, as if suddenly distracted, turned his full attention to a curious scent emanating from the base of a log near the campfire. A small, almost absurdly comical moment—a fragment of normality in the middle of our fractured lives.

Paul, responding with a rare gentleness, stooped and scooped Henri up into his arms. The dog's plush body sagged comfortably against him, seemingly unbothered by the sudden lift. “We’ll keep him safe, Jamie. You have my word.” Paul’s voice was solid, the kind of reassurance meant to be absolute. It was a noble promise—but I couldn’t stop myself from hearing the unspoken question hanging just behind it: For how long?

Jamie turned back to the path ahead, his footsteps resolute as he made for his tent. Charity followed close behind. The two of them—warrior and ward—looked both formidable and painfully small as they disappeared into the tents.

A wave of sadness swelled within me, catching me off guard. If only you knew you could keep that promise, I thought despairingly, my gaze drifting to Paul, to Henri, to the makeshift camp that still clung to a fragile semblance of community. I wanted to believe in his words. I needed to believe. But belief alone didn’t shield us from Clivilius. It didn’t halt shadow panthers or mend broken minds or call back the ones we’d lost.

My thoughts darkened with a familiar dread. The growing list of dangers we faced—some seen, many unknown—was becoming harder to contain, harder to deny. The hope we clung to felt like a thread fraying with every decision made, every risk taken.

As I stood there, watching them prepare for what could very well be a mission from which they might not return, I felt it fully: a profound sense of vulnerability. The truth lay bare and cold before me. The safety of our group—our makeshift family—was not a certainty. It was a wish. A fragile thing, like morning mist on warm skin… beautiful, but destined to vanish.

Glenda! The voice of my father thundered through the hollows of my mind, crashing against the walls of reason with a force that left me breathless. Ich habe dich eines besseren belehrt! His words—so sharp, so familiar—reverberated through me like the clang of an ancient bell, stirring guilt from the deepest chambers of my heart. I flinched inwardly, that old ache returning, as vivid and raw as ever.

Ich weiss. Es tut mir leid, Vater. The apology was silent, but it rang with every fibre of my being. The weight of my failings—the fear, the faltering, the endless doubts—crushed down on me. I longed for his guidance, his certainty. Just once more. Just one word to make this madness make sense.

My thoughts spiralled, latching onto something solid—the Chewbathian coins that now hung heavy from the chain around my neck. I pressed a trembling hand to them. They were cold, unyielding, yet somehow pulsing with meaning. With memory. The link to him. To before. To whatever this place had twisted into after.

And then—There are no coincidences, Glenda.

The whisper curled like smoke through my consciousness, serpentine and certain. It wasn’t mine. It never was.

Clivilius. A name, a presence, a force—slipping into the cracks of my thoughts like water through stone.

Your father… The whisper halted. The sentence unfinished, hanging just out of reach like a thread above a pit.

My breath hitched. My father is alive? The thought surged through me, electric and blinding. Could it be? Could it?

There are no coincidences, Glenda. The words repeated, more insistent now, as if the very ground beneath me was conspiring to answer and withhold in the same breath.

Clivilius, answer the god damn question! I screamed inside myself. But there was only silence. A maddening, howling void.

Clivilius! Still nothing.

Hot, stinging tears streamed down my cheeks before I even realised I was crying. The heat of them mingled with the sting of rejection. Of betrayal. Of hope.

And then I said it aloud—unable to keep it in any longer. “Clivilius!” The word tore from me, jagged and raw. I fell to my knees, fists curling into the dust. The barren ground offered no comfort. Only resistance. Only silence.

I was cracking open from the inside.

Then— A flicker.

Not from the sky. Not from the ground. From within.

The settlers were watching me. I could feel their stares prickling against my skin like static. But their gazes felt distant. Muted. Because something else—something other—was stirring in me. A heat. A presence.

It started in my chest, then spread like wildfire through my limbs. Fiery tendrils surged through my veins, seeking out the shadows that clung to my soul. The fear. The doubt. Burning it away. Something ancient had been awakened.

My hand flew to the coins. They were no longer cold.

They burned.

I didn't let go.

“Glenda, are you alright?” Paul’s voice, distant and shaken, barely penetrated the roaring tide inside me.

I looked up, and when I met his gaze, he recoiled slightly—startled by something in my eyes. Something I hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity. Power.

A slow, unstoppable smile pulled at my lips—not the empty kind worn to soothe or placate, but something deeper. Fiercer. Real.

The coins pulsed in my grip, and the fire behind my eyes surged to life.

And then, like thunder cracking a storm, I said it—loud, clear, and unshakable:

“My father is alive!”