Too Late for Sorry

"Grief is a luxury that belongs to people who aren't responsible for what they're grieving. The rest of us have to keep moving."

The early morning rays painted the Clivilius sky in shades of pink and gold, colours so beautiful they felt like mockery. My feet churned through the soft rust-coloured dust, propelling me faster than I'd known my body could move. This wasn't running—this was flight from something I couldn't outpace, a spectre of dread that had attached itself to my spine and wouldn't release its grip no matter how fast I moved.

The landscape blurred around me, streaks of colour that I couldn't process, couldn't appreciate. My breath came in ragged gasps that tore at my throat, each inhale a sharp reminder of everything at stake. The ground beneath my feet felt wrong—foreign soil in a foreign world, and I was an intruder shattering its peaceful dawn with my desperate, careening presence.

Please let them be alive. Please let them be alive. Please—

The prayer repeated itself in time with my pounding footsteps, a mantra against the horror I feared waited at the camp. Joel's song echoed through my memory, haunting me now: The words we've yet to write. What if there were no more words? What if the story had ended while I'd been cowering on my kitchen floor?

The final hill loomed ahead, a sentinel between me and answers I was terrified to receive. I pushed harder, legs screaming protest, lungs burning with the effort. Every muscle in my body strained toward the crest, toward the vantage point that would reveal whether my settlement still existed.

My foot betrayed me three steps from the top.

The ground shifted—Loss of purchase, loss of control—and suddenly I was falling, tumbling down the slope in a chaos of limbs and dust. The world spun, sky and earth exchanging places in a nauseating spiral. Small rocks and grit pelted my exposed skin, each impact a tiny lance of pain that barely registered against the larger terror consuming me.

I fought the descent with desperate determination, hands scraping against dust and stone until I managed to right myself. The slide became controlled, then stopped entirely. My palms burned where the ground had abraded them. My lungs felt like they'd been scoured with sandpaper. But I was up, I was moving, and the camp was close.

When I finally stumbled into the settlement, gasping and coated in a film of dust that clung to my sweat-damp skin, the scene that greeted me made no sense.

Paul stood near the remains of the campfire, conversing with a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a different story entirely. Her strappy black leather top and metallic waist armour caught the morning light with an almost theatrical gleam. Skin-tight pants, a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder—she was a warrior from some fantasy I hadn't written, dropped into the middle of my very real nightmare.

But the camp was too quiet. Too empty. Where was everyone else?

"Who the fuck are you?" The words burst from me, more gasp than question, as I stumbled toward Paul. I grabbed his shoulder to steady myself, my legs threatening to give out beneath me, lungs still fighting for air.

"Luke!" Paul's voice carried shock and stern warning, his eyes flickering with disapproval I knew too well. But his scolding barely registered—background noise against the storm of panic still raging through my system.

"I'm Charity," the woman replied, her voice steady and calm in a way that felt almost offensive given my state. She didn't flinch at my harshness.

"What... where did...?" I couldn't form a coherent question. Her presence, her confidence, her bizarre attire—none of it made sense in the context of the settlement I'd built, the people I'd brought here.

"I'm a Chewbathian hunter," Charity declared, the term foreign and strange on my ears. Chewbathian. The word churned through my mind, connecting to nothing I knew.

My confusion must have been obvious, because she continued, grounding herself in the one thing that might make sense to me: "I was born here, in Clivilius."

The information landed without truly registering. Born here. In this alien dimension. There were people native to Clivilius, people who'd grown up hunting creatures I couldn't even name.

"That explains the warrior princess outfit then," I managed, a weak attempt at humour to mask the terror still clawing at my insides. Her attire made more sense now—functional rather than theatrical, adapted to a world I was only beginning to understand.

"But... how...?" The questions tangled in my throat, each one clamouring for attention, none of them able to push through the fog of exhaustion and fear.

"I've been tracking the pack of shadow panthers for a few days now. They're experts at finding new settlements." Charity's voice held solemnity now, her eyes reflecting knowledge and experience that made my blood run cold. Pack. She'd said pack.

"So, they really were here last night, then?" The question stumbled out, my mind grappling with confirmation of the nightmare I'd feared.

"Yes," she replied, and the single syllable landed in my chest like a fist, sending dread rippling through my veins.

"Charity killed one of them," Paul added, his tone mixing admiration with something darker—something that made my stomach clench. He gestured toward a dark form beside the smouldering remains of our campfire.

I moved toward it without conscious decision, each step drawing me closer to the evidence of last night's horrors. Paul and Charity's gazes followed me, heavy with understanding of what I was about to confront.

The shadow panther lay motionless in the morning light, its sleek black fur seeming to drink the sunshine rather than reflect it. The creature was larger than I'd expected—massive, actually—its form a study in lethal grace even in death. Blood had seeped from the wound in its belly, creating a dark halo in the dust around it. A grim testament to the violence that had visited our camp while I'd been absent.

I crouched beside it, studying the brutal efficiency of its design. Long, thick tongue lolled from a mouth lined with razor-sharp canines—teeth made for tearing, for killing. The slice across its belly was clean, precise, speaking of Charity's skill and the brutal necessities of survival in this world.

"It looks different during the day," I murmured, nudging its stiff head with the toe of my shoe. The creature that had seemed like something from nightmares now appeared almost... ordinary. Just an animal. A predator, yes, but stripped of the supernatural terror the darkness had lent it.

"You've seen one?" Paul's voice carried surprise and concern.

"Yeah," I replied, the word heavy in my mouth. A lump formed in my throat as Beatrix's image invaded my thoughts—her determined eyes, the stark sight of blood running down her arm. The memory was vivid, almost palpable, as if I could reach out and find myself back in that terrifying moment. And yet, the urgency to return to her, to amend my departure, strangely didn't seize me as it should have. The guilt was there, gnawing at my insides, but it was as if the shock had numbed my senses, leaving me adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions.

"What happened?" Charity's question pulled me back to the present.

"I think it followed Beatrix back through the Portal last night," I answered, my voice steadying despite the turmoil within. The words felt surreal—recounting events from someone else's life, not my own.

"Shit," Paul exhaled.

"Fuck!" Charity's expletive cut through the air, raw and unguarded. She began to pace, her movements restless.

I watched her, recognising the same whirlwind of fear and uncertainty that was raging inside me. The shadow panther, the Portal, Beatrix's bloodied figure—they all spun together in a dizzying dance of cause and effect, consequences spiralling beyond anything I'd anticipated.

"So, that was Beatrix that screamed last night?" Paul's voice broke through my spiralling thoughts. I sensed his underlying concern, veiled beneath the guise of curiosity.

"Yeah," I replied. "Beatrix is a Guardian now."

"Like you... and Cody?" There was a hint of awe in Paul's voice, a recognition of what that title entailed.

"Yes."

Charity's pacing ceased, her gaze locking onto me with an intensity that felt almost tangible. Her stillness contrasted sharply with the turmoil churning within me.

But it wasn't enough to halt Paul's questions. "How?"

"I'm not completely sure how she became a Guardian. She's still in shock." The words carried my worry for Beatrix, her image refusing to leave my mind.

"Shock?" Paul echoed.

Frustration surged through me, a rising tide I could no longer contain. My foot lashed out at the dead creature, an unwitting recipient of my pent-up rage. "Because the bloody beast fucking attacked her, that's why."

"Back on Earth?" Charity's question probed at the impossible—a creature from this dimension crossing into mine.

"Yes!"

"Are you certain it was a shadow panther that attacked her?"

"Yes. I'm certain." The conviction in my voice conflicted with the turmoil roiling through my chest. As I spoke, I noticed Paul's demeanour change. His face, usually a mask of resilience, crumbled. The composure he typically wore fell away, and what remained was naked distress.

Cold dread pooled in my stomach.

"What have you not told me yet?" The question emerged before I could stop it, vulnerability threading through words I rarely allowed myself to speak. The fear that had driven me through the Clivilius landscape, fear for survival, now transformed into something more personal. More acute.

Paul's lower lip caught between his teeth, quivering with the effort of containing whatever was building inside him. Watching my brother—usually composed, usually steady—succumb to visible distress sent ice cascading down my spine.

I could see the pain in his eyes, a mirror to some turmoil inside him. It was a look I had seen before, in moments of loss and despair. My own eyes began to sting, a physical response to the empathy and anxiety coursing through me. Adrenaline surged, that primal response to anticipated danger, preparing me for a blow I knew was coming but felt powerless to deflect.

It can't be good news. The realisation crystallised, cold and clear. Paul would have spoken immediately if everything was fine. His hesitation meant something dire. My mind raced through faces—Joel, Jamie, Glenda, Kain, Karen, Chris. Who? Who is it?

Paul reached out, his hands enveloping mine in a grip meant to anchor me against what was coming. The gesture was tender in a way that made my throat constrict.

"Duke's dead," he said.

The words struck like a physical blow, a searing lance that pierced through my chest, twisting through my stomach before lodging itself in my heart. Duke. Our dog. The small creature who'd followed through the Portal, who'd curled up at Jamie’s feet during Joel's song, who'd barked warnings into the darkness when the shadow panthers had surrounded our camp.

"Where is he?" The question emerged as a hoarse whisper, my voice a fragile thread in the crushing silence.

"Jamie is with him. They're behind the tents," Paul answered, his grip on my arm an attempt to offer solace.

I wrenched my hands free, propelled by a need to see, to understand, to confront whatever grim reality Paul had laid bare. My legs carried me through the camp, each step a battle against the nausea churning in my stomach. Tears blurred my vision, the world around me distorted, each step bringing me closer to a truth I wasn't prepared to face.

I stopped at the edge of the last tent.

The riverbank stretched beyond, where Jamie sat isolated in his sorrow. He was perched with his legs dangling gently in the water, a stark contrast to the storm I knew was breaking inside him. My steps slowed, each one heavier than the last, as I approached.

"Go away, Luke," Jamie's voice was flat, resigned, yet laced with raw pain. He didn't turn to face me, his gaze fixed on the flowing river.

"Jamie... I'm so..." The words lodged in my throat, a tangled mess of apologies that I couldn't force out. My voice fractured under the weight of what we were facing. My heart, rebellious and in denial, clung to a sliver of hope even as reality bore down with relentless certainty.

I edged closer, driven by a need to be near, to share in the burden of grief that enveloped Jamie. And then I saw it—Duke's small, motionless form cradled in Jamie's lap, his once vibrant essence reduced to silent stillness. Jamie's hand, stained with blood, moved slowly through Duke's fur, a poignant gesture of love and farewell.

My eyes widened, not just in dread but in profound realisation of the finality before me. The sight of Duke, so still, and Jamie enveloped in solitary mourning, struck a chord deep within me. The blood, the stillness, the palpable air of loss—it all converged into a visceral tableau that no words could encapsulate.

"I said go away, Luke," Jamie's voice cracked like a whip, his grief transforming into palpable anger.

Yet, drawn by an invisible tether of shared loss, I inched closer. Crouching down beside them, the river's gentle murmur a counterpoint to the storm of emotions, I extended a trembling hand toward Duke. My fingertips grazed the young dog's fur—the once lively creature now an emblem of the cruelty of our reality. A lump swelled in my throat, choking me with sorrow. An innocent life, snuffed out in the chaos of our struggles.

"Fuck off, Luke!" The venom in Jamie's voice jolted me. He turned, his eyes alight with fierce, scalding anger. "This is all your fault. You don't fucking deserve to touch him. Ever!"

His accusation was a dagger to my heart, slicing through the last vestiges of my composure. I stumbled backward, the ground unkind as I landed awkwardly, the shock of the cold earth mirroring the shock of his words.

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," my voice was a mere whisper, a feeble attempt to convey the turmoil inside me. My eyes, blurred with unshed tears, sought Jamie's, yearning for some semblance of understanding, anything to bridge the chasm that had opened between us.

But Jamie's stare was unyielding, a clear challenge. In his eyes, I saw the reflection of my own torment, magnified by our shared pain—a pain that seemed to deepen with every heartbeat that echoed the question: How did we get here?

"It's too fucking late for sorry," Jamie spat out. He turned his back to me, a clear dismissal, his attention returning to Duke. In that brief, charged silence, the air thickened with unsaid words and unshed tears, until Jamie's voice, softer now, broke through. "Just fuck off, Luke. Please."

His plea, edged with raw, desperate hurt, was a blade twisting in my already shattered heart. I was ousted, not just from his physical space but from the shared circle of mourning.

With a heart heavy as lead and eyes blurred with tears, I turned away, my steps carrying me through the camp. The world around me felt distant, as if I was moving through a haze. My eyes, swollen and red, saw the familiar surroundings as if through a veil.

Beatrix and Paul's faces emerged from the blur, their expressions etched with concern. But their voices, calling out to me, seemed muffled. My mind, ensnared in a whirlwind of grief and something harder taking shape beneath it, couldn't grasp their words.

I didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

The Portal loomed ahead. My feet carried me toward it without conscious decision, each step building momentum. The tears were still falling, but something else was rising beneath them now—something that burned where the grief was cold.

I have a new job to do now... my settlement needs protection!

The thought crystallised with sudden, fierce clarity. Not as comfort. Not as redemption. As necessity. As the only thing that made sense in a world that had stopped making sense hours ago.

Duke was dead. Jamie had cast me out. The shadow panthers were still out there—a pack of them, Charity had said.

There was no time for grief. No space for the pain clawing at my chest. Those were luxuries I couldn't afford, not when the people I'd brought here were still in danger, still vulnerable, still dependent on protections I hadn't provided.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, the gesture rough, almost angry. The tears smeared across my skin but I didn't care. Didn't have time to care.

The Portal's colours swirled before me—beautiful and terrible, a doorway between worlds that had brought wonder and horror in equal measure. I stared into the kaleidoscope, jaw tight, hands clenched at my sides.

We needed weapons. Defences. Knowledge about these creatures and how to kill them. We needed Charity's expertise, Pierre's resources, answers to questions I hadn't known to ask.

I needed to be better. Faster. More ruthless in my preparations.

The soft part of me—the part that wanted to collapse beside that river and mourn alongside Jamie—would have to wait. Would have to be buried somewhere deep where it couldn't slow me down, couldn't make me hesitate when hesitation might cost another life.

Another innocent life.