4338.205 · July 24, 2018 AD
Two Words, Then Nothing
Luke stands alone in his study. The Portal shimmers behind him, but no footsteps follow. No voices. Just silence—and the slow, terrible understanding that the barrier was not malfunction but intention. When he returns to Clivilius, he carries guilt like a stone in his chest. Paul's laughter turns manic. Jamie's fury collapses into something worse: exhaustion. Two words end it. Just go. And Luke does.
The study reformed around him like a cage snapping shut.
Luke waited for them to follow—for Paul's grin, for Jamie's grudging acceptance. But the seconds stretched into something heavier, and no one came. The Portal hadn't failed. It had chosen. And whatever will moved through Clivilius had decided that Luke alone could pass.
In the silence, the voice returned. Soft. Unyielding. You should not be surprised, Luke Smith.
Guilt coiled in his chest. He had led them into a world he didn't understand, blinded by his own hunger for wonder. And now they were trapped—his brother, his partner—while he stood safe in the house they had shared.
When he returns to Clivilius, the reckoning is brutal. Paul's questions cut deeper than anger: What about my children? His laughter, when it comes, is not relief—it is the sound of something breaking. Jamie's fury has burned itself out, leaving only a weary dismissal that wounds more than any shout.
Just go.
Two words. And in them, the death of something that cannot be easily rebuilt.
Luke closes the Portal. The colours die. And he is left alone with the weight of what he has done.
