"Did you sleep at all?" Charity asked me as I approached her. 

We stood together, observers of dawn's early light, the firesticks casting a warm glow that battled the cool shadows of the night. "I think I dozed a couple of times, but nothing substantial. Did you?" I asked, turning towards her, seeking some common ground in our shared vigil.

"No. A Chewbathian Hunter sleeps very little." Her statement was matter-of-fact, yet it opened a door to a world I knew nothing about.

"Chewbathian Hunter?" I echoed, my curiosity piqued. The fatigue that clung to my bones momentarily forgotten in the wake of her revelation.

"That's what I am," Charity affirmed, her tone devoid of any pretence. "I am a Hunter and I hail from Chewbathia." Her blunt admission was a beacon in the night, illuminating paths of understanding that I hadn't known existed.

I searched my mind for any reference to Chewbathia, but found none. "I'm guessing that's not a place on Earth?" The question felt naïve the moment it left my lips, but her story was a puzzle I was desperately trying to piece together.

"No. I was born in Clivilius. I've never known Earth." Her words were a tapestry of complexity, each thread a story of its own, woven into the fabric of her identity.

"But you speak English?" I probed further, intrigued by the fluency with which she navigated the language.

"Yes. Chewbathia's founding Guardians hailed from a place they called Scotland. Four of the five Guardians were sisters." Her explanation offered a glimpse into a history that was as fascinating as it was foreign.

"Oh, from the same family?" I asked, seeking clarification, my mind racing to understand the bonds that tied these Guardians together.

Charity gave me a look that suggested the question was more obvious than I had intended. "Is there any other way to be sisters?" Her response, simple yet profound, hinted at the differences in our worlds, our understandings.

The religious context of 'sisters' flickered through my mind, a potential point of confusion in our dialogue. But realising that such nuances might only complicate the conversation, I opted for simplicity. "I guess not," I conceded, recognising the vastness of the cultural divide between us. "And the fifth Guardian?" My curiosity was unabated, each answer Charity provided only serving to deepen the mystery of her origins and the world she spoke of.

Charity's narrative unfolded like a tapestry from another time, each word painting a picture of a world both fascinating and foreboding. "His name was William Brodie. He was an Edinburgh city councillor but also had a secret life as a housebreaker," she explained, her voice steady, recounting the tale with a reverence that hinted at the depth of its importance to her people. "The eldest of the sisters, Elspeth Stewart, only nineteen at the time, had been in love with him. She was the first Guardian, and it was she that enlisted the help of Brodie and his small band of double-life thieves to provide New Edinburgh with supplies."

"How long ago was this?" My curiosity was piqued, the historian in me fascinated by the intertwining of Earth's past with the lore of another world.

"Elspeth became a Guardian in the year you would call seventeen-sixty-two." The precision of the date took me aback, the realisation that this connection spanned centuries adding layers to the mystery enveloping Charity and her origins.

The acknowledgment of our shared history, albeit from vastly different perspectives, stirred a complex blend of emotions within me. It was a revelation that humans had not only survived but thrived in this harsh landscape, albeit with challenges that seemed to transcend the ordinary. The existence of shadow panthers and Hunters, elements of a world that sounded as savage as it was ancient, left me grappling with a mix of fear and fascination. "And how does Chewbathia fit into it?" I asked, eager to understand more about the world Charity called home.

"New Edinburgh quickly flourished and the sisters set out on an ambitious campaign to conquer the vast desert lands. Chewbathia is the military hub of the main city. I belong to an elite branch and was trained from a young age in the arts of war." Her explanation offered a glimpse into a society structured around survival and conflict, a stark contrast to the life I had known on Earth.

"War?" I echoed.

"Yes. Clivilius has been at war for millennia." The weight of her words settled heavily upon me, the scope of their struggle stretching beyond the confines of my imagination.

My astonishment was palpable, the reality of Clivilius' warfare hanging between us like a dense fog, waiting to be dispersed by Charity's explanation. However, before she could illuminate the dark corners of my understanding, Luke's sudden arrival shifted the dynamic of our conversation dramatically.

As Luke's sudden presence filled the space beside me, his breaths heavy and his stance defensive, the tension between familiarity and the unknown thickened. "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, his glare fixed on Charity with an intensity that matched his physical exertion. His reliance on my shoulder for support did little to mask the suspicion and protectiveness that radiated off him.

"Luke!" The rebuke slipped from me instinctively, a futile attempt to inject some semblance of decorum into the rapidly escalating situation. Despite the shock of Charity's revelations, Luke's blunt approach felt like an unnecessary jab in the delicate fabric of our newfound understanding.

"I'm Charity," she responded, her voice a calm counter to Luke's brusqueness, embodying a patience that seemed almost inhuman under the circumstances.

"What... where did..." Luke's confusion was palpable, his words tripping over each other as he struggled to grasp the sudden turn of events. Charity's self-identification as a Chewbathian Hunter seemed to hang in the air between them, an alien concept that neither of us had been prepared to encounter.

"I was born here, in Clivilius," Charity added.

"That explains the Warrior Princess outfit then," Luke quipped, his attempt at humour a thin veil over his bewilderment. "But… How...?"

Despite Luke's lack of finesse, I remained silent, a spectator to the unfolding drama. His directness, abrasive though it may have been, cut through the haze of my own hesitation, demanding answers to questions that hung heavily in my own mind.

"I've been tracking the pack of shadow panthers for a few days now. They're experts at finding new settlements," Charity explained, her focus shifting back to the immediate threat that had brought her into our lives.

"So, they really were here last night, then?" Luke's question, seeking confirmation, hinted at a return to a more rational, if not entirely composed, state of mind.

"Yes," Charity confirmed.

"Charity killed one of them," I found my voice, pointing towards the shadow panther's corpse that lay as silent testimony to her claim.

As we approached the fallen creature, the daylight revealed its true form, a gruesome contrast to the terrifying entity we had encountered under the veil of night. Luke's casual interaction with it, nudging its cold, stiff head, belied the gravity of our situation. "It looks so different during the day," he remarked, a note of detachment in his voice that I couldn't quite fathom.

My heart raced as I processed his familiarity with the creature. "You've seen one?" The question sprung from me, a mixture of surprise and burgeoning fear colouring my tone.

"Yeah," Luke admitted, his voice tight, betraying a tension that hadn't been apparent a moment ago.

Charity, quick on the draw, voiced the question that was burning through my mind. "What happened?"

"I think it followed Beatrix back through the Portal last night," Luke's admission sent a chill down my spine. The implications of his statement were both terrifying and bewildering.

"Shit," the curse slipped from me involuntarily, a reflex to the unfolding horror. But before I could delve deeper into my thoughts, Charity's abrupt expletive cut through the air, halting me. Her pacing, a physical manifestation of her anxiety, mirrored the turmoil that churned within me.

My mind, however, clung to a sliver of the conversation that needed further exploration. "So, that was Beatrix who screamed last night?" The pieces of the puzzle were slowly aligning, yet each revelation brought with it a new set of questions, a deeper layer of complexity.

"Yeah," Luke confirmed. "Beatrix is a Guardian now." The simplicity of his statement did little to ease the knot of worry forming in my stomach.

"Like you... and Cody?" My query was an attempt to understand, to find some footing in the rapidly shifting landscape.

"Yes." Luke's affirmation was both a balm and a blade, a confirmation of unity and yet a harbinger of unknown challenges to come.

Charity's silent stare at Luke spoke volumes, her earlier nervous energy giving way to a focused attention that demanded answers.

"How?" The word was barely a whisper from my lips, a plea for understanding.

"I'm not completely sure how she became a Guardian. She's still in shock." Luke's admission, his frustration palpable, underscored the severity of our predicament.

"Shock?" The repetition was involuntary, a reflection of my struggle to comprehend the full scope of what had transpired.

Luke's foot nudged the shadow panther as his words left his mouth angrily. "Because the bloody beast fucking attacked her, that's why."

"Back on Earth?" Charity's question, once she had regained her composure, sought to clarify the origin of the attack, to understand the bridge between worlds that had been so violently crossed.

"Yes!" Luke's exclamation was a sharp puncture in the silence that followed, a confirmation of our worst fears realised.

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

"Yes. I'm certain," Luke's affirmation was a finality, a closing of the circle that left us standing on the precipice of a new and daunting reality.

The tension between Luke and Charity was palpable, a thick cloud of unresolved emotions and unspoken words that seemed to suffocate the air around us. I couldn't bear it any longer, the weight of grief and conflict pressing down on me with an intensity that threatened to crush my spirit. There's too much tension. Too much loss. I don't want to do it. The thought echoed through my mind, a silent plea for reprieve from the relentless tide of sorrow.

"What have you not told me yet?" Luke's question, vulnerable and laden with a sense of impending heartache, cut through the turmoil within me. His voice, faltering under the weight of unshed tears, demanded my attention, compelled me to face the unbearable truth that lay between us.

I bit my lower lip, fighting against the tremble that sought to betray the turmoil churning within. No, I really don't want to do this, I lamented internally, a wave of sorrow washing over me at the thought of the words that would soon pass my lips. Yet, as I met Luke's gaze, seeing the raw emotion that shimmered in his eyes, I knew there was no escaping the cruel reality that had to be acknowledged.

With a resolve born of necessity rather than strength, I took his trembling hands in mine. "Duke's dead," I stated, the words heavy with finality, a grim statement to the loss that would forever mark this moment.

Luke's reaction was a mirror to the pain that enveloped my heart. "Where is he?" he murmured, the words barely a whisper, reflecting the shock that gripped him.

"Jamie is with him. They're behind the tents," I replied, my voice a soft echo, my grip on his arm an attempt to offer solace in the face of an insurmountable loss.

The moment Luke pulled away, a surge of helplessness washed over me as I watched him storm through the camp, his steps heavy with grief and denial. He paused at the end of the last tent, a figure poised on the brink of despair.

My heart ached for my brother as I envisioned the scene awaiting his discovery—Jamie, a silent sentinel of sorrow by the riverbank, the finality of Duke's absence a cruel reality that we would all have to confront. I could only watch Luke for a moment before the sight became too much to bear, the echo of our shared loss a wound too fresh to face.

"I need to do another perimeter sweep," Charity announced, her voice a distant sound against the backdrop of my grief. Her departure, though necessary, left me feeling even more isolated in my sorrow.

With no direction left but forward, I found my feet leading me towards the Portal, a path tread not out of purpose but a need to distance myself from the immediate pain. Each step was a testament to the burden we bore, a family fractured by loss and a future shrouded in uncertainty.

"Beatrix?" The surprise in my voice was unmistakable as I spotted her, an almost surreal figure against the backdrop of the barren landscape, barefoot and laboriously dragging a bright red kayak. The incongruity of the scene struck me profoundly, a stark contrast to the desolation that surrounded us.

As Beatrix halted and turned towards me, a multitude of questions raced through my mind, each vying for precedence. Yet, as I approached her, the urgency to understand her intentions with the kayak dissipated, replaced by a concern that cut deeper. The visible gashes marking her arms and legs, the torn fabric of her red dress—each told a story of ordeal, of survival against odds that I could only begin to imagine.

"You look like shit," the words escaped me before I could temper them with the tact the situation warranted. It was an observation made without malice, yet it hung between us, a blunt acknowledgment of the trials she had evidently endured.

"Like you look any better," Beatrix countered, her retort sharp yet softened by a half-smile that quickly morphed into a stern pout. Her resilience, even in the face of apparent exhaustion and injury, was both startling and admirable.

I gulped, chagrined by my own lack of sensitivity. "Here, let me take that," I offered, reaching for the kayak. Beatrix's acquiescence, silent and without resistance, spoke volumes of her current state. As we made our way back towards the camp, the myriad questions that had been swirling in my mind began to crystallise, each demanding attention.

"Luke brought you in?" The query was almost reflexive, a grasp for some understanding of how Beatrix had come to be here, in such a state, with such an unlikely companion as a kayak. Yet, even as I voiced it, I recognised the redundancy of the question, the answer already known to me.

"No," Beatrix's response was succinct.

"From Cody?" I ventured after several minutes, the question emerging from the chaos of my thoughts like a lifeline.

"No," Beatrix's response was terse, her lack of enthusiasm doing little to quell the storm of curiosity within me.

"Oh... then who?" The words slipped out, driven by an insatiable need for answers despite the mental plea to cease my inquiries. The introduction of shadow panthers, a Chewbathian Hunter, Portal pirates, and now the veiled mention of additional Guardians had left me grappling with a reality far removed from anything I had ever known. I don't understand how any of this is possible. None of this makes any...

"What do you know about Cody?" Beatrix's question cut through my internal monologue, redirecting the conversation with an agility that left me momentarily off balance.

"Nothing, really," I admitted, the puzzle of Cody's identity adding another layer of complexity to the unfolding mystery. "Luke mentioned the name when Joel arrived, but I haven't..."

"Joel? Jamie's son, Joel?" Beatrix interjected, her interruption laden with surprise and a hint of recognition.

"Yeah. You knew?" I asked, surprised that Luke would have told Beatrix that Jamie had a son before he had told me.

"Joel is here?" Her reaction, a mixture of disbelief and concern, suggested a depth to the story that I was only beginning to uncover. "I thought Luke wasn't going to bring him here."

"He didn't. Apparently," I responded, my mind racing to connect the dots between Joel's unexpected presence and the events that had led to our current predicament. "We think he came down the river."

"Did Luke say what happened to him?" Beatrix's question, laced with genuine concern, pulled me back from the brink of my own spiralling thoughts. The worry etched into her features reminded me of the bizarreness of Joel's situation, a narrative thread fraught with danger and mystery.

"He told us about the blood and the truck, but Glenda stitched his throat and he seems to be making a remarkable recovery." My words felt hollow, an oversimplified summary of events that had shaken the very foundation of our camp.

"Glenda? And Joel's alive?" The questions tumbled out from Beatrix, each one a testament to her shock and the rapid reassessment of the situation she was being forced to make.

"Yeah," I responded, somewhat reassured by the fact that Joel's resilience had become a point of light in the darkness that had enveloped us. "And Glenda is the camp's doctor." I added

"Can I see him?"

"I'm sure you'll see him soon enough."

The silence that enveloped us again as we continued our trek back to camp was heavy, filled with unspoken questions and fears. My pace slowed, the weight of reality pressing down on me as the dread of what awaited us at camp began to overshadow all else.

"A... a shadow panther?" The question erupted from me, a desperate attempt to grasp the threads of understanding that seemed to slip further away with each passing moment.

"Huh?"

"Your dress and cuts. Were they from a shadow panther?" The words felt clumsy, inadequate to describe the complexity of the horrors we faced.

Beatrix's blank stare was unsettling, sending a chill through me that was more than just the cold air of the desert morning. Was Luke wrong? Had something else attacked Beatrix? A Portal pirate maybe? Like the one that killed... The thought trailed off, too painful, too laden with implications to fully explore.

"A panther-like creature?" I pressed, desperate for clarity, for any piece of information that could help us navigate the perilous unknown.

"Yeah," Beatrix's soft admission was a confirmation, yet it offered little in the way of comfort or understanding.

"It was you who screamed last night, wasn't it?" The question hung between us, heavy with implications.

"I guess," Beatrix's nonchalant shrug belied the depth of trauma such an encounter must have entailed.

As tears that threatened to overwhelm me, I wiped them away, attempting to regain some semblance of composure, Beatrix's voice cut through the heavy air. "Everything okay here?" Her gaze, sharp and scanning, reflected a concern that went beyond mere curiosity.

I sighed, the weight of the world seemingly on my shoulders. There's no point in hiding it, I conceded internally, the truth of our circumstances too significant to mask any longer. "We had an incident here last..." My voice trailed off, the words hanging between us.

Beatrix's reaction to the scene that unfolded as we crested the final hill was immediate—her gasp, a sharp intake of breath that mirrored my own sense of shock and despair. Luke's passing, his eyes alight with a tempest of fury and grief, offered no greetings, no explanations. He moved past us as if driven by a force beyond his control, a man on the brink, consumed by his own tumultuous emotions.

The pain etched in Luke's eyes was a mirror to my own, a reflection of the shared agony that bound us in this moment. I knew then that there was nothing to be done, no words of comfort or gestures of support that could ease the burden of his sorrow. The decision to let him go, to not chase after him or attempt to intervene, was one borne of understanding—a recognition of the depth of his grief and the need to process it in his own way.

"Where's Jamie?" Beatrix's question pulled me back from the edge of my own reflections, her voice tinged with urgency. Her hand tugged at my arm, a physical plea for answers.

"Probably still in the river behind the tents," I responded, the softness of my voice belying the turmoil within. It was the last place I had seen Jamie, a solitary figure consumed by his own vigil, a silent guardian to the memory of what had been lost.

As Beatrix continued on, her determination to confront the reality that awaited us undimmed, I found myself rooted to the spot, unable to accompany her further. My hand, white-knuckled from the grip on the kayak, was a physical manifestation of the internal struggle I faced—the desire to support my friends, to face the aftermath together, against the overwhelming urge to retreat, to find solace in isolation.