As the golden orb of the evening sun began its descent, it bathed Clivilius in a warm, enchanting glow, a prelude to the grand celebration unfolding beneath its benevolent gaze. The bonfire, a focal point of communal spirit, crackled with unabashed enthusiasm, its dancing flames sending shadows on a lively canvas of faces. Settlers, momentarily liberated from the demands of daily chores, converged around the flickering beacon, their eyes reflecting the communal joy that pulsed through the gathering.

The air resonated with the melodies of lively tunes, the rhythmic beats stirring an infectious energy that coursed through the assembly.

A symphony of laughter and chatter interwove with the music, creating a tapestry of sound that mirrored the diverse tapestry of the community itself. Faces aglow with anticipation and delight turned towards the source of the culinary symphony, where the irresistible aroma of delectable dishes wafted through the air. The tantalising scent, a siren's call, beckoned settlers to indulge in the abundance of food that adorned communal tables, each dish a testament to the collective effort that had gone into preparing this feast.

Under the benevolent gaze of the evening sun, Clivilius transformed into a haven of celebration. The warmth, both literal and metaphorical, embraced every soul present, fostering a sense of unity that transcended the mundane.

Navigating through the lively gathering, my eyes caught a glimpse of a cluster of unfamiliar faces just beyond the secure embrace of the fence. A surge of initial panic pulsed through my chest, the kind that tightens your grip on reality for a fleeting moment. However, the recent addition of Guardians and Portals around Bixbus had taught us all to temper our fears, to hold back the tide of hasty assumptions about potential intruders that once might have sent us into a frenzy.

Intrigued by the enigma beyond the fence, I manoeuvred through the crowd toward Beatrix, engrossed in conversation with Paul. The warm radiance from the bonfire cast an ethereal ambiance over the settlers, dancing on their faces like whispers of light, transforming the mundane into something otherworldly. The scene felt suspended in time, a living painting illuminated by the flickering flames.

"Beatrix," I interjected, catching her attention along with Paul's. The words felt heavy, loaded with the weight of our communal safety, "did you or Jarod bring those people here?" My voice carried a hint of urgency, not quite accusing but teetering on the edge of suspicion.

"No," Beatrix replied, her expression mirroring my unease. It was a look that spoke volumes, a shared concern momentarily dimming the light in her eyes. The flickering shadows seemed to play on her worried features, casting a spell of doubt that momentarily enveloped us.

Paul chuckled softly, the sound blending with the music in a way that seemed almost incongruous with the tension of the moment. "It's okay. I know them," he assured us, his voice a lighthouse in the fog of our apprehension.

"You do?" Beatrix and I chorused in disbelief, our gazes locked in a dance of shared skepticism. It was as if our simultaneous response bridged the gap between worry and the possibility of relief, a single question mark hanging in the air between us.

"Yeah. They're members of Charity’s Chewbathian Hunter team. They were hunting the Shadow Panther pack that attacked us recently," Paul explained, his words painting a picture of allies in the shadows, of warriors united against a common enemy. It was a narrative twist, turning the unfamiliar into the familiar, the feared into the friend.

He ushered us toward the fence gate, his stride confident, a man on a mission to bridge worlds. He waved over a tall, rugged man, eager to introduce us. The man approached with the ease of a seasoned warrior, his presence commanding yet not imposing, the kind of person who carried stories in every scar and gesture.

As the figure approached, the bonfire's glow heightened the contours of his face, emphasising a stern yet composed countenance that seemed to carve him out of the night itself. "What are they still doing here?" I whispered sharply to Paul before the man arrived within earshot, my voice laced with a blend of curiosity and concern that seemed to vibrate in the cool night air.

"Luke, Beatrix, meet Alistair. He’s the commander of the Chewbathian Hunter Group,” Paul announced the man as he stepped into the circle of light, his presence almost commanding the shadows to retreat.

Alistair extended a firm handshake, his grip strong and assured. His gaze was unwavering, piercing through the flickering dance of flames reflected in his eyes, creating an intensity that seemed to echo the seriousness of his mission. The bonfire's flames played in his eyes, lending a fiery depth to them that was only accentuated by his thick Scottish accent. "Paul has briefed me on the situation here. We’ve decided to offer our protection for the next ten days. Consider it a token of goodwill between settlements," he said, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to ground his words in a reality far removed from the festivities around us.

Surprise and curiosity flickered in my eyes, a testament to the unexpected turn of events. "Your settlement is nearby?" I inquired, my mind racing with questions about these strangers and their sudden appearance.

"No, we’ve travelled a considerable distance. You’ve got a few small settlements in the area, but with this vast desert and the dangers lurking in the darkness, they’re all struggling," Alistair elucidated, painting a picture of the world beyond our gates that was both vast and fraught with unseen challenges. "Your group is doing well to be growing so rapidly," he added, acknowledging our efforts with a nod that seemed to bridge the gap between our disparate lives.

"Thank you," Paul responded, pride lighting up his face. The bonfire's glow seemed to amplify the warmth in his expression, and I couldn't help but chuckle internally at his eagerness for praise in this moment of unexpected camaraderie. It was a side of Paul that felt both endearing and slightly amusing.

"So, what happens after ten days?" Beatrix asked, her voice cutting through the night with a clarity that mirrored my own curiosity. Her question hung in the air, a poignant reminder of the transient nature of this newfound alliance.

Alistair's expression remained grave, and the shadows from the bonfire lent a gravity to his words that felt almost prophetic. "You build bigger fences," he stated simply, his advice resonating with an ominous undertone that seemed to echo the harsh realities of our existence on this frontier.

I swallowed, the warmth of the bonfire's glow a stark contrast to the weight of Alistair's words. A chill that had nothing to do with the night air crept up my spine. Are things truly that dire and dangerous here? The question echoed in my mind, a persistent whisper amid the crackle of flames and the distant hum of celebration. It was a reminder of the fragile veneer of safety that cloaked our existence, a thin layer that could be shattered by the realities of our world.

"I’d better get back to my post. Paul can keep you abreast of developments,” Alistair announced, breaking the moment. His voice, firm and resolute, seemed to pull me back from the edge of my ruminations. He stood, a sentinel against the uncertainties that lay beyond our light.

"Thank you, Alistair," I expressed gratitude, the words heavy with recognition of the significance of solidarity in these uncertain times. "We’re grateful for your assistance and protection. Hopefully, this is the start of something positive - a chance for our settlements to connect and support each other.” My voice carried a hopeful note, a desire for a future where alliances forged in the shadow of adversity could blossom into enduring bonds.

“Light the fire,” said Alistair, placing three fingers of his right hand against his right temple.

“Share the light,” replied Paul, reciprocating with the three fingers of his left hand pressed into his left temple.

Alistair nodded, uttering a grunt before heading back to the outer perimeter of the settlement. His departure was marked by the shifting shadows that played on his figure, casting him in a light that seemed both heroic and enigmatic. As he moved away, the mystery and solemnity of his presence lingered, leaving an air of mystery in his wake.

"He seems a bit odd," Beatrix remarked, her gaze lingering on Alistair's retreating figure, a silhouette gradually merging with the night's embrace.

“What was that all about?” I found myself asking Paul, my curiosity piqued by the ceremonial exchange I had just witnessed.

Paul stared at me blankly for a moment, as if the significance of my question was lost in translation between our worlds. His expression, usually so open and readable, was momentarily a blank slate, a rare occurrence that only served to heighten my curiosity.

“The whole, light the fire, share the light thing,” I clarified, hoping to pierce the veil of his momentary detachment.

“Oh, that’s what everyone says,” Paul answered, his voice casual, as if explaining a commonplace tradition. Yet, the simplicity of his response belied the depth of the ritual's significance.

“And the three fingers?” Beatrix prodded further, seeking to decode the symbolism behind the gesture.

Paul shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that seemed at odds with the solemnity of the tradition he was explaining. "It’s a gesture, a symbol. Light the fire represents unity and strength. It's about igniting the flame within ourselves, our community, and nature. Share the light signifies spreading that strength, sharing it with others, connecting settlements and hearts. I believe it’s been around for centuries."

Understanding dawned on Beatrix's face, and she nodded appreciatively, her initial skepticism giving way to a recognition of the profound meaning embedded within the simplicity of the gesture. It was a moment of revelation, a glimpse into the depths of tradition and solidarity that bound these communities together.

Intrigued by the revelation of a phrase and gesture with such profound symbolism having been around for a very long time, but seemingly with no more answers left to learn, I decided to steer the conversation towards a more practical inquiry. “Have you spoken much with him?" I asked Paul, the flickering glow of the bonfire reflecting the curiosity that danced in my eyes.

"They keep their distance. They’re very military-focused. It’s what they’ve trained their whole life for," Paul explained, his voice carrying a note of respect mixed with a hint of distance.

Beatrix gasped. "They’ve lived their entire lives here in Clivilius?" she questioned, her voice tinged with a mix of astonishment and curiosity. The revelation seemed to hang in the air between us, as tangible as the smoke that curled upwards into the night sky.

Paul nodded. "Yes. Chewbathia is the military hub of New Edinburgh. It was founded by the Stewart sisters several centuries ago."

"That explains the Scottish accent, then," I added with a smile, the warmth of the bonfire reflecting in my amused expression.

"I still don’t really know much about them, but Alistair has promised that before they leave, they’ll take some time to give us some real intel - tell us who is nearby. Who we can trust. Who to stay away from. That kind of thing," Paul shared, the bonfire's glow outlining the seriousness of his revelation.

"That actually sounds pretty exciting," I said, feeling a surge of anticipation at the prospect of newfound knowledge and connections. The darkness beyond the bonfire's reach suddenly seemed less foreboding, more like a canvas awaiting the strokes of new alliances and understandings. My heart quickened with the thought of expanding our horizons, of forging paths through the unknown with the help of our Chewbathian allies.

"It is," Paul agreed. "And also terrifying. Everything is just so unknown."

"You’ll keep us updated?" I asked Paul.

"Of course," he assured.

"Come on then," I rallied Paul and Beatrix with a light-hearted tone, the bonfire's glow flickering in the background, "Let’s grab ourselves some of this food before it’s all gone!”

The night unfolded with the bonfire celebration reaching a crescendo, the flames casting a warm glow on faces wrapped in laughter and camaraderie. As settlers gathered around, the air was filled with the sharing of funny anecdotes that wove a tapestry of stories, each thread tightening the bonds of our growing community. It was in these moments, amidst the laughter and the shared memories, that the essence of Clivilius truly came alive.

Charles, a master storyteller whose voice could command the attention of any crowd, took centre stage. His dramatic retelling of the Smiths' arrival at Bixbus painted a vivid picture that danced in the flames of the bonfire. Chaos, surprise, and an unexpected surplus of toilet rolls became the subjects of a tale that had us all chuckling, the absurdity and warmth of the story encapsulating the spirit of our community. I found myself laughing along, the familiarity of the tale a comforting reminder of our shared experiences.

Chuckling at the embellished tale, I sensed the impending mention of another infamous toilet paper incident, and Jerome didn't disappoint. “Speaking of toilet rolls,” Jerome interjected playfully, his voice laced with a mischief that immediately piqued everyone’s interest. I muttered an anticipatory, "Uh oh," knowing full well the direction in which the evening was veering.

“Is this that time in Broken Hill with the Clarke’s?” Paul asked, a grin playing on his lips, his anticipation palpable in the flickering light. The mention of Broken Hill sparked a wave of curiosity and amusement that rippled through the gathered settlers.

A broad smile adorned Jerome’s face as he confirmed, “Yep. That one,” his excitement barely contained. It was a story that, while familiar to some of us, never failed to amuse with its recounting.

Mum, sensing the mischief that was about to unfold, narrowed her eyes at Jerome. “Is this really something I want to know?” she inquired, her tone a mix of warning and curiosity. Her maternal instinct, always on alert for tales that might tread into the realm of the infamous or the scandalous, added an extra layer of anticipation to the story.

“Oh, come on!” Kain exclaimed, his enthusiasm echoing around the bonfire. “You have to tell us now.” His insistence, a testament to the allure of a good story, especially one shrouded in the promise of humour and past misadventures.

Jerome, struggling to maintain his composure amidst the rising tide of laughter and expectant faces, began his tale. “It was when we were living in Broken Hill. I was still quite young, but Paul and Luke let me come along.”

“If you promised not to get us caught!” Paul interjected, his words prompting gasps and laughter around the campfire.

“I bet they got caught,” Karen teased, her voice laced with amusement.

Jerome chuckled, his voice rich with the thrill of reliving the past, sharing excessive details until Paul halted him. “Forget the irrelevant stuff. We t-pee’d the Clarke’s house, and then—” His words, a blend of impatience and nostalgia, cut through the laughter, directing us back to the heart of the story.

“Hang on!” Nial interrupted, his confusion breaking into the flow of the tale. “What’s t-‘peeing?” His question, innocent yet filled with curiosity, echoed around the campfire, drawing a mixture of chuckles and raised eyebrows.

Mum, ever the voice of reason and slightly unimpressed by our juvenile antics, clarified, “It means they threw toilet paper all over their house in the middle of the night.” Her explanation, succinct and tinged with a hint of disapproval, laid bare the mischief of our youth.

“Oh,” Nial chuckled, his earlier confusion replaced by a spark of amusement. “That actually sounds like a bit of fun.”

“But that’s not the best part,” Jerome teased, his voice dancing with anticipation. He had us, every one of us, captured in the palm of his hand, waiting for the climax of the tale.

“We… we…” Jerome struggled, the words catching in his throat as if the memory itself was too big to escape.

Grinning widely, unable to contain my own part in the story, I chimed in, “Paul and I sent Jerome to knock on their front door while we went into hiding just over the small garden fence.” My admission, gleeful and conspiratorial, drew gasps and laughter from around the fire.

The attention shifted back to Jerome, all eyes on him, eager for the next piece of the puzzle. “I knock on the door, and…” Jerome tried to continue, the anticipation building with each word.

Paul, barely able to suppress his amusement, took over. “And then you just stood there!” His interjection, filled with incredulous laughter, painted a picture of Jerome, frozen in the moment, a statue of confusion and panic.

“Paul and I thought we were done for,” I added, the memory vivid in my mind. The tension of that night, the fear of getting caught, mingled with the exhilaration of the prank, was a feeling I'd never forget. It was one of those moments that seemed to define the reckless freedom of our youth.

“And what happened? Did Jerome get caught?” Sarah asked eagerly, her voice a catalyst, propelling the story forward.

“No,” Paul answered, the amusement evident in his voice, breaking through the suspense of the moment. “I had to sprint to the front door to grab him and drag him behind the fence. He nearly tripped me up on the way.” His recounting brought chuckles from the group, the image of Paul, usually so composed, in a desperate dash to rescue Jerome, painted a picture so comical it was irresistible.

“And then the front door opens,” I continued, leaning into the collective anticipation that had built around the fire.

“And the family comes out and finds that their house has been t’peed,” Paul chimed in, his tone shifting to mimic the bewildered reaction of the Clarke family. “They were so confused. They had no idea who had done it or why.”

“They came so close to finding us behind the fence,” I added, the memory of that near discovery sending a shiver down my spine even now.

Maintaining his composure with effort, Jerome continued, “But then one of their kids was like, I know who it was.” He paused, a giggle escaping him, a prelude to the punchline we all knew was coming. The suspense, the build-up, it was all part of the storytelling dance we were engaged in, each playing our part.

Glancing at Paul, we silently agreed to let Jerome finish the story, a mutual acknowledgment that this was his moment, his finale to deliver. Encouragement echoed around the campfire, a chorus of eager anticipation for the climax of the story.

“And he was like, ‘it must be the Smith’s. They use home brand’.” The punchline landed amidst us, the absurdity of the accusation, the innocence of the conclusion drawn by the Clarke's child, it was too much. Laughter filled the camp, rolling in waves of joy and disbelief. Even Mum couldn't resist a chuckle, her stern façade finally breaking under the weight of the humour. Her laughter, rare and precious, was a testament to the power of the story, to the joy found in shared memories and communal folly.

Amidst the mirth and banter that swirled around the bonfire, a moment of transformation unfolded as Paul initiated the symbolic gesture that Beatrix and I had just learned from Alistair. Placing three fingers against his right temple, he declared with a voice that cut through the laughter, “Light the fire.” It was a call to action, a reminder of our shared purpose and commitment.

As attention shifted uncertainly, with the jovial atmosphere momentarily suspended, Beatrix and I exchanged a glance of understanding. It was a silent agreement, an acknowledgment of the importance of this tradition. Mirroring Paul's gesture with three fingers on our left temples, we responded in unison, “Share the light.” Our voices, intertwined, carried a weight that seemed to anchor the moment in something deeper, something profound.

A hush fell over the group, a tangible sense of significance lingering in the air, as if the very night itself paused to recognise the importance of our words. The playful banter that had filled the air moments before gave way to a solemn reverence, a collective acknowledgment of the bond we shared as a community.

To reinforce the expression and perhaps to ensure that the message was felt by every heart present, Paul repeated the gesture with even more conviction. “Light the fire!” he exclaimed, his voice echoing into the night, a beacon calling us back to our core values. It was more than a statement; it was a declaration, a reaffirmation of our commitment to each other and to the ideals that bound us.

Beatrix and I, feeling the surge of unity and purpose that coursed through the group, encouraged everyone to join in. And then, in a spine-tingling unison that seemed to rise from the very earth beneath us, “Share the light!” erupted triumphantly into the dark Clivilius sky. The words, spoken by every voice present, melded into a chorus that transcended individuality, solidifying our unity, a beacon of hope in the night.

As the night wrapped its arms around the lively celebration, transforming joy into a canvas of shadows and light, a subtle tension crept through the air like a hushed murmur. The shift was almost imperceptible at first, but as Mum, the stalwart enforcer of our family's values, approached Dad, Paul, and me, the change in the atmosphere became undeniable. Her furrowed brow was like a beacon of concern, casting a small shadow over the warmth of the bonfire's glow.

"Noah," she murmured, her voice a delicate whisper amidst the vibrant chatter that filled the air. "I'm getting a bit worried about the drinking. It’s too much, and I don’t like it.” Her words, though softly spoken, carried a weight of concern that was hard to ignore. Observing the scenes of jubilation and laughter, so beautifully illuminated by the warm dance of the bonfire, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of apprehension. I hoped that I wasn’t about to regret bringing her to Clivilius, to this place of newfound freedom and community.

“I don’t really like it either,” Dad confessed, his voice low, glancing at Paul and me. It was a rare admission, a shared concern that momentarily bridged the gap between our worlds. “But I don’t think there’s a lot we can do about it.” His words were a resignation, an acknowledgment of the complex fabric of community life that was not easily altered.

Mum insisted, with a determination that was both admirable and slightly daunting, "I think we should leave now. Will you get the kids," directing Dad with a firmness that brooked no argument. It was a command, not a request, fuelled by her protective instincts.

“Are you sure that’s really necessary?” Dad attempted to reason, sensing an imminent 'mum outburst.' His attempt to mitigate the situation was a delicate dance, a balancing act between respect for Mum's concerns and the desire to stay.

I tactfully stepped back, leaving the matter in Paul’s capable hands. He’s good at managing Mum, I reassured myself. In moments like these, Paul's calm demeanour and diplomatic touch were invaluable. He had a way of navigating the stormy waters of family dynamics with a grace that I often found elusive.

As Mum's concerns echoed in my mind, I retreated from the heart of the celebration, seeking solace in the shadows. Reflecting on my own rebellious journey against family and church, a new idea blossomed within me. Amidst flickering shadows, I sought the company of our two other Guardians – Beatrix and Jarod – in a quieter corner of the gathering.

In the relative seclusion of our quiet corner, away from the bonfire's boisterous glow and the settlers' lively discussions, a glance between us conveyed more than words could. It was a silent acknowledgment of our unity. I unfolded a fresh plan, a mission shrouded in the secrecy of night, to retrieve the Smiths' belongings from their family home before the police could seize them entirely.

"We need to bring everything from the Smith house to Clivilius," I explained, my voice a hushed whisper to ensure our conversation remained just between us. “I don’t want the police to have any of it."

Beatrix's eyes gleamed with a determination that mirrored my own, her spirit undaunted by the prospect of what I was proposing. And Jarod, ever enigmatic in his expressions, gave a subtle nod that signalled his agreement. It was clear; we were doing this!

“It’ll be a covert entry into the Smith house from the inside, ensuring we can operate undetected,” I continued, laying out the plan with precision. “And I don’t want a word of this to anyone else. Not yet.” The importance of discretion, of keeping our plans under wraps, couldn't be overstated.

“When are we doing this?” Beatrix's inquiry cut through the night, her readiness evident.

Glancing back at the campfire, where settlers were engrossed in their own worlds, their attention diverted from our clandestine gathering, I made the call. “Now,” I replied, the word heavy with resolve.

“Now?” Jarod repeated, his surprise momentarily breaking through his usually composed demeanour, as he glanced down at his almost full beer.

“You can bring that with you,” Beatrix answered for me, her smile playful, a spark of adventure lighting up her eyes.

“You love this, don’t you, Beatrix?” Jarod teased, his tone light, finding amusement in Beatrix's enthusiasm for the new mission.

Beatrix chuckled, her laughter a soft sound in the darkness. “Stealing stuff in the middle of the night. Of course, I love this shit.” Her candid admission, though made in jest, spoke volumes of her spirit.

“It belongs to my family, so technically we’re not really stealing anything,” I pointed out, needing to clarify that our actions, though covert, were rooted in a sense of justice, of reclaiming what was rightfully ours.

“Whatever. Same difference,” Beatrix retorted with a playful pout. “We’re still doing secret stuff while trying not to get caught.” Her words, light and teasing, belied the seriousness of our undertaking.

Jarod and I chuckled at Beatrix’s response, her ability to find levity in the moment a welcome relief from the tension that had begun to build.

“Come on, then,” I encouraged the pair, feeling the weight of responsibility settle over me. “Let’s go before we get dragged into another conversation.” It was time to act, to step into the shadows of the night and undertake our new mission.

Avoiding direct eye contact from anyone else, the three of us, Beatrix, Jarod, and I, approached the gate in the fence that encircled our small encampment. The metal hinges let out a soft squeak, a sound so at odds with the jubilee of the night, it seemed almost like a protest against our departure into the unknown. As we stepped beyond the threshold, the familiar warmth of the bonfire's glow was replaced by a realm of darkness, a world painted in shades of mystery and intrigue that stretched out before us like an uncharted territory.

Pausing as I gently closed the gate behind us, ensuring it made as little noise as possible, I turned to my fellow Guardians. The significance of the moment felt as heavy as the darkness that enveloped us. Pressing the three fingers into my right temple, I reaffirmed our bond with the words, “Light the fire.” It was more than a command; it was a reminder of why we were here, of the light we sought to preserve and protect.

Beatrix and Jarod, ever my partners in this night's endeavour, mirrored the movement with their own hands. "Share the light," they whispered back, their voices barely audible yet laden with determination. In the silence of the night, our whispered vow felt like a powerful echo of our commitment to unity and shared purpose, a beacon of hope in the enveloping darkness.

Our only sources of light were the torches we carried with us, their flames flickering like distant stars borrowed from Earth’s night sky. These torches guided us through the obsidian expanse, casting elongated shadows that stretched out on the sandy ground beneath our feet. The shadows danced with every flicker of the flame, intertwining with the uncertainty that the night held. Yet, there was a certain beauty in the way the light and shadow played together, a visual metaphor for the duality of our mission — the interplay of risk and resolve, of darkness and the light we sought to reclaim.

Each step taken was resonant with purpose, a testament to the urgency that drove us. We were not just moving through the darkness; we were moving against it. In this mission, we were more than just individuals; we were shadows ourselves, moving silently, ensuring that the only secrets the night would hold were our own.