"Why on earth did I think this was a good idea?" I mumbled under my breath, my voice barely rising above a whisper as I dragged the cumbersome red kayak through the thick, ochre dust. The barren landscape stretched endlessly around me, a sea of red and orange, under a sky that was a perfect shade of blue. Ahead, a haphazard collection of assorted goods lay scattered, encircled by a makeshift boundary of small, meticulously placed rock piles, their arrangement suggesting some attempt at organisation in this otherwise bland wilderness.

The kayak's bright hue was oddly reminiscent of the torn dress I was wearing. It clung to my body, its fabric tattered, a testament to the night’s earlier ordeals. After a fruitless search through Luke's sparsely furnished bedroom, I was forced to put this dress back on, its colour now mirroring the kayak, as if fate was mocking my predicament.

Despite my lack of experience with kayaks, a surge of instinctual confidence had compelled me to choose it as my first object to bring to Clivilius. But now, the weight of my decision bore down on me, literally and figuratively, as the kayak's heft strained my unscathed arm, igniting a dull ache that crescendoed with each step I took. The realisation dawned on me – bringing this kayak through the Portal might have been foolish after all.

"Beatrix?" The voice sliced through my tumultuous thoughts, causing me to halt mid-stride. I turned, my weary gaze falling upon the approaching figure. It was Paul, Luke's brother. My expression softened involuntarily, a semblance of relief washing over me. I had always harboured a fondness for Paul, with his quick wit and keen intellect, qualities that shone through even in our brief encounters. Despite the direness of my situation, his presence brought a flicker of comfort, a momentary respite from the relentless tide of uncertainty and fear.

"You look like shit," Paul declared, halting a few feet away from me, his eyes scrutinising me from head to toe with an unsettling intensity.

"Like you look any better," I retorted, feeling a half-smile flicker on my lips before it quickly vanished. Despite the attempt at humour, the words felt hollow, echoing the weariness and turmoil churning inside me.

"Here, let me take that," Paul offered, reaching out for the kayak with a kind of brisk efficiency that belied the concern etched in his features. His hands, firm and sure, relieved me of the burden, and I felt a weight lift off my shoulders, both literally and metaphorically.

And without any further instruction, Paul subtly changed our direction, guiding me with an unspoken understanding that I was in no state to lead. I followed him, the two of us trudging through the thick, dry dust that seemed intent on claiming us as its own. Walking beside Paul, a man whose height I'd always found comforting, a semblance of security enveloped me in the vast, desolate landscape.

The early morning sun, a fiery orb in the sky, cast a warm glow on my exposed arms, its rays a stark contrast to the chilly ambiance of the kitchen where I had spent the latter hours of the night, lost in a tumult of thoughts and fears.

"Luke brought you in?" Paul's voice broke the silence, his tone casual yet laden with an undercurrent of curiosity.

"No," I replied tersely, my voice barely above a whisper. I wasn't ready to unravel the threads of the past twenty-four hours, not ready to relive the cascade of events that had led me to this moment. The simple response was a shield, guarding the turmoil that roiled beneath the surface, the memories of the night still too raw, too vivid to dissect.

After a moment of heavy silence, filled with the unsaid and the echoes of our previous conversation, Paul threw me a sideways glance. It was a look that seemed to probe, to question, not just my state but the undercurrents of the situation we found ourselves in.

I took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of the Portal Key in my hand. It felt cold, its metallic surface contrasting with the warm, dry air surrounding us. With a deliberate motion, I extended my arm, holding the key out for Paul to see.

"From Cody?" he asked, his voice steady but I detected a flicker of recognition in his eyes, a hint of curiosity that went beyond casual inquiry.

"No," I replied, my voice firm yet tinged with surprise at his familiarity with the name.

"Oh, then who?" Paul pressed, his gaze shifting from the device back to my face, searching for answers I wasn't fully prepared to divulge.

Rather than answering, I found myself deflecting, driven by a sudden urge to understand the extent of Cody's reach and reputation. "What do you know about Cody?" I asked, my tone sharper than intended, eyes locked on Paul's, searching for any flicker of insight or recognition.

"Nothing, really," Paul admitted after a brief pause, his expression open and somewhat perplexed. "Luke mentioned the name when Joel arrived. But I haven't…" His voice trailed off, an unspoken acknowledgment that his involvement or knowledge was limited.

"Joel? Jamie's son, Joel?" The words tumbled out of me, a torrent of surprise and concern that I couldn't suppress. The notion that Joel was here, was both startling and alarming.

"Yeah. You knew?" Paul's question, filled with confusion, mirrored my own tumult of emotions. The layers of our predicament seemed to deepen with each shared piece of information, weaving a tapestry of complexity that was both intriguing and daunting.

"Joel is here?" The question escaped my lips again, a reflection of my jumbled thoughts, echoing louder in my mind than in the open air. I ignored Paul's previous question, my focus narrowing on this new, unexpected piece of information. "I thought Luke wasn't going to bring him here," I murmured, half to Paul, half to myself, my voice a mix of disbelief and concern. The words slipped out before I had a chance to weigh them, to decide whether I wanted to voice my internal dialogue or keep it locked away.

"He didn't, apparently," Paul replied, his tone neutral, yet I sensed an undercurrent of uncertainty, a hint that he, too, was trying to make sense of the situation. His response did little to ease the swirling pool of confusion inside me.

Why would Luke bring him here? The question replayed in my mind, a persistent echo that refused to be silenced. My eyes scanned the barren landscape around us, the stark, unforgiving terrain of our surroundings magnifying my sense of isolation and vulnerability. The emptiness seemed to mirror the growing void of unanswered questions within me.

"We think he came down the river," Paul offered, his voice pulling me back from my thoughts. His speculation seemed plausible, yet, it did little to dampen the storm of questions and concerns still churning inside me.

Jamie must be devastated. The thought struck me, adding a new layer of emotional turmoil to the already heavy burden weighing on my mind.

"Did Luke say what happened to him?" The question lingered in the air, tinged with a mix of concern and a hidden layer of self-preservation. I couldn't help but hope that my own involvement, my presence in this tangled web, hadn't been highlighted in the recounting of events.

"He told us about the blood and the truck," Paul replied, his voice steady but the content of his words sending an involuntary shiver through me. The vivid imagery of blood and violence painted a grim picture, and the realisation that Luke had divulged details of the ordeal added a weighty layer of anxiety. My mind raced with the implications, with the fear that my name might be entangled in the narrative of Joel's harrowing experience.

The thought of Jamie's reaction loomed large in my mind. Would he ever look at me the same way again, knowing I was a part of this tragedy? The possibility of our relationship being irrevocably altered, of a shadow being cast over our future interactions, was a bitter pill to swallow.

"But Glenda stitched his throat and he seems to be making a remarkable recovery."

"Glenda?" The name was unfamiliar, a new character in the unfolding drama. "And Joel's alive?" I echoed, seeking confirmation, utterly bewildered that the young man could have survived his severed throat.

"Yeah," Paul affirmed. "And Glenda is the camp's doctor."

"Can I see him?" The words tumbled out, driven by a surge of relief mixed with a deep-seated need to confront the reality of Joel's condition, to see with my own eyes that he was indeed alive, to perhaps alleviate the guilt that gnawed at me.

"I'm sure you'll see him soon enough." Paul's response was noncommittal, lacking the certainty I craved. His words did little to quench my growing thirst for closure, for tangible proof that Joel was alive.

Our walk continued in silence, the kind of silence that's so heavy, so thick, you feel like you could reach out and touch it. Neither of us seemed ready, or perhaps able, to break it. I noticed Paul's pace begin to slow, his previously assured steps faltering. His shoulders, once square, now seemed to curve inward, as if he was carrying a weight much heavier than the physical world could impose. His eyes, when they met mine, were pools of unspoken anguish, telling stories of pain and fear that his lips had yet to confess.

"A… a shadow panther?" The words stumbled out of Paul's mouth, fragile as glass and laden with a dread that seemed to suck the air from our surroundings.

"Huh?" My response was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unexpected turn in our conversation.

"Your dress and cuts. Were they from a shadow panther?" His voice held a desperation now, a palpable need for confirmation that seemed to stretch far beyond simple curiosity.

My response was a silent stare, a momentary pause where time seemed to stand still as I wrestled with the reality of my encounter. The memory of the shadow panther, its terrifying form and lethal grace, flashed vividly in my mind's eye.

"A panther-like creature?" Paul pressed, his voice sharpening with urgency, as if sensing my hesitation to dive back into the harrowing memory.

"Yeah," I admitted quietly, the word barely more than a whisper, yet heavy with significance. Acknowledging the encounter felt like unravelling a thread from a tightly wound spool of experiences, exposing a vulnerability I wasn't ready to confront. The memory of the creature's assault was not just fresh; it was raw, a vivid recollection of a nightmare that had leapt from the shadows into stark, terrifying reality.

Paul swallowed hard, the action echoing the turmoil that seemed to churn within him. His reaction was a complex tapestry of fear and realisation, emotions that danced across his face, fleeting yet unmistakable. "It was you who screamed last night, then?" His voice, though steady, carried an undercurrent of something I couldn't quite place—was it guilt, concern, or perhaps a hint of fear?

"I guess," I replied, my tone nonchalant, an attempt to mask the storm of emotions raging inside me. Accompanied by a shrug, my response was an effort to downplay the raw, primal fear that had prompted the scream—a visceral, uncontrollable reaction to the terror I had faced.

Paul's actions spoke louder than words could. A simple gulp, a motion of wiping his eyes, each a subtle yet powerful testament to the emotions he was grappling with. It was clear that the echo of my scream had reached more than just the barren, silent landscape around us; it had touched something in Paul, stirring a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings.

"Everything okay here?" I ventured, my voice a mere whisper, almost lost amidst the vast, empty expanse that surrounded us.

"We had an incident here last–" Paul began, his words trailing off as if the act of voicing the events would make them all the more real, all the more terrifying.

The sharp intake of breath was involuntary as we crested the final hill, the small camp coming into full view below us. My eyes widened at the sight of the campfire, its flickering flames a stark contrast to the row of large, almost military-like tents that stood in an orderly fashion behind it.

My voice faltered, catching in my throat as I watched Luke's figure storm past us. His back was a rigid line of tension, his movements brusque and hurried, betraying a turmoil that seemed to radiate from him. I could see him furiously wiping at his eyes, a clear indication of the emotional storm brewing within him.

"Luke!" The name finally broke free from my lips, a desperate attempt to bridge the distance, to understand the cascade of events that had unfolded. But before I could take a step, Paul's hand clasped firmly around my arm, his grip urging me to hold back. A tight knot of apprehension formed in the pit of my stomach, a gnawing sense of dread that begged the question: What the hell happened last night?

My gaze drifted to the gash on my arm, a painful reminder of my own recent brush with danger. The thought that talk of shadow panthers might be spreading through the camp sent a ripple of unease through me.

As we walked into the camp, a shudder coursed through my body, an involuntary response to the scene that greeted us. There, lying lifeless by the campfire, was a shadow panther, its presence a chilling testament to the night's events. The dried blood, a dark, almost black hue, had oozed from a slice in its belly, seeping into the surrounding dust, staining the earth with its final moments.

As the oppressive mood of the camp enveloped me, a dreadful thought clawed its way into my mind: Who's dead? The heaviness in the air, the sombre faces I glimpsed as I passed, all pointed to a loss, a void that had suddenly been ripped open in their tight-knit community. Turning to Paul, a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach, I asked, "Where's Jamie?" The fear that Jamie might have been the one to succumb to some dire fate was overwhelming, a possibility I could barely entertain.

"Probably still in the river behind the tents," Paul's voice was soft, carrying a hint of sorrow that did little to ease my growing dread. He halted, his steps ceasing as if the weight of the situation anchored him to the spot.

Compelled by a mixture of fear and a desperate need for clarity, I pressed on alone, my heart pounding in my chest as I navigated the path between the tents. There, along the riverbank, sat Jamie, his figure solitary against the backdrop of the flowing water. His legs dangled in the water, but it was what he cradled in his arms that drew my focus. With his back to me, the details were obscured, shrouded in the same uncertainty that cloaked my heart.

With each step closer, the scene before me became heartbreakingly clear. I gasped, my eyes stinging with the onset of tears, as I approached Jamie. "Is he–?" My voice broke, the question dissolving into the heavy air, unfinished yet laden with meaning.

Jamie's gaze met mine, his eyes a mirror of the pain I felt, red and swollen from crying. Wordlessly, he continued to stroke Duke's fur, the gentle motion a heartbreaking contrast to the stillness that enveloped the once vibrant dog. The silence was deafening, a void where Duke's lively presence should have been, now filled only with the palpable grief shared between us.

In that heartrending moment, the world seemed to narrow to the space where Jamie sat. I knelt beside Jamie, an instinctual need to offer comfort, to share in the mourning of our lost companion. My arms wrapped around him, gripping his shoulder tightly, a physical anchor in the torrent of our shared sorrow. And there, beside the river, our tears merged with the flowing water.

Clasping Jamie in an embrace that felt like a lifeline amidst the storm of our grief, I felt a surge of emotions I had been holding back, a torrent unleashed by the recent cascade of events that seemed hell-bent on tearing through the fragile fabric of our existence. In the silence of our shared sorrow, I found myself silently pleading, Please, don't let me go, Jamie. Not yet. The intimacy of the moment, the shared space of our mourning, felt like a temporary refuge from the darkness that loomed just beyond.

As the moments stretched, each second feeling more precious than the last, I eventually and reluctantly pulled back. Remaining hunched on my knees, I extended a trembling hand towards Duke, allowing my fingers to brush gently against his fur. The once vibrant and lively companion now lay motionless, his stillness an unsettling reminder of the cruel reality we faced.

Jamie's gaze, heavy with loss and rimmed with red, met mine as he uttered a vow of retribution, "I'm going to get whatever did this." The resolve in his voice, the rekindling of a fire in his eyes, spoke of a determination forged in the depths of his anguish.

I nodded, understanding the need for action, for some semblance of control in the midst of our powerlessness. "Do you think it was a shadow panther?" The question emerged from my own fears, from the harrowing encounter that still haunted my thoughts.

"A what?" Jamie's confusion was palpable, his brow creasing in a mix of curiosity and bewilderment.

"A shadow panther," I clarified, my hand subconsciously moving to the scratches on my arm, a physical testament to my own brush with death. "It's the creature that attacked me last night." The words hung between us, a new layer of terror for Jamie to absorb.

"It wasn't a shadow panther," the unexpected voice cut through the heavy air, startling me from my thoughts and turning our attention away from our grief, if only for a moment.

Simultaneously, Jamie and I twisted around to face the source of the interruption. A woman stood there, her presence as sudden as her announcement. "I'm Charity," she stated plainly, her demeanour lacking the usual formalities of a first encounter. No handshake extended, no smile offered—just a straightforward introduction.

My eyes scanned Charity, taking in her appearance with a mix of curiosity and caution. It was clear she wasn't from Earth, her attire—or the lack thereof—speaking volumes of a background far removed from our own. Her outfit, if it could be called that, consisted of hard metal coverings strategically placed over vital areas, leaving much of her skin exposed to the elements. With a bow in her hand and a quiver slung across her back, she looked like she had stepped out of a scene from a warrior princess movie.

"How do you know that it wasn't a shadow panther?" Jamie's voice broke through my observations, his tone a mix of curiosity and a faint trace of skepticism.

Charity, without missing a beat, motioned toward Duke's lifeless form. "May I?" she requested, her eyes locking with Jamie's, seeking permission to approach. There was a certain respect in her stance, an understanding of our loss, yet she exuded a confidence that suggested she was well-versed in matters far beyond our comprehension.

Jamie's pause was palpable, a brief moment where the weight of his decision seemed to rest heavily upon his shoulders. Yet, there was an unspoken acknowledgment in his nod, a relinquishment of control to this stranger who had appeared so unexpectedly in our midst.

Henri's low growl cut through the tension like a knife, snapping my focus to the small, stout dog that I hadn't noticed beside Jamie until that moment. A wave of self-reproach washed over me—how could I have been so absorbed in my own emotions that I overlooked Henri, Duke's loyal brother? The question gnawed at me, reminding me how the whirlwind of recent events had frayed my usual attentiveness.

As Charity moved closer, Henri's growl morphed into a bark, a clear sign of his unease or perhaps his protective instincts kicking in. But his attention was quickly diverted by the loud clattering of pots near the campfire, a sound that seemed to momentarily erase his apprehension. With a sudden burst of energy, Henri's short, stubby legs propelled him toward the noise, kicking up small clouds of dust in his wake.

I watched him pause near the back of the tent, his body tensing as he glanced back at us. His expression was pitiful, imbued with a sadness that tugged at my heart. His gaze seemed to search for his brother, a silent question in his eyes that spoke volumes of his confusion and sorrow.

A lump of emotion clogged my throat as I witnessed his distress. Poor Henri. The question of whether he could comprehend the loss of Duke lingered in my mind, adding a layer of poignancy to the already heavy atmosphere. And then, just as suddenly as he had captured our attention, Henri scampered around the side of the tent, disappearing from view, leaving a palpable void where his small, mournful presence had been.

As Henri scurried away, his absence was quickly filled by Charity, who assumed his position with a sense of purpose that was both intriguing and unsettling. Squatting beside Jamie, she leaned in with a hesitancy that swiftly shifted to determination, her hands reaching for Duke with a delicacy that belied her unfamiliarity.

I watched, drawn in by her actions, as she carefully brushed aside Duke's fur to reveal the wound. "See the edges around the wound?" she inquired, her tone inviting scrutiny. Curiosity piqued, I leaned in closer, my eyes tracing the contours she pointed out, noticing the unnatural precision of the wound's edges.

"It's too clean to have been caused by any claw or tooth," she explained, her confidence in her assessment evident. Her words hung in the air, heavy with implications that twisted my stomach into knots.

"Then what was it?" My voice barely rose above a whisper, echoing the mix of fascination and dread that gripped me.

Charity's response was clinical, devoid of the emotion that clouded my own thoughts. "Looking at the discolouration of the skin, my best guess is that it was an Okaledian dagger that killed the creature," she declared, introducing a term so foreign, it seemed to widen the chasm between her world and ours.

Okaledian dagger? The term echoed in my mind, a puzzle piece so alien it seemed to warp the fabric of my new reality. What the hell is that? I wondered, the question ricocheting through my thoughts, unanswered.

"Creature?" Jamie's voice cut through my reverie, sharp with indignation. "His name is Duke." The simple statement was a defence, a testament to Duke's significance, far beyond that of a mere creature.

Compelled to support Jamie, I found my own voice. "You do know he is a dog, don't you?" The question was directed at Charity, though it was tinged with my own rising uncertainty. Did she understand? Could she comprehend the bond, the essence of what Duke meant to us?

Charity's focus remained unbroken as she scrutinised Duke, her eyes narrowing in concentration. "I've seen similar creatures... dogs, like yours, but nothing quite like it. Creatures like this aren't so common in Chewbathia." Her words, meant to clarify, only added layers to the mystery enveloping her. Chewbathia? Another term, another piece of the puzzle that was Charity, hinting at origins and knowledge far removed from the immediate, painful reality we faced.

Why not? The question pulsed in my mind, demanding attention, yet I found myself voicing a different, more tangible thought. "I feel like my brain suddenly has another dozen questions after that." The words left my lips as I rose, my body echoing the fatigue and stress that had settled into my mind, manifesting as a dull ache at my temple.

"So do I," Jamie echoed, his voice laden with a mix of confusion and burgeoning anger. I watched him rub a bloody finger across his forehead. His gaze met mine, seeking a shared understanding before he directed his next words to Charity. "But if Duke was killed by a dagger," he began, the pause that followed heavy with the gravity of his realisation. Then, turning to Charity with an intensity that matched the seriousness of his query, he demanded, "then who the fuck was wielding the dagger?"

His words struck a chord, igniting a surge of fresh adrenaline that raced through my veins. Crouching beside Jamie, I lowered my voice to a whisper, the urgency of my thoughts spilling out. "Do you think somebody in the camp killed Duke?" The possibility was chilling, introducing a layer of mistrust and fear that we could ill afford.

"Nobody that you know," Charity interjected, her voice carrying a certainty that was both reassuring and terrifying in its implications.

Jamie and I simultaneously turned to her. "What do you mean?" we demanded together, our voices intertwining in a chorus of confusion and concern.

"There's someone here that we don't know?" Jamie's question trembled through the air, his composure giving way to a hint of panic. The implication that an unknown threat lurked among us, possibly harbouring ill intentions, was a terrifying prospect.

"A Portal Pirate," Paul's words sliced through the tension, his presence suddenly manifesting alongside a title that sounded like something conjured from a dystopian novel. His tone, laden with the self-assurance of someone who had perhaps found a piece of the puzzle, did little to alleviate the growing knot of anxiety in my stomach.

"What the actual fuck?" Jamie's whispered exclamation, though intended to be under his breath, resonated with the shock rippling through me. His eyes, wide with a mix of fear and incredulity, met mine, seeking some semblance of understanding in a situation that was rapidly spiralling beyond our comprehension.

Before the silence could settle, Charity interjected, her voice steady, painting a picture of the threat that loomed unseen yet palpably close. "He's likely lost and been separated from his partner. Some danger must have befallen one of them before they could execute the location registration. They're always in pairs. Never work alone. Cunning and violent bastards they are together. But alone, they can be brute savages. Their instinct for hunting and survival runs deep." Her words, meant to inform, felt like cold fingers tracing my spine, introducing a new fear to wrestle with—the idea of a Portal Pirate, desperate and dangerous, lurking among us.

Paul's next words were directed at Jamie, a misguided attempt to impress or perhaps reassure, "Charity managed to kill one of the beasts last night. It's at the camp if you want to see it." The pride in his voice, the slight lift in his demeanour at the mention of the slain beast, struck a dissonant chord within me. The gravity of our loss, the fresh wound of Duke's death, seemed momentarily eclipsed by Paul's fascination with the creature's demise.

As Paul's excitement bubbled over, revealing yet another layer to the night's events, I felt a wave of frustration. "She wounded another and it appears, somehow, that a third shadow panther managed to follow Beatrix through the Portal to earth," he said, turning his gaze towards me.

Reluctantly, and with a keen awareness of Jamie's grief-stricken state, I offered a nod—a silent confirmation of Paul's words.

Jamie's eyes, momentarily ignited with a flicker of hope, prompted a surge of curiosity within me. What was he thinking? The possibility that he might see a way back to Earth seemed to dance in his gaze. Yet, as quickly as it appeared, Charity's words quashed it with the blunt reality of our circumstances.

"It doesn't change anything for you," she stated, her hand on Jamie's shoulder not so much a gesture of comfort as it was a grounding reminder. "You'll never leave Clivilius alive." The finality in her tone was chilling, a cold splash of truth on the fleeting spark of Jamie's hope.

Paul's interjection, seemingly well-intentioned but profoundly misguided, only added to the surreal nature of the discussion. "But I think Duke can leave. You could have Luke take him to be buried on Earth?” The suggestion seemed to echo bizarrely in the charged atmosphere, out of touch with the weight of Jamie’s grief.

My reaction mirrored Jamie's—astonishment, disbelief, then a rising tide of indignation. Duke was not just a pet; he was family. The thought of sending him away, even in death, felt like a violation of the bond he and Jamie shared.

"Fuck no!" Jamie's response was visceral, a raw outpouring of his resolve to keep Duke's memory close, even in the face of such otherworldly circumstances. His words resonated with me, affirming the conviction I sensed in his heart. "It's not fair on Henri. Duke belongs here now. We'll find a suitable place to bury him here today." His declaration was a testament to his love for Duke, an unbreakable bond that not even death or the bizarre reality of Clivilius could sever.

Paul's silence, marked by a subdued nod, signalled the end of the conversation.

"It's not possible to bury him," said Charity, her voice cutting through the heavy air, shattering the fragile veil of silence that had cloaked our small, grief-stricken group. "You have no walls, no protection, burying him will only attract creatures much worse than shadow panthers and Portal Pirates."

My stomach plummeted to the cold, unforgiving ground beneath us. A chilling breeze whispered across the river, carrying with it the weight of our grim reality. What the hell could be worse than those nightmarish beasts we had already encountered? My mind raced, imagining all manner of grotesque creatures lurking just beyond our sight, drawn by the scent of death.

"What then?" asked Paul, his voice tinged with a hesitancy that mirrored the fear and uncertainty that clutched at my own heart.

"You'll need to cremate his body," Charity directed, her tone devoid of the warmth or comfort one might crave in such a bleak moment.

"Like fuck we will!" The vehement protest erupted from Jamie, his voice cracking under the strain of his raw, palpable grief. He rose to his feet, his movements jerky and uncontrolled, as if every fibre of his being rejected the very notion of what Charity proposed. Duke, the loyal companion now forever still in Jamie's arms, was clutched against his blood-soaked chest.

"Don't worry, Duke," Jamie leaned in, his voice now imbued with a heartbreaking softness. "I won't let them destroy any trace that you ever existed."

"Jamie," Paul interjected, his voice a gentle attempt to bridge the chasm of Jamie's despair. He cautiously took a few steps toward the man and his deceased dog. "We don't have a lot of options here."

My shoulders slumped, the weight of our situation pressing down like a physical burden. Despite the turmoil swirling within me, a part of me—the logical, detached part—knew that Paul was right. The pragmatic corner of my mind whispered harsh truths: unless Jamie could accept the grim necessity of our situation, he might unwittingly invite even greater horrors upon us.

"No!" The word was a defiant roar from Jamie, a resolute stand against a reality too cruel to accept. "We're not burning Duke."

Paul, Charity, and I launched into a concerted effort to break through Jamie's wall of resistance, our voices intertwining, each of us desperate to inject a dose of reality into the cloud of grief that enveloped him. Yet, our earnest persuasions were abruptly sliced through by an intrusion from the periphery of our taut bubble of tension.

"Has anyone seen Joel this morning?" The question came from an unfamiliar woman, her presence almost ghostlike until this moment. Her voice, laced with a tremor of anxiety, cut through the air, her words imbued with an urgency that momentarily redirected our collective focus from Jamie's despair to another brewing storm of worry.

"I've been with Jamie since I arrived," I found myself responding, the realisation hitting me with a cold jolt. In the trauma of our survival, the truth was stark—I had never actually laid eyes on Joel, at least not beyond the lifeless form that I had already memorialised.

"I've not seen him at all this morning. I just assumed he was still resting in his tent. Is he not there?" Paul's query hung in the air, his voice a mix of concern and bewilderment, reflecting the sudden shift in our group's attention.

"No," the woman's reply was succinct, yet it reverberated with a weight that seemed to push the air out of our lungs.

In an instant, as if the news had physically struck him, Jamie's knees gave way, his form collapsing with an almost cinematic slow-motion quality. The thud of his elbows hitting the ground punctuated his descent, his grip on Duke unyielding even in his own collapse.

"Jamie!" Our voices overlapped in a chorus of concern as we instinctively moved toward him, our previous contention momentarily forgotten in the face of his evident distress.

The woman, her role shifting seamlessly from inquirer to caretaker, squatted beside Jamie with an efficiency that spoke of experience. Her hands moved with purpose, assessing his condition with a practiced eye before she paused, her gaze lifting to meet Paul’s.

"Gather everyone to the campfire," she directed, her voice steady, commanding attention amidst the swirling eddy of emotions and unfolding crises.

Paul nodded once—a silent acknowledgment—before turning on his heel to execute her command.

I eyed cautiously the woman who I could only assume to be the camp's doctor that Paul had mentioned earlier in the morning. "You must be Glenda," I ventured, my voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and respect.

"I am," she replied, her voice steady, as she brushed dust from her clothes with a pragmatic hand, rising to her full stature. "I'm going to find something suitable to wrap Duke in. Please help Jamie get himself cleaned up. I'll meet you back here before we take the dog to the campfire."

"Yes, doctor," I replied dutifully, my response automatic, influenced by the immediate authority that emanated from her, her Northern European accent reinforcing her commanding presence.

With Glenda and Charity disappearing from sight, I turned my attention to Jamie, who seemed lost in a haze of grief and shock. I leaned in close to him, my voice soft yet insistent. "Come on, let's get you clean," I coaxed, my hand gently tugging at his dirt-encrusted arm, offering a sliver of comfort in the tangible action of care.

It required a gentle, persistent effort, but I finally persuaded Jamie to lay Duke gently beside the river, a place where he could maintain a vigilant watch over his fallen companion. As Jamie rose, my gaze lingered on the amount of dried blood that adorned his chest, a gruesome testament to the tragedy he had endured, painting him in the brutal hues of death and survival.

His trousers, too, told a tale of the ordeal, stained and soiled, a fabric chronicle of the night’s horrors. With a resigned motion, Jamie shed the bloodied garments, letting them fall in a heavy, sodden heap onto the ground. Then, with a deep, almost imperceptible sigh, he stepped into the river.

The water, a silent witness to our collective sorrow, embraced him. I watched, a silent sentinel, as Jamie surrendered momentarily to the cleansing embrace of the river, each ripple carrying away fragments of his agony, though the stains it could wash from his soul were far less tangible.

"I'll go and get you some fresh clothes," I assured Jamie, my voice laced with a quiet resolve. In the back of my mind, I harboured no illusions about the fate of his old clothes—soon, they would likely be surrendered to the flames, erased without a trace as we sought to cleanse the reminders of our trauma.

"Paul or Glenda can direct you to the right tent," Jamie responded, his voice low, tinged with the raw edge of his grief. Then, without another word, he turned his back to me, his posture a silent testament to the weight of his sorrow.

With a heavy heart, I crouched beside Duke, the stillness of his form a mournful contrast to the vibrant spirit he once embodied. My fingers gently brushed his unmoving head, an action so simple yet laden with the sadness of our loss. As I touched him, a cascade of memories flooded through me—images, sounds, and sensations that danced across my consciousness, vivid and poignant.

There was laughter, a bright, joyful sound that seemed to echo around me, a reminder of the days when Duke's energy was a boundless force of happiness. I remembered how he would clamber over me, a whirlwind of affection and playfulness, his kisses dispensed generously, his commitment to our shared moments of joy unwavering.

"It's not fair," I murmured, my voice barely a whisper, a tender lament for a soul taken too soon. The words slipped out amidst the silent tears that traced paths down my cheeks. "You didn't deserve this, dear, sweet Duke."