As I settled myself on the roughly-hewn log beside Chris, its surface cool and slightly damp under my fingers, I began to reflect on the day's whirlwind of events. The log's texture was a stark contrast to the smooth, predictable surfaces of my former life. It was barely twenty-four hours ago that I was sitting on the bus with Jane, ensconced in the familiar hum of our daily commute home from work. Those moments, so regular and uneventful, now seemed like fragments from another lifetime. I could never have imagined that answering that phone call from Luke would have completely upended my life forever.

Wrapped in my own thoughts, I felt a peculiar sense of detachment, as if I were observing my life from a distance. Everything still felt so surreal, like a vivid dream that I was yet to awaken from. I was quite certain that the full magnitude of the situation hadn’t really sunk in yet. The idea that Chris and I would never be returning to the home we once knew lingered in my mind like a persistent fog. A strong part of me clung to the hope, however unrealistic, that I could simply walk back through the Portal tomorrow and return to my normal life routine. The comfort of that routine, with its predictable challenges and familiar joys, now seemed like a lost treasure.

Luke's sudden arrival, as he materialised seemingly out of nowhere and stepped in front of me, abruptly yanked my wandering thoughts back to the tangible, pulsating present. The stark contrast between his brisk, purposeful movements and my reflective stillness was jarring. As he stood there, the flickering flames of the campfire cast a warm, dancing light on his face, accentuating his features and the earnest look in his eyes. It was a stark reminder that the surreal landscape I found myself in was, in fact, my new reality.

“Chicken tikka?” Luke's voice broke through my reverie, pulling my attention to the plastic container he was extending towards me. It was filled with steaming rice, the aromatic spices mingling with the air, and the sauce overflowed generously, promising a burst of flavour. The sight of it, so unexpectedly luxurious in our makeshift camp, brought a spontaneous and broad smile to my face.

“How did you know?” I asked, the words more of an exclamation than a question, my smile widening. The familiar scent of the dish evoked a fleeting sense of nostalgia, a reminder of countless dinners back in a world that now felt impossibly distant.

“Lucky guess,” Luke replied, his voice light, accompanied by a cheeky grin that seemed to light up his whole face. It was a small moment of normalcy, a playful exchange that momentarily lifted the weight of our extraordinary circumstances.

As Luke moved along, his steps momentarily hesitant, I watched his gaze shift to Chris with a look of focused concentration. It was clear he was weighing his options, considering what might be the best choice for him.

“And for you-” Luke began, his voice trailing off as he turned towards Chris.

“He’ll eat anything,” I chimed in before Luke could finish, answering for Chris in a playful, teasing tone. It was a little joke between us, a nod to the countless times Chris had proven his easy-going nature when it came to food.

Luke's eyebrows shot up in surprise, clearly taken aback by my interruption. It was a momentary flicker of amusement in his otherwise serious demeanour.

“Anything is fine,” Chris confirmed, his voice tinged with a light, reassuring smile. It was a simple statement, but it spoke volumes about his adaptability and easygoing nature.

“Sure,” Luke responded, handing Chris the container.

“Lois, sit!” Glenda's voice cut through the evening air, sharp and commanding, as she tried to rein in the exuberance of her excited Retriever. Lois, was a bundle of boundless energy, her tail wagging furiously as she continued to shadow Luke around the circle. Her coat, a rich golden hue, shimmered in the firelight, and her eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and curiosity.

Watching the playful interaction, I couldn't help but chuckle softly. There was something inherently comforting about the presence of animals, even in the midst of chaos. Their simple, unadulterated joy and lack of awareness of our human complexities always had a way of making me feel instantly at ease, even if it was just an energetic dog chasing after any morsel of food it could get.

“Look, Lois, even Duke has settled,” Jamie, sitting across from me, tried to reason with the Retriever, his tone half amused, half exasperated. He reached down and gave Duke a gentle scratch behind the ear. Duke, in stark contrast to Lois, was the picture of calmness, his body relaxed and his demeanour stoic as he basked in Jamie's attention.

“And butter chicken for you,” Luke announced, his voice drawing my attention back to him as he handed Jamie the next container of food.

As the food procession continued around the circle, I allowed the chatter and laughter to fade into the background, focusing instead on the meal in front of me. I eagerly pulled off the lid of my container, and immediately, the rich, tantalising aroma of Indian spices wafted up, enveloping my senses. It was a scent that promised warmth and flavour, and my belly responded with a loud, anticipatory grumble.

Carefully balancing the rectangular container on my thighs, I tore off a piece of naan bread, its soft, fluffy texture a perfect contrast to the thick, creamy sauces. As I dipped the bread into the mixture, soaking up the delicious, overflowing sauce, I took a moment to savour the sight before taking a bite. The flavours exploded in my mouth – a symphony of spices, perfectly blended, each bite a delightful dance of taste. It was more than just a meal; it was a small piece of normalcy, a reminder of the world we left behind, and in that moment, it was truly delicious.

The atmosphere around the campfire shifted as Luke finally took a seat, joining our small circle. The group, including myself, settled into a comfortable rhythm of eating, punctuated only by the occasional murmur of appreciation for the food. The glow of the fire cast a warm, flickering light on everyone, creating a cozy, almost intimate setting.

Paul's sudden clearing of his throat, loud and deliberate, instantly drew my attention to him. His expression was serious, his eyes scanning the group as if to gauge our readiness for what he was about to say. “I need everyone to check in at the Drop Zone regularly to see whether Luke has brought any of your belongings. Or perhaps there might be something there that you find you need.”

“That sounds reasonable enough,” Chris chirped in quickly, his tone light but earnest. It was typical of him to agree so readily, always looking to be helpful.

“Reasonable?” I echoed, my voice tinged with skepticism as I eyed Chris. I couldn't help but wonder where he would find both the time and energy to meander to the Drop Zone, given our current workload. “It’s a long way to walk just to check,” I found myself voicing my thoughts, my tone laced with a touch of frustration. “I’m too busy to wander over to simply… check.”

Chris’s face fell slightly, a look of mild betrayal flashing in his eyes. Despite this, I remained firm in my stance, feeling a bit guilty but knowing that practicality had to prevail.

“I’m with Karen on this one,” Jamie chimed in, his voice confident and decisive. “Too busy.” His agreement was unexpected, but in these circumstances, I wasn’t about to object.

“Busy!” Paul's retort was sharp, his frustration palpable. “All you’ve done is sit in the tent for the past two days!”

Jamie’s reaction was immediate and heated. “Fuck off, Paul!” he yelled, his agitation causing a saucy piece of chicken to tumble from his fork and land in his lap.

The tension around the fire grew, but it was an alliance that, given our situation, seemed necessary.

“Didn’t you want to be responsible for managing the Drop Zone anyway?” Luke’s question to Paul was calm, a contrast to the heated exchange.

Chris, ever the peacemaker, continued his agreeable stance. “I'm happy to wander over. It’ll be a nice break and good to see what’s there,” he said, before quickly stuffing more chicken into his mouth.

I sighed softly, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation.

“You make a good Drop Zone manager,” Glenda observed, her tone pragmatic. Her diplomatic approach was a relief, and it seemed she was in agreement with Jamie and me.

“Well, he is shit at building things,” Kain’s mumbled comment, though almost under his breath, was still audible. His blunt honesty was a bit of comic relief in the midst of the tension.

Glenda continued, turning to Paul. “I think our settlement has more chance of thriving if we each focus on our own strengths,” she suggested, her voice reasonable. “With Luke bringing supplies through so quickly now, perhaps it would be best if the Drop Zone had a dedicated manager.”

Paul sighed, his body language indicating resignation. “Fine,” he agreed. “I’ll be responsible for notifying people when things arrive for them and for keeping the Drop Zone in some sort of order.”

“Marvellous,” I blurted out, a bit too eagerly, glad to have the matter settled. My stomach gave another rumble, reminding me of the more pressing matter at hand – the delicious meal still waiting to be enjoyed.

“But,” Paul began, his tone shifting as he emphasised the word with a hint of urgency. “If I am going to be going back and forth so often, we need to do something about this bloody dust! We need to build a road.” His statement hung in the air, heavy with implications.

I mentally face-palmed at Paul's suggestion. It was understandable, yes, but utterly unrealistic. We barely had anything to dig with, let alone the resources to construct a road. It seemed like Paul was reaching for the non-existent Clivilius stars when we were still trying to lay the groundwork.

“That sounds fair enough,” Glenda chimed in, her voice calm and supportive as she encouraged Lois to lay down. Her agreement with Paul seemed to come from a place of pragmatism, always looking for solutions to improve our living conditions.

“I can help with that,” Chris volunteered, raising his hand in the air with an enthusiasm reminiscent of a young schoolboy eager to participate in a worthy cause. His eagerness was endearing, yet sometimes a tad overzealous.

I sighed inwardly once more. As much as I loved Chris for his unyielding spirit and readiness to help, his penchant for jumping into projects headfirst without considering the practicalities was one of his quirks that I found both charming and exasperating.

“Yeah, I guess we could all pitch in,” Kain added, his tone a mix of willingness and hesitation. His eyes scanned the group, seeking validation for his willingness to contribute. When his gaze met mine, I made sure to communicate through my expression that I would be, regrettably, unavailable to participate in this ambitious endeavour.

“I’ll help too,” Joel chimed in, his voice raspy but determined. The young man's offer of assistance drew my attention, stirring a faint twinge of guilt within me. But it seems that there are more than enough volunteers for the unachievable project now, I reasoned with myself, turning my attention back to my food.

“I’ll hold the bag open for you,” I offered Luke, taking the black garbage bag from his hands and stretching it open. It crinkled loudly as I held it steady, creating a stark contrast against the gentle sounds of the evening. Luke began to drop the empty food containers inside, the hollow sound of plastic hitting plastic echoing slightly.

“You remember the dreams I told you about?” Luke asked, his voice carrying a tone that suggested he already knew the answer. There was a hint of something deeper in his voice, a subtle undercurrent of earnestness that piqued my curiosity.

I chuckled loudly, the memory of those conversations bringing a lightness to my heart. “How could I forget? Jane and I used to make fun of you for them.” My laughter was genuine, but there was a tinge of fondness in it too. Those memories of simpler times with Luke and Jane felt like a lifeline to the past.

“You did?” Luke seemed genuinely surprised by my confession, his eyebrows lifting slightly. His reaction was almost comical, and it took me a moment to compose myself.

“Well,” I began, not feeling the slightest bit perturbed by his reaction. He should be used to my brutal honesty by now, I reasoned to myself. “You were always so serious about them. How could we not find it amusing?” I shrugged lightly, my tone playful yet honest. It was true; his intense seriousness about his dreams had always been a source of gentle teasing among us.

"I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised," Luke replied, his voice tinged with a blend of resignation and amusement. There was a lightness to his tone that suggested he wasn't too bothered by our past jests.

"Oh, have you heard the news?" I quickly changed the subject, infused with a sudden burst of excitement. I wanted to steer the conversation away from the past and into something more present, more tangible. I had little patience for dwelling on things we couldn't change, especially in these unpredictable times.

“What news?” Luke asked, his curiosity piqued, his attention now fully on me.

“Follow me,” I instructed, dropping the garbage bag and gesturing for him to come along. My voice was laced with an eagerness that I couldn't quite contain. I was already moving away, my steps brisk and purposeful.

Luke followed without hesitation, his trust in my lead apparent. He matched my pace, his steps echoing mine on the barren ground.

“We didn’t know what else to do with them, so we’ve just left them there for now,” I explained as we walked. My pace quickened slightly, my words flowing faster with my growing enthusiasm.

“Left what where?” Luke’s voice held a trace of frustration.

“The coriander plants,” I said over my shoulder, the words almost spilling out of me.

“Huh?” Luke's response was a mix of confusion and curiosity. His steps slowed as he tried to piece together what I was talking about.

I stopped abruptly on the far side of the tent, turning to face him. “Coriander plants,” I repeated, pointing at the small, delicate green seedlings that Chris and I had planted near the tent’s canvas wall. The plants were tiny, their leaves just beginning to unfurl, a small but significant sign of life and growth amidst our chaotic situation.

My excitement was palpable as I gestured towards the plants. It was a small thing, but in our current world, where every day was filled with uncertainty and survival, the act of planting something felt like a quiet rebellion against the chaos. It was a symbol of hope, of continuity, and of our determination to carve out a semblance of normalcy in this new life. I watched Luke's expression, eager to see his reaction to our little garden, our tiny patch of green in a world turned upside down.

“How-” Luke began, his voice trailing off in astonishment. His eyes were fixed on the small action I was about to perform. From my pocket, I retrieved a ziplock bag and carefully picked out a single, small coriander seed. Earlier in the day, I had told Chris that we had exhausted all our seeds, but I had found several more lingering in the recesses of my pocket. I had decided to save these for purposeful demonstrations, just like this moment, to show the incredible potential of what we had discovered.

Gently, I pressed the seed into the soil beside the other thriving seedlings. The atmosphere was charged with a palpable sense of anticipation. Within minutes, as if by some kind of magic, the coriander seed cracked open, its tiny roots eagerly reaching into the dirt, and small, delicate green leaves unfurling like a miniature unfurling flag of life.

“Impressive,” Luke muttered, his voice low and filled with awe. His eyes were captivated by the tiny spectacle unfolding before us. It was a small miracle, a testament to the resilience and tenacity of life.

“But there’s a big problem,” I informed him, my tone shifting as I addressed a more pressing issue. The frustration I felt about the never-ending dust particles smothering everything resurfaced, tainting the magic of the moment.

Luke crouched down, his movements gentle and respectful, as he ran his fingers lightly across the tiny leaves. “What’s that?” he asked, his voice soft and concerned, his attention fully on me now.

“There’s too much dust! We need to find a way to clear it,” I explained, my voice tinged with exasperation. The dust was a constant, invasive presence, threatening to choke our little oasis of green.

Luke glanced up, his eyes rolling involuntarily, a reaction I wasn't sure he meant for me to see. Regardless, a scowl crept onto my face, a visible sign of my irritation at his seemingly dismissive gesture.

“Any ideas?” Luke quickly redirected, sensing my growing frustration.

“I’ve tried moving some with a shovel, but in most places that I've checked, it’s at least a few feet deep,” I responded, my voice heavy with the gravity of the challenge we faced. It felt like an insurmountable task, fighting back the relentless tide of dust.

“Hmm,” was all Luke could manage, his single word echoing the complexity of the challenge we faced. His reply hung in the air, laden with the unspoken acknowledgment of the enormity of the task ahead.

In response, I found myself voicing a bold suggestion, driven by the urgency of our situation. “I think a bit of heavy machinery would be best,” I said, the words coming out more confidently than I felt.

To my surprise, Luke’s eyes lit up with a spark of possibility. “Leave it with me. I’ll sort it,” he declared, his voice carrying a newfound determination that caught me off guard.

Sensing that I had successfully nudged Luke back onto the same wavelength as me, I felt emboldened to share more of my burgeoning ideas. “And you know, I was thinking, now that we can grow plants quicker, that we can put a few fences up over there by the river for my ducks. They’d absolutely love it down there with a few reeds and a little duck house,” I continued, the words flowing from me with an ease that surprised even myself.

Luke nodded silently, his eyes widening slightly as he absorbed the cascade of ideas I was presenting. It was clear that the scope of what I was proposing was dawning on him.

“And my chickens will need to be relocated,” I added without pausing. “Don’t forget their henhouse."

“Karen, slow down,” Luke interjected, his gaze shifting back to the small coriander seedlings, perhaps seeking a moment of respite from the rapid-fire nature of my suggestions.

But I was undeterred. “Luke, I’m serious. You need to look after my animals until I am ready for you to bring them all here, to me,” I stated firmly. The thought of my beloved animals suffering or being neglected in mine and Chris’s absence caused a pang of worry in my stomach, a physical manifestation of my concern.

Luke looked up at me then, his expression serious and attentive.

“All of them. I don’t want any of them suffering or dying before then,” I pressed on, my warning clear and unequivocal.

A hush fell over us, a moment of silence that stretched out as Luke processed my words. Finally, he replied, “I promise.”

A wave of relief washed over me, manifesting as a warm smile that spread across my face. Luke's promise, simple yet profound, offered me a sense of reassurance and hope, a lifeline to cling to amidst the chaos of our new reality. His commitment to my animals, to this small piece of my past and future, meant more to me than I could express.

Luke and I made our way back to the campfire, where the atmosphere was lively and animated. The chatter and laughter of our companions filled the air, creating a backdrop of warmth and camaraderie. I found my spot beside Chris, feeling a sense of belonging as I settled in beside my husband.

As the sun began its descent behind the distant mountains, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, the air grew cooler, wrapping us in a gentle chill. It was a beautiful, serene moment, the kind that made me pause and appreciate the simple beauty of our surroundings despite the chaos of our situation.

Suddenly, a raspy hum of a voice carried on the breeze, breaking through the noise of the campfire. The words were soft yet clear:

“Let us celebrate our story

The words we’ve yet to write.”

I looked around, curious to see who had begun the impromptu performance. To my surprise, it was Joel, the young boy who seldom spoke. His voice, though raspy, carried a melody that was both haunting and beautiful.

Joel’s presence here had always been something of a mystery. The ordeal he had been through in the last few days was the subject of hushed conversations and unspoken questions. His arrival in Clivilius was marked by tragedy, the details of which were never openly shared. In the short time I had been here, I hadn’t felt comfortable prying into what clearly seemed a sensitive subject.

From what Chris and I had pieced together, it was believed that Joel was dead, and yet here he was, very much alive. He spent most of his time recovering in his tent, a space where Jamie, who I now realised was his father, often kept him company. The revelation that Jamie had a son was new to me; Luke had never mentioned anything about Jamie’s family. It added another layer of complexity to the already perplexing situation.

As I listened to Joel sing, there was a sense of vulnerability in his voice that touched something deep within me. It was a reminder of the human stories that wove through our group, each one unique and laden with its own joys and sorrows. Joel’s song, simple yet profound, felt like a tribute to our collective journey and the unwritten future that lay ahead of us. In that moment, surrounded by the flickering light of the campfire and the faces of my newfound companions, I felt a profound connection to everyone there, bound together by our shared experience in this strange new world.

Glenda's sudden movement, as she abruptly stood up, broke the enchanting hush that Joel's tune had woven over our small gathering. Instantly, Joel ceased his singing, perhaps startled by the interruption.

“Please, don’t stop. You have a beautiful voice,” Glenda encouraged him warmly, her voice genuine and supportive. She seemed to recognise the importance of the moment, the vulnerability that Joel was showing.

I personally wouldn't have described Joel's voice as beautiful in the traditional sense, but there was an undeniable rawness and sincerity to it. I considered that without the tragedy that seemed to have affected his throat, his voice might have indeed been quite pleasant. It was touching to see him making such a brave attempt, despite his obvious discomfort.

With a bit of gentle coaxing from Jamie, Joel hesitantly started again. He repeated the tune from the beginning, the same few lines echoing through the air as if they were the only part he knew or felt comfortable sharing.

When Glenda returned to the group, she was carrying a violin, much to my surprise. I had no idea where she had found it – Luke’s ability to provide the unexpected was becoming something of a legendary trait among us.

The initial notes from Glenda’s violin were a bit rough, a few squeaky chords resonating in the cool air. But it didn’t take long for her to find her rhythm, and soon the sound of her violin beautifully complemented Joel’s raspy voice. The music they created together was hauntingly soothing, sending a shiver down my spine.

“You know this song?” I asked Glenda, curious. I didn't recognise the melody myself.

“Not until now,” she replied, her focus unbroken as she continued to play.

I had never learned to play an instrument or possessed any notable singing talent, but even I could appreciate the simple beauty of the harmony they created. Listening more intently, I found myself captivated by the words Joel sang:

“Let us celebrate our story.

The words we’ve yet to write.

How we all wound up with glory.

In the world we fought to right.”

Another chill ran down my spine as I absorbed the lyrics. They seemed to perfectly encapsulate our current situation, our struggles and the hope that we clung to.

As Joel’s voice gradually faded into silence, Glenda played a final stanza on her violin, then slowly lowered the instrument. The last note lingered in the air, a haunting echo of the powerful moment we had just shared.

“To Joel!” Luke suddenly called out, his voice breaking through my captivated trance. His shout was a jubilant acknowledgment of Joel's courage and the unexpected beauty he had shared with us.

“To Joel!” I joined in, echoing Luke’s sentiment. My voice mingled with those of the rest of the group as our cheer resonated into the vast quiet beyond our camp. It was a moment of unity and celebration, a collective recognition both individual and collective contribution to our shared experience in this strange new world.

As the camp's joviality gradually began to wane, with each person drifting into their own nightly routines, Glenda and I found ourselves engrossed in a deep conversation by the campfire. Our discussion was as intense as the flames that crackled before us, emitting warmth into the cool night air.

Throughout our talk, I couldn't help but notice Chris. He had positioned himself just off to the side, an observer to our interaction. I cast him a sideways glance more times than I could count. His presence was subtly conspicuous - close enough to be aware of our conversation, yet far enough to maintain a semblance of distance. I noticed him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, again and again. It was unlike him to exhibit such nervous energy, and I was certain it had nothing to do with the topic of Glenda's and my discussion.

The curiosity and concern within me reached a tipping point. Unable to hold back any longer, I turned to Chris, my gaze direct and unapologetic. “What the heck is wrong with you tonight, Chris?” I asked, my voice tinged with a mix of frustration and worry. His unusual behaviour was unsettling, and I needed to understand what was causing it.

Glenda, who had been following the exchange with a light-hearted amusement, couldn't help but scoff lightly at my blunt outburst.

Standing there, with the fire's warmth on my face and the night's chill at my back, I waited for Chris's response. The flickering flames seemed to echo the tension of the moment, casting a dancing light over Chris's face, highlighting his every expression. I was keenly aware of Glenda's amused gaze, and the night around us, which seemed to have quieted in anticipation of Chris's answer.

“It’s nothing,” Chris replied, his voice unconvincing. His unoccupied hand rose to his forehead, wiping away the visible residue of sweat that had accumulated there. The night air wasn't particularly warm, making his nervous perspiration all the more noticeable.

I wasn't buying his dismissive response. “Just spit it out, would you,” I pressed, my tone insistent. I knew Chris well enough to understand that whatever was eating at him wouldn't stop until he voiced it out loud.

As Chris bit his lower lip, a telltale sign of his rising anxiety, I speculated that maybe he was hesitant to speak in front of Glenda. Perhaps he preferred a more private setting for this discussion. But I quickly shrugged off the thought. If Chris wants a private conversation, he needs to be forthright about it.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Chris withdrew his hand from his trouser pocket. In his palm lay several flat, round objects that resembled medallions. They were unique-looking, with an air of mystery about them. “I found these while we were out digging,” he said, his voice a mix of excitement and uncertainty.

Glenda's gasp was sharp, cutting through the air, as she too sensed the significance of Chris’s find. I leaned in closer, curiosity piqued. The medallions caught the firelight, their surfaces glinting with an ancient allure. They were unlike anything I had seen before, their designs intricate and seemingly laden with history.

“Fascinating,” Glenda whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackling fire. She delicately took one of the artefacts, holding it close to her face for a better look. Her eyes, wide with intrigue, scrutinised every detail, every etching.

“What are they?” I found myself asking, reaching out to take the remaining discovery from Chris. The metal felt cool and heavy in my hand, imbued with a sense of age and mystery.

“I think they might be coins of some sort,” Chris responded, his tone one of uncertainty and speculation. “But I’m not really sure.”

“Chewbathia,” Glenda softly read aloud the inscription on the coin. Her gaze suddenly lifted, meeting Chris's eyes with a startling intensity. “Yes. It’s a coin,” she stated, her conviction surprising and sudden.

“How do you know for certain?” I questioned, a part of me still clinging to the skepticism born from our earlier conversation. The coin’s origins and significance were far from clear.

Glenda’s response was a momentary silence, her eyes narrowing as she ran her tongue across her dry lips, seemingly lost in thought. Her silence was becoming frustratingly palpable.

“I think the markings of the twenty cliv make it rather obvious,” Chris interjected, breaking the tension. He pointed out the engravings on the coin, drawing my attention to them.

“It means we’re not alone,” Glenda finally spoke up, her voice carrying a mix of awe and apprehension.

“We don’t know that,” I countered sharply, my eyes squinting in the dim light as I examined the coin closely. It appeared old, its edges worn from time.

“But it must mean that people have been here before us,” Chris said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush of excitement and realisation. “We’re not the first.”

The weight of Chris’s suggestion settled heavily upon me. The idea that others might have been here before us, that perhaps others were still out there, sent a shiver down my spine. “We should tell Paul,” I said decisively, extending my hand for Glenda to hand me the second coin.

“I don’t think that is wise,” Glenda countered, her fingers wrapping protectively around the coin.

My frustration flared, and I could feel my face tightening, a frown forming. “Why not?” I demanded, more sharply than I intended.

“He is too busy,” was Glenda's swift, almost dismissive reply.

Unimpressed and feeling a bit patronised, I huffed loudly. My fingers kept gesturing for her to hand over the artefact, a clear sign of my growing impatience.

“Perhaps Glenda is right,” Chris interjected, shrugging nonchalantly as he reached to take the coin from me. “Until we know more about them, there’s probably no point saying anything to Paul.”

“Yes,” Glenda agreed hastily, backing Chris's point. “Paul has enough on his mind with trying to get the settlement up and running.”

“And dealing with Luke,” Chris added, as if to reinforce the point.

My frown deepened, feeling isolated in my opinion. It was like facing a battle alone. “As our delegated leader, I still think Paul should know,” I insisted, more out of stubbornness now than conviction, feeling slightly defeated but unwilling to concede.

Glenda's reaction was abrupt and unexpected. “No!” she snapped, grabbing my coin in a swift manoeuvre.

“Give that back,” I demanded, my palm outstretched, my frustration mounting.

“We say nothing to anyone,” Glenda stated firmly, tucking the coins into her bra in a swift, almost defiant gesture.

“That’s not really your decision to make,” I retorted, my hand reaching out towards her, undeterred by her unconventional hiding place for the coins.

“Fuck off, Karen!” Glenda snapped, stepping back from my reach. “I said no.”

My eyes must have been bulging with incredulity and anger. Indignantly, I crossed my arms across my chest, and Glenda and I locked in a silent standoff. Our wills clashed silently, an unspoken battle of stubbornness and frustration. Finally, our intense gaze broke, and with a mutual, unspoken agreement to avoid physical confrontation, we each turned and stalked off to our respective tents.

The air crackled with the tension and unresolved anger between us as we parted ways. I retreated to my tent, the implications of the coins and our heated disagreement swirling in my mind.

Back in the safety and solitude of my tent, I let out a deep, weary sigh. A tidal wave of frustration and exhaustion cascaded over me, leaving my thoughts in a disheveled heap. The encounter with Glenda, the enigmatic coins, and the lingering air of unresolved tensions had sent my mind into a relentless spin. I sat there, nestled in the dimness of the tent, my eyes closed, trying to process the evening's tumultuous events.

As I sifted through the chaos of thoughts, a soft, almost ethereal voice began to whisper in my mind. It was the voice of Clivilius, an elusive presence that had become an eerie yet familiar part of our new, bewildering reality. Its voice was like a gentle breeze, faint but unmistakable, threading through the fabric of my thoughts. The words it spoke were not loud, yet they resonated with a profound clarity that seemed to pierce through the fog in my mind.

"Karen," the voice of Clivilius began, its tone imbued with an ancient wisdom, "in the vast tapestry of existence, every thread has its purpose, its path. The coins you discovered tonight are not just relics of the past; they are keys to understanding deeper truths about this world and your place in it."

I listened, my heart beating a slow, steady rhythm as the voice continued. "These coins, they are symbols of connection – a link to histories and lives that have woven through the fabric of Clivilius long before your arrival. They whisper of civilisations that once thrived, of people whose stories are etched in the very soil you tread upon."

The voice took on a more poignant note. "But remember, Karen, while the past holds valuable lessons, it is the present that demands your attention. The challenges you face, the bonds you forge, the decisions you make – these are the true coins of your realm. Treasure them, for they shape the world you are building."

As the voice of Clivilius faded, a serene calm enveloped me. The message lingered in the air, a profound insight that offered a new perspective. The coins, the tensions, the struggles – they were all part of a larger picture, pieces of a puzzle that stretched beyond my understanding.

I opened my eyes, feeling a newfound sense of clarity and purpose. The voice of Clivilius, with its cryptic yet enlightening message, had given me a glimpse into the intricate web of Clivilius's mysteries. It reminded me that our journey was about more than survival – it was about discovery, connection, and the unwritten chapters of our own story. As I lay back, letting the words sink in, I felt a quiet determination take root within me. We were part of something much bigger, and every step, every decision, was a step towards unraveling the mysteries of Clivilius.