As the first light of morning began to seep into the tent, illuminating the cramped space with a soft, diffused glow, my head involuntarily rolled to the side. There, in the middle of our makeshift shelter, lay Paul, still lost in slumber exactly where I had left him after the tumult of the previous night. A blanket, which I had draped over him in a moment of protective thoughtfulness, shielded his exposed skin from the chill of dawn. It struck me as peculiar, his decision to retire so vulnerably in such an unknown and unforgiving environment. Yet, my acquaintance with Paul was limited; perhaps I was yet to fully understand him. The realisation dawned on me that maybe, the two brothers were more alike than I had initially perceived. Perhaps I already know him better than I think, my thoughts echoed, a silent acknowledgment of the bond forming despite our circumstances.

Weary, I rubbed at my eyes, the remnants of fatigue clinging stubbornly. The previous night had seen me succumbing to sleep far quicker than I would have imagined, no doubt a testament to the sheer exhaustion that had enveloped me. How long I had actually slept remained unclear, but I had awoken to a world transformed; the dust storm had retreated, leaving behind a haunting silence that seemed almost as oppressive in its stillness.

After stirring, my first act was to ensure Paul's comfort, covering his naked form with our solitary blanket. Then, finding my way to the mattress, I had lain there, enveloped in the residual darkness, my gaze fixed on the void above me. The blackness seemed almost mocking in its depth, a stark canvas upon which my thoughts and fears danced freely.

Now, navigating through the disarray inside the tent, I reached for my suitcase, buried under the remnants of what had once been the right wing. Dressing quickly in a fresh t-shirt and shorts, I prepared to face the day, the fabric feeling oddly comforting against my skin after the tumultuous night. As I emerged from the confines of our battered shelter, crawling from beneath the collapsed canopy, the morning sun greeted me with a harsh brilliance, its rays illuminating the world around us with an unforgiving clarity.

The landscape that unfolded before me was familiar in its desolation, yet starkly altered by the night's events. The relentless sunlight traced a path across my face and down my body, highlighting the dust and debris that now defined our surroundings. The same barren, dusty expanse stretched out before me, its monotony leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. But it's not really the same at all, the thought echoed in my mind, a realisation that deepened the hollow feeling of abandonment that had begun to settle within me.

A glance at the ground confirmed my fears: no footprints disturbed the thick layer of dust that carpeted the earth. The campfire, once a focal point of our small existence here, was now buried under a foot of gold and brown dust, its embers hidden from view, as if to erase any evidence of our brief presence. Apart from the tattered remains of our tent, which now offered little in the way of protection or comfort, all traces of our time in this forsaken place seemed to have been obliterated by Clivilius's unforgiving environment.

The stark realisation that we were but fleeting visitors in this vast, indifferent landscape weighed heavily on me. The storm had not only challenged our physical resilience but had also stripped away the fragile markers of our existence, leaving us even more isolated in its aftermath. As I stood there, taking in the silent, dust-choked world around me, the sense of impermanence was overwhelming. Despite the sun's warmth, a chill settled over me, a poignant reminder of our vulnerability and the relentless passage of time in a land that seemed intent on reclaiming every trace of our passage.

Turning my gaze back to what remained of our tent, I couldn't help but let out a scoff. The sight was pitiful, yet there was a sort of relief in noting that most of the damage seemed to be our own doing. Or more specifically, a small voice in my head remarked, the chaos that Paul had unwittingly unleashed in his panic.

My attention was then drawn to a small corner of blue material peeking out from beneath a layer of dust. Crouching down, curiosity piqued, I scrutinised it. It was unfamiliar, not something I immediately recognised as ours. The possibility that it might have originated from another camp sparked a series of rapid thoughts. Could there really be other people out here? And if so, what would that mean for us? Were they friendly, civilised, or perhaps struggling to survive just as we were?

Shaking off the whirlwind of speculation, I decided to uncover the mystery of the strange material. Grasping the corner of the fabric, I pulled it from the thick dust and gave it a few vigorous shakes. A chuckle escaped me as I realised what I held: dirty underwear. So, Paul hadn't been completely naked after all, at least initially. The realisation brought a momentary lightness to the heavy atmosphere that had settled around me since the storm.

Without further ado, I tossed the soiled underwear onto what was once our campfire, now just a small mound of dust. It really was a rough night, I mused to myself, a night that neither of us needed to be reminded of in such a tangible way. The underwear, a trivial yet telling artefact of our ordeal, would be the first to be burned once we managed to get a fire going again. It was a small decision, but it felt like a step towards reclaiming some semblance of control over our situation, a way to start anew after the night's upheaval.

The moment my hands wrapped around the first tent pole, a sharp pang shot through my chest, the weight of the canopy adding to the physical strain. My brow creased in discomfort, and instinctively, my teeth found my lower lip, biting down hard to suppress a groan. The small, darkened lump nestled uncomfortably between my pectoral muscles throbbed with a persistent, nagging pain, a cruel reminder of last night's mayhem.

But now is not the time for pain, I sternly reminded myself, trying to push past the discomfort with sheer willpower. The dawn of a new day, despite its promise of a fresh start, held no magic cure for the aftermath of our ordeal. It wouldn't erase the events that had unfolded, nor would it soothe the injuries sustained. And yet, as I stood there, grappling with the physical reminder of our vulnerability, I knew I couldn't afford to dwell on my own discomfort. Paul would be waking soon, and the state of our shelter demanded immediate attention.

Dabbing at the small tear that had managed to escape my tightly held composure, I turned my attention back to the tent. The canopy was sorted, but the wing, though partially corrected, still hung awkwardly. However, my efforts had stabilised the structure for now, a small victory that was overshadowed by the increasing pain in my chest. It was a clear signal from my body urging me to pause, to acknowledge my own limits.

With a resigned sigh, I made my way through the thick blanket of dust that covered the ground, my bare feet leaving shallow impressions with every step. The destination was the river behind our tent, a ribbon of coolness that contrasted sharply with the arid landscape that surrounded us. The river, in its quiet flow, seemed oblivious to last night’s events.

As I sat down at the water's edge, the initial touch of the cool river against my skin sent a shiver of relief through my legs, an almost immediate balm to the physical and emotional exhaustion that clung to me. My toes tentatively explored the refreshing flow, each ripple a whisper of calm that gradually eased the tension from my body.

With my eyes closed, I allowed myself a moment of respite, my head tilting back as I surrendered to the serene sounds of the water. The vacant contemplation was a welcome reprieve from the constant vigilance and problem-solving that had defined our time here.

"Rose!" The sound of Paul's voice, laced with panic, shattered the brief tranquility I had found by the river. My eyes flew open, a surge of adrenaline coursing through me as the echoes of last night's trauma threatened to resurface. What the fuck! The internal exclamation was a reflex, a response to the sudden shift from peace to potential peril.

"Where are you?" Paul's voice carried a mix of fear and confusion, pulling me further from my momentary escape.

Realising the situation—daylight still enveloped us, and Paul was very much awake but disoriented—I turned my gaze back towards the camp. "You had a nightmare, Paul," I called out to him with as much steadiness as I could muster. "Rose isn't here." It was crucial to ground him back in reality, away from the grip of his dream-induced terror.

Paul appeared at the side of the tent, clutching the blanket around his waist, a visible shiver running through him despite the warmth. "I don't understand," he admitted, his bewilderment clear in his voice and on his face.

"Come sit," I suggested, gesturing to the space beside me, hoping to offer him a semblance of comfort and normalcy amidst his confusion.

He hesitated, his gaze darting around as if he might find answers in the landscape that surrounded us. My patience frayed slightly at the edges, an involuntary eye roll betraying my frustration. Paul's going to have to figure it out for himself, I resigned myself silently, turning my attention back to the river.

The water, with its gentle ebb and flow around my feet, became a focal point once again. Its coolness provided a sharp contrast to the sun's growing heat, a reminder of the day's inevitable climb towards sweltering temperatures. Absorbed in the simple pleasure of watching the water swirl and dance around my legs, I acknowledged the day's potential challenges. Yet, in that moment, the river offered a brief reprieve, a physical and mental oasis that seemed all the more precious for its transience. It was going to be another sweaty day, indeed, but for now, the cool embrace of the river was a balm to both body and spirit.

"The water will help soothe your foot," I reassured Paul as he hesitantly approached.

As Paul gingerly lifted the blanket, exposing his feet, the condition they were in caught my gaze. They mirrored the distress of my own—reddened and battered, a visible sign of our ordeal. Paul's foot, in particular, bore the unmistakable marks of burns from his inadvertent walk through the remnants of our campfire in the darkness. The contrast between the soft, yielding dust on the ground and its transformation into a relentless barrage of abrasive particles when lifted by the wind was stark. Clivilius had shown us both its deceptive calm and its violent tempest.

"Ooh," Paul's voice broke through my thoughts as he tentatively dipped his feet into the cool embrace of the river. "That feels good." The relief in his voice was palpable.

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, unseen by Paul. If only we could stay in the river all day, I mused silently. The thought was both wistful and laden with a heavy truth. In this harsh, unforgiving environment, the river offered a rare respite, a momentary escape from the relentless heat and the omnipresent dust. It seemed, in that moment, to be the sole benevolent feature in a landscape that otherwise tested us at every turn.

The idea of remaining in this tranquil spot, away from the threats and uncertainties that awaited us beyond its banks, was tempting. Yet, the reality of our situation allowed for no such indulgence. The river, for all its soothing properties, was but a temporary sanctuary.

"Last night was a fucking disaster," the words tumbled out of me, shattering the silence that had settled between us like a dense fog. The statement felt both necessary and inadequate, a feeble attempt to encapsulate what we had endured.

"I guess," Paul's response was terse, almost distant. It was clear that the events of the night had left a deep impression on him, perhaps deeper than I had initially realised. As I observed him gazing blankly across the river, the weight of his thoughts seemed almost discernible.

"What happened to my foot?" His question broke through his reverie, his voice tinged with genuine confusion.

My eyebrow arched in surprise. "You don't remember?" It was hard to believe that he could forget such a harrowing experience.

Paul's face contorted in concentration, searching for a memory that seemed just out of reach, but ultimately, he could only offer a shrug in response.

"You went running out of the tent in pitch blackness in the middle of a fucking dust storm and trod on hot coals from last night's campfire," I stated plainly, not mincing words. "And all for a voice that wasn't real." The harshness of the truth felt necessary, a grounding force in the face of Paul's confusion.

"How do you know it wasn't real?” Paul's demand was sharp, his belief in what he had heard unwavering. "I heard Rose as clear as water."

I sighed heavily. Part of me wished for Paul's sake that his experience had been real, yet I knew with certainty that we had been alone in our struggle. "Pure blackness can make the mind go crazy," I offered gently, trying to bridge the gap between his perception and the reality of our experience.

I noticed Paul's lips relax slightly, a subtle shift that spoke volumes. Yet, as concern for his well-being surged within me, I found myself turning away, unwilling to let him see the worry that creased my brow. The thought that Paul, the optimist among us, might lose his grip on that optimism—or worse, succumb to the madness that this place seemed intent on fostering—was a prospect too daunting to face head-on. In this godforsaken expanse, Paul's optimism was not just a trait; it was a beacon. The idea of that light dimming, of both of us losing our way in the dark, was a fate I couldn't bear to contemplate.

"I'm going to fix the tent," I declared, pushing aside the persistent ache that had settled in my chest. The morning sun was already asserting its presence, its warmth a stark contrast to the cool relief of the river. "And this sun is feeling very warm already. You'd better get some clothes on. I hate to say it, but we may be spending a lot of time in the tent until we can get more shelter."

Without lingering on the conversation, I turned and walked away, each step kicking up fine particles of Clivilius's omnipresent dust. The dust clung to my damp feet, a frustrating reminder of the environment's relentless nature.

"Fuck off!" My irritation with the dust burst forth, a harsh snap at the inanimate yet ever-present annoyance. As I attempted to brush it away, the action felt symbolic, as if I were trying to rid myself of the broader hardships we faced in this harsh landscape.

Approaching the tent, I bent down to tackle the task of reassembling the shelter, starting with the corner tent pole. The logic was simple: secure this one, and the rest should follow more smoothly.

As I was absorbed in these thoughts, Paul's slow approach broke my concentration. "Have you seen Luke yet this morning?" he inquired, his voice tinged with concern.

His question ignited a sudden flare of anger within me. "Nope," I spat out. "Luke seems to be working to his own fucking agenda." The words were a vent for my frustration, a release valve for the pressure building inside.

Paul's reaction was immediate, his frown deepening. "Do you really have to be so negative? And do you have to swear every second sentence?"

His questions, meant to check my attitude, only steeled my resolve. "Yes," I retorted, my defiance unyielding. "Yes, I fucking do."

Waiting for Paul to move away, I let out the pent-up sigh of frustration that had been gnawing at me. Then, with a mix of determination and resignation, I drove the tent pole into the ground, the Clivilius dust swallowing it up.