Chapter Text
Minthara was moving fast, and it was clear she had already made up her mind about what to do next. She didn't speak, didn't even look back at us.
Freya moved closer to me as we trailed behind, her brow furrowed. “Do you think she’ll retreat?” she whispered, just barely loud enough for me to hear over the sound of our footsteps echoing through the corridor.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, trying to keep my voice steady. “But I think she’s going to make a show of strength first. She won’t run without sending a message.”
Gale glanced over, his palm still faintly glowing with fire, ready to act. “If we’re wrong, we’re about to be caught between two warring goblin factions and a very angry drow commander.”
Wyll’s lips curved into a sarcastic smile. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve talked our way into certain death, would it?”
As we pressed forward, the muffled sounds of clashing steel and frantic shouts reached our ears. Ragzlin’s forces were moving quickly, their attack already underway. I knew we were out of time. Whatever Minthara was planning, she had to act now.
Minthara’s lieutenants were gathered, their eyes darting nervously. They had already drawn their weapons, but there was fear in their eyes—uncertainty, like they were standing on the precipice of something they didn’t understand.
Minthara didn’t waste a second. She strode forward, her expression as cold and sharp as a blade. “The goblins are coming,” she said, her voice low but commanding. “Ragzlin thinks he can take me by surprise, but he’s wrong. I want every one of you ready to kill anything that steps through that tunnel, or the hallways.”
The lieutenants exchanged uneasy glances, and one of them stepped forward. “But Commander... if Ragzlin’s leading the attack, what do we do? Fight them all?”
Minthara’s eyes flicked to him, and for a moment, I saw the flicker of rage pass over her face. “No,” she said, slowly, deliberately. “We’re not going to fight. We’re going to crush them.”
She turned to the rest of her lieutenants, her gaze fierce, unwavering. “Spread the word: any goblin who sides with Ragzlin dies. Make it clear that anyone foolish enough to raise a weapon against me will suffer the same fate as him.”
There was a murmur of uncertainty, but no one dared to challenge her. Minthara’s presence was overwhelming, suffocating. Even I felt it, like I was standing too close to a fire, my skin prickling with the heat of it. She was going to turn this entire fortress into a bloodbath if she had to, and I wasn’t sure if that was part of our plan anymore.
I stepped forward, cutting through the silence. “If you start a war here, Ragzlin will get exactly what he wants. He’s already stirred up his followers; they’ll throw themselves at you like a pack of rabid wolves.”
Minthara’s head snapped toward me, her eyes narrowing. She spat: “You think I’m afraid of Ragzlin and his filthy horde?”
“No. I think you’re smart enough to see the bigger picture. Ragzlin’s just an idiot with an inflated sense of self-worth. He’s not a threat to you, but the chaos he’s causing is. Let him exhaust himself. You can walk away now, regroup, and return with ten times the force. When you come back, no one will stand in your way.”
For a moment, she just stared at me, as if trying to see past my words, to find the lie hidden underneath. My breath was caught in my throat, my pulse pounding in my ears. I didn’t know if she’d buy it—or if she’d kill me right then and there for even suggesting retreat.
The room was deathly silent, everyone waiting for Minthara’s reaction. Her gaze flickered, her mind working through the possibilities, weighing the risks. For a long, agonizing moment, I thought I had pushed too far.
“Very well,” she said. “We’ll play it your way. But understand this—if you’re wrong, if Ragzlin seizes this fortress and I lose my position because of your... advice... I’ll make sure your suffering is legendary.”
I nodded, swallowing back the fear that was threatening to choke me. “Understood.”
If Minthara knew what I did, she would have killed me in an instant.
She’s supposed to retreat to Moonrise Towers, but she won’t find safety there—only a mockery of justice, her fate dangling by a thread in Ketheric Thorm’s cold hands. It doesn’t matter what she says, how she defends herself. Ketheric will sentence her to death regardless, like a spider tightening the web around her.
I know this because I’ve seen it happen—seen her standing in that grim chamber, defiant and proud even as her future is carved up before her eyes. The next thing she knows, she’s dragged down to the depths of the Moonrise Towers prison, the cold, damp stone her only company. Two Gnome Questioners will strip her of everything she has left, mind and soul, until she’s just another witless thrall to the Absolute’s will. A puppet. That’s what they do down there—erase minds, erase lives, all in the name of obedience. And when it happens, it’s like the Minthara I’m looking at now never even existed.
Yeah, if she knew… she’d kill me without a second thought. And I wouldn’t even blame her.
Minthara turned to her lieutenants, her voice sharp and authoritative. “Prepare to move. We’re heading to Moonrise Towers. Anyone who can’t keep up will be left behind.”
The lieutenants hesitated for a moment, then began to move, shouting orders, rallying the other cultists. The air buzzed with frantic energy, the tension reaching a fever pitch. This was happening, and there was no turning back.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Freya, her expression a mix of relief and concern.
It was hard, knowing that we had just set in motion a plan that could easily turn into a massacre.
Minthara nodded to her underlings. As they began to move, I felt a strange sense of unease. It wasn’t just the danger, or the uncertainty—it was the way Minthara had looked at me, like she was waiting for me to slip up, to show some sign of weakness that she could exploit. She was playing along, but I could tell she didn’t trust me. It made sense.
Before she followed the others out, she turned one last time to me and whispered, only for me to hear:
“Your face stirs a memory, faint as a whisper. The next time we meet, I will know whether to greet you—or slit your throat.”