Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Light came first.

It poured over my skin like honey; slow, golden, and warm. Like the kind of summer afternoon that feels like it could last forever. Then it intensified, growing brighter, heavier, until it burned through my lids and forced them open. The world vanished in a wash of white. Tears came instantly, and the sky above blurred into a streak of blue through the sting.

Something gritty rolled across my tongue. Sand—everywhere. In my mouth, between my teeth, grinding into every crease of skin and fabric, as if it had always belonged there. Above, seabirds wheeled and cried.

Maybe it's just a very vivid dream, I told myself. The kind that tricks you into thinking you're awake. Any second now I would actually wake up and this would all fade like smoke.

I pushed myself upright, my palms sinking into warm sand. Everything felt heavy, like I was moving through thick glue. My limbs didn't quite respond the way they should, and the simple act of sitting up left me dizzy, the horizon swaying like a pendulum. I could taste the bitterness of seawater and sand on my tongue when I tried to swallow.

That's odd. Dreams don't usually taste like anything, do they?

The salt air kept making my eyes water. These unfamiliar clothes kept clinging to a body that didn't feel like mine, and each sensation drove itself deeper into my awareness like a nail being hammered home.

I closed my eyes again. Counted to three. Tried to wake up.

Nothing changed.

I pinched the soft skin of my forearm, harder than I meant to. Hard enough to leave crescent marks from my nails. The pain bloomed bright and immediate, and with it came a terrible understanding that crashed over me like the waves nearby.

This was real. The world solidified around me—no longer floating, no longer dreamlike. As I forced myself to look around, everything tilted into sharp, impossible focus.

I knew this place.

The jagged rocks jutting from the shoreline, the swaying grasses in the distance, the eerie beauty of the landscape—it was impossible, but I recognized every detail. My pulse raced as my mind scrambled to make sense of what I was seeing.

The soft crunch of footsteps on sand broke through my spiraling thoughts. A shadow fell across me, blocking the harsh sunlight. I looked up to see a figure standing over me, and my heart nearly stopped.

“Hey,” the voice called out, full with concern. “Are you all right?”

I blinked, and she came into focus with devastating clarity. Tall and lean, with the unmistakable elongated features of the githyanki—sharp cheekbones, pointed ears, skin that held a faint olive undertone. Her dark complexion was marked by patches of vitiligo that created abstract patterns across her face and arms. Platinum blonde hair streaked with pink had mostly escaped its ponytail, framing her face in wild strands. She held herself like a warrior, even in this moment of apparent kindness—weight balanced, ready to move, one hand resting casually near the staff at her side.

I knew every detail of her appearance because I had chosen every detail of her appearance. Hours spent in character creation, adjusting sliders, selecting colors, crafting her story.

“Freya?” I whispered, my voice hoarse, barely audible over the waves.

Her entire body went rigid. Those amber eyes—Shit, even her eyes are exactly right—narrowed to slits. The concern vanished from her face, replaced by the cold calculation of a predator sizing up potential prey.

“How do you know my name?” Her tone was accusing.

I froze, my heart hammering. How could I tell her that I knew her name because I had given it to her? That she wasn't supposed to be real, wasn't supposed to be standing here with suspicion radiating from every line of her body?

I wanted to answer her, to explain, but my gaze fell to my hands instead. I stared, transfixed by fingers that were too thin, too delicate, nails too clean and well-kept.

These aren't my hands.

Panic crept back. I shifted my gaze downward, taking in the rest—a tattered, mud-stained dress clung to curves that weren't mine, its intricate fabric whispering of a life far removed from my own.

“What…” I choked out, my voice cracking. “What is this?”

Freya's hand moved to the hilt of her staff, the motion fluid and threatening. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”

I wanted to answer, needed to answer, but the words wouldn't come. 

Freya stepped closer, her presence commanding, her voice low but firm. “Start talking, or I’ll assume you’re a threat.”

Her words jolted me back to the moment. My breaths came quick and shallow, the edges of my vision starting to blur. "I don’t… I don’t know,” I stammered. “I... I don’t know what is happening… But this isn't my body.”

Chapter Text

“Not your body,” she repeated heavy with disbelief. “What do you mean by that?”

I felt tears welling up, my vision starting to blur. How could I possibly explain that I came from a world of computers and technology to someone who'd never encountered such things? How do you tell someone they're supposed to be fictional when they're standing right in front of you, completely real? “I was somewhere else. I was someone else. I was—" 

I stopped. There was no point in explaining something that sounded absurd in her ears.

“I don't remember,” I lied instead, my voice barely audible. “I don't remember anything except... except that this isn't me.”

Freya watched me carefully, her expression shifting between doubt, analysis, and perhaps pity. She knelt down next to me, close enough that I could make out the golden specks scattered through her amber irises.

“Memory loss,” she said quietly. “It's not uncommon after traumatic events. Magic can scramble the mind, leave you feeling like you're wearing someone else's skin.”

Her words offered an explanation, a rationalization that fit the rules of this world. But I knew it wasn't memory loss. I remembered everything—every quest, every conversation, every choice I had made while guiding her through adventures that were apparently real. The problem wasn't that I couldn't remember who I was. The problem was that I remembered who I had been, and that person couldn't exist here.

“Can you stand?” Freya asked, extending her hand.

I stared at the offered hand—callused from weapon work, marked with small scars. 

I reached out and grasped her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin, the strength in her grip as she pulled me to my feet. The touch was solid, undeniable, real in a way that made my old life feel like the dream.

I inhaled deeply, the salty tang of the sea doing little to calm my nerves. Start small, I told myself. Something she could grasp, even if it wasn’t the full truth. Something that might make her hesitate before walking away.

“These don't belong to me,” I said, my voice trembling as I held the hands up for her to see. My fingers flexed in a way that felt alien, unfamiliar. “These clothes… they aren’t mine either.” I reached up, running shaking fingers through the waist-long auburn hair cascading over my shoulders. It was smooth, soft. “Even this,” I murmured, staring at the strands. “It’s not the right color.”

Freya watched me in silence, her look tinged with curiosity, or doubt. I could see the wariness in her stance. If she was anything like the character I had played—empathetic, but cautious—I could appeal to that side of her. I had to.

“Freya,” I said, and her name felt fragile in my mouth, like it might shatter if I wasn’t careful. “I know how this sounds. I can’t explain it, and I don’t know how to make sense of it myself. But you have to believe me! I don’t belong here. I don’t know how this happened, or how to fix it. I just…” My voice broke, the words catching in my throat. “I can’t do this alone. Please.”

Her forehead creased with concern, and some of the wariness left her posture. She started to speak, then stopped, looking down at the sand before meeting my eyes again.

At last, she sighed, the sound carrying more exhaustion than frustration. “Let’s talk about this later,” she said, her tone measured. “When we make camp. Right now…” She glanced around, her gaze hardening as it swept over the wreckage. “We have bigger problems.”

I felt a wave of gratitude so intense it made me dizzy. She hadn't walked away. She was giving me a chance, even if I could see the uncertainty still lingering in her expression.

“First, we need to get you somewhere safe. This beach isn't as empty as it looks, and some of the things that wash up here aren't as harmless as confused amnesiacs.”

As we began walking inland, I marveled at how naturally this unfamiliar body moved, with a coordination I'd never possessed. Behind us, the rising tide gradually erased our footprints, leaving no trace of our brief presence on the sand.

---

The beach stretched before us like a graveyard, the once-pristine sands now scarred by chaos and destruction. The wreck of the Nautiloid loomed in the distance, its broken hull jutting out of the shoreline like the jagged ribs of some colossal, long-dead beast. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the sand, their shapes distorted by the alien curves of the ship. The air was thick with the stench of salt, charred flesh, and something more rancid—something unnatural.

Corpses littered the beach in grotesque displays, their forms sprawled like discarded toys. Fishermen lay tangled in nets and debris, their faces twisted in final, desperate grimaces. Among them were the remains of Intellect Devourers, their grotesque, brain-like bodies eerily still. Seeing them up close, real and tangible, was a visceral shock. They weren’t just pixels on a screen anymore. Their slimy flesh glistened in the sunlight, and the sight of their spindly legs curled unnaturally beneath their bloated forms sent a shiver racing down my spine. I turned away quickly, bile rising in my throat.

Blood darkened the sand around them, forming macabre patterns that the waves lapped at with indifferent ease. The sight was both horrifying and surreal—a stark reminder that this was no longer a safe, distant game. This was real, and I was standing in its aftermath.

“So,” Freya’s voice broke the grim silence, her tone lighter than the moment warranted. “What’s your name?”

I forced a smile, though it felt thin and unnatural on my lips. “Artemis,” I said, the name feeling strange in this world like it didn’t quite fit.

Freya tilted her head, her sharp features softened slightly by curiosity. “Artemis,” she repeated, testing the word. After a moment, she nodded. “It’s a pretty name.” Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the warmth in her tone cooling just a fraction. “But you still haven’t told me how you know mine.”

I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening. The moment I’d been dreading was here, and I had no good answer. “It’s… complicated,” I said, trying to sound casual, though the quaver in my voice betrayed me. “I think… I might have heard it before the crash. Maybe someone called out to you. I’m not sure.”

Freya’s eyes remained fixed on me, unblinking, as if she were peeling back the layers of my lie and examining each one in turn. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.

“Complicated,” she repeated, her voice flat. Then she shrugged, turning her attention back to the beach. “Everything about today is complicated. Let’s focus on staying alive first.”

Her words should have been a relief, but the tension in her shoulders told me this conversation wasn’t over. Not really.

Chapter Text

I was letting my gaze wander over the chaotic beachscape. “Should we gather whatever we can before nightfall?”

Freya didn’t immediately respond, and when she finally nodded, it was with a measured slowness that set my nerves on edge. “You’re right,” she agreed, though her voice carried a cautious weight. “We need to stay ahead of whatever else might be out here.” She turned and began walking up the beach again. Her movements were purposeful, but her shoulders carried a tension that hadn’t been there before.

I let out a shaky breath, the tightness in my chest easing just enough to let me think again.

Freya strode steady and confident in a way that only deepened my insecurities. She belonged here, in this world of chaos and danger, as if it were merely another battlefield to conquer. I, on the other hand, was an intruder. She seemed so certain of herself, so grounded, and I couldn’t help but wonder how much of that confidence was truly hers. Was this the Freya I had created, or was the reality of her something entirely different? The lines between the two blurred more with every passing moment.

“I met someone earlier on the beach, before I found you,” Freya said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice was steady, but there was a flicker of optimism in her tone. “A girl named Shadowheart. She seemed capable, resourceful. I sent her ahead to scout for supplies or anything suspicious. We should catch up with her.”

Shadowheart. The name hit me like a bolt of lightning, flooding my mind with memories. How had I not thought of her before? She was the first companion I had recruited in the game—the one who had always held a place in my party. Her enigmatic nature, her guarded demeanor, her slow-blooming trust… she had been one of my favorites. But here, in the midst of this harsh reality, I hadn’t even considered that she might also be here.

The thought of meeting her in the flesh sent a strange mix of excitement and dread coursing through me. She wouldn’t be a collection of pixels and animations anymore, but a living, breathing person—someone with thoughts, fears, and a will of her own. The idea was overwhelming, almost surreal.

“Where did you send her?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice even.

“To check out the Nautiloid,” Freya answered, gesturing toward the massive wreckage looming in the distance.

The mention of the Nautiloid sent a jolt of panic through me, as if a trapdoor had opened beneath my feet. The ship wasn’t just a wreck; it was crawling with dangers. I remembered too well the twisted, nightmarish creatures inside—the Intellect Devourers that had stalked its broken halls. Even with Freya and Shadowheart together, they’d been a challenge to defeat in the game. But Shadowheart, alone? The odds were against her. The crash might have weakened her, and if those creatures were still intact...

“We need to go. Now!” I said sharply, grabbing Freya’s arm as urgency overtook me. My voice trembled with desperation, leaving no room for hesitation.

“What? What’s the matter?” Freya’s eyes narrowed, alarm flickering in her expression as she tried to match my sudden shift in intensity.

“There’s no time to explain!” I snapped, the words spilling out before I could soften them. “We have to get to her. Now!”

Freya didn’t press me further. Something in my tone, in the sheer panic behind my eyes, must have convinced her. Without another word, we broke into a run, the wreckage of the beach blurring around us as our footsteps pounded against the sand. The distant wails of seabirds and the relentless crash of the waves faded into the background, replaced by the hammering of my heart.

I pushed myself harder, every step fueled by a mix of fear and determination. She was out there, somewhere inside that monstrous ship, and I couldn’t let anything happen to her. Not now, when everything felt so fragile, so uncertain. I just hoped—prayed—that we wouldn’t be too late.

Chapter Text

I hadn’t thought this through. Not even a little.

I had never wielded a weapon, never faced anything remotely close to the threat of real violence. I grew up in a safe, quiet suburb where the worst danger I’d encountered was the occasional petty crime. Monsters? They belonged to nightmares and video games, safely tucked away behind screens, not standing in front of me, breathing, moving, and dripping with malevolence.

Yet here I was, frozen in place, staring at two Intellect Devourers. Their grotesque, brain-like bodies pulsed with an otherworldly energy as they cornered Shadowheart. My mind screamed at me to act, to do something—anything—but my body refused to move.

“Shadowheart!”

Freya's voice cut through my paralysis. She moved with fluid precision, her hand tracing arcane symbols in the air. Frost erupted from her fingertips, crackling through the humid air to strike the nearest creature. Ice spread across its surface, and for a moment, it went still.

In the game, I'd controlled her. Clicked her portrait, selected her spells, watched the animations play out in neat, predictable sequences. This was different. This was chaos—raw, immediate, terrifying chaos where hesitation meant death.

The frozen creature broke free with a wet, tearing sound. Its companion lunged at Shadowheart, who stumbled back, blood seeping through her armor where claws had found their mark.

Oh my god. These monsters weren’t neatly coded enemies in a virtual world. If I made a mistake, there wouldn’t be a “reload” option.

My heart pounded in my chest, the sound roaring in my ears. Freya fought with a practiced confidence, her movements precise and deliberate. Shadowheart, though injured, was struggling to hold her ground against the second Devourer. And me? I stood there, useless, as fear wrapped itself around me like a suffocating vise.

Before I could process anything further, a third Intellect Devourer emerged from the shadows, its grotesque form turning toward me. Its eyeless, alien gaze locked onto mine, and a wave of psychic energy slammed into my skull like a sledgehammer. The world tilted, colors bleeding together as invisible claws raked through my thoughts. I stumbled backward, my vision swimming, and felt my knees hit the ground. The creature advanced with deliberate slowness, savoring my helplessness. Each step sent fresh waves of mental agony through me. 

This was it. This was how I died. Alone on a beach, in a world I didn’t belong to, surrounded by horrors I couldn’t even comprehend.

No.

Desperation surged through me. I couldn’t let it end here—not like this. My hand brushed against the hilt of a dagger strapped to my belt (when had that gotten there?). I didn’t have time to question it. Without thinking, I drew the blade.

It felt foreign in my grasp, heavier than I expected, the weight awkward and unnatural in my hand. The creature lunged, its claws outstretched, and I stumbled to the side, the dagger flashing out in a wild, instinctive arc.

I wasn’t aiming. I wasn’t even thinking. It was pure survival.

The blade connected, slicing into the creature’s slimy flesh. A wet, sickening sound filled the air as black ichor spilled from the wound. The Devourer shrieked, its high-pitched wail slicing through the chaos like a razor.

But it didn’t stop.

It lunged again, faster this time. Its claws raked across my arm, and pain exploded through me—hot, blinding, all-consuming. Blood welled from the gashes, warm and sticky against my skin. I staggered, the dagger slipping slightly in my grip as tears blurred my vision.

The pain was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. It wasn’t just pain; it was a revelation. This was real. The blood. The fear. The suffocating weight of knowing I could die here. All of it was real.

“Artemis, look out!”

Freya’s voice cut through the haze. I turned to see her running toward me, her face a mask of fear and determination. She was still fighting, still protecting me, even as the battle raged around us.

I couldn’t let her down.

Adrenaline surged through me, dulling the pain as I gripped the dagger tighter. The creature lunged again, but this time, I didn’t stumble. I didn’t freeze. I met it head-on, my movements clumsy but deliberate.

The blade plunged deep into the creature’s pulsing form.

Its body convulsed, its shrieks fading into a wet, gurgling whimper. The ichor poured freely now, staining the sand in thick, black pools. Then, with one final shudder, the Devourer collapsed at my feet.

For a moment, I just stood there, panting, my arm screaming in pain as I stared down at the lifeless creature. I stared down at the corpse, my hands shaking. The smell of blood and something fouler filled my nostrils. I had killed it. Actually killed it.

But there was no time to dwell on it.

“Come on!” Freya shouted, grabbing my uninjured arm and pulling me forward. Shadowheart was still fighting, her movements slowed by her injuries as the second Devourer bore down on her.

Freya raised her hands, summoning another spell. A bolt of fire erupted from her palms, streaking toward the creature and striking it in the side. The smell of charred flesh filled the air as the Devourer turned its attention to her.

It was my chance.

Shadowheart staggered, her eyes locking onto mine. There was pain there, but also something else—an unspoken plea.

I tightened my grip on the dagger, ignoring the pain in my arm as I charged forward. The creature lashed out at Freya, distracted by her magic, and I seized the opportunity. The blade sank into its side, deeper this time, piercing something vital.

The creature let out a final wail before collapsing.

Silence fell over the beach, broken only by the sound of our ragged breaths. I dropped the dagger, my hands trembling as I fell to my knees.

“Are you all right?” Freya’s voice was soft but urgent as she knelt beside me, inspecting my arm.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The wounds were deep but not fatal. I'd live.

We all would.

For now.

Chapter Text

I’d seen her countless times before—her image pixelated on a screen, her every movement dictated by the press of a button. But seeing Shadowheart now, standing before me in the flesh, was an entirely different experience. The character I had once controlled was now a living, breathing reality, and the difference was staggering.

Her coal-black hair, which had always been perfectly rendered in the game, shimmered with a lifelike depth that no screen could ever capture. It was pulled back into a long ponytail, segmented by ornate silver rings that glinted subtly in the light. The strands that framed her face, so precisely arranged on screen, now fell naturally, brushing against her pale cheeks with a softness that made her seem more human, more real. Her pointed ears, once a small detail in her character design, peeked through her hair with an almost delicate grace, adding an ethereal quality to her appearance.

But it was her eyes that struck me the most—light green, flecked with yellow, they were far more intense in reality than any digital rendering could convey. They held a piercing clarity that was impossible to look away from, framed by dark makeup that lent her an air of danger and mystery. The scar on her face, a familiar mark that I had often overlooked in the game, now seemed to pulse with untold stories—each jagged line a testament to pain and survival.

And then there was the mark on her right hand; a black circular wound that had always been just a plot detail, something I had glossed over in the game. Now, it was unmistakably real, etched into her flesh like a brand, pulsing with a faint, sinister energy. A shiver ran down my spine as I realized the depth of what that mark truly represented.

As our eyes met, I understood just how different this encounter was from anything I had experienced before. Shadowheart wasn’t just a character anymore; she was a person, with a presence that was both unsettling and magnetic. Her movements, once predictable and smooth in the game, now carried a tension and grace that I could feel in the air between us.

“Stand still so I can heal you,” she commanded, her voice sharp. She placed her hand over my wound, and a faint bluish light emanated from it, closing the gash with a gentle warmth. I watched in awe as the flesh knit itself back together, the pain ebbing away like a receding tide. It was nothing short of magical.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Maybe try to fight better next time,” she retorted, her words cutting deep. The sting of her remark made me acutely aware of my own inadequacies, a reminder that I was woefully unprepared.

Freya knelt beside me, tilting her head as she spoke, her voice calm but insistent. “How did you know?”

“Uhm—” I stammered, my heart racing. Freya’s question wasn’t just innocent curiosity. There was an edge to it, an expectation that demanded an answer.

I needed a lie. Fast. Something plausible enough to explain why I knew her name and the danger we just faced, but vague enough to buy me time.

“Can we talk? Just the two of us?” I asked, my voice tinged with desperation.

Freya frowned, glancing toward Shadowheart. “Hey, can you give us a moment?”

Shadowheart’s eyes narrowed. “What is it that you need to keep between you two? Who even is she?” Her suspicion was evident, her tone dripping with distrust.

Freya didn’t waver. She shook her head, firm. “Just give us a moment.”

Shadowheart let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine,” she snapped, turning away, though she didn’t stray far. I could feel her gaze burning into my back.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the panic rising in my chest. I didn’t have much time. Whatever I said next needed to be good enough to keep Freya’s trust—and vague enough to keep her questions at bay.

“I was hoping to wait a little longer before bringing this up,” I began, my voice shaky. “But I don’t think there’s ever going to be a ‘right’ time. Please, just… keep an open mind.”

Freya’s expression tightened. “I’m listening.”

“I’m clairvoyant,” I said, the lie slipping from my lips before I could second-guess it. “I have visions. Of the future. Sometimes the past, but mostly the future.”

Even to me, the words sounded ridiculous. But in a world like this—where magic and gods and monsters were real—maybe it wasn’t so unbelievable. At least, I hoped it wasn’t.

Freya’s eyes narrowed. “You… have visions? When? How?”

“It’s hard to explain,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. “It’s like a sixth sense. They just come to me—unbidden, unpredictable. I see events as they happen, or sometimes before they happen. Sometimes…” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “Sometimes I see multiple possibilities.”

“Multiple possibilities?” Freya echoed.

“Yeah, like…” I swallowed hard, my mind scrambling for a convincing metaphor. “Think of it like a river splitting into streams. Each one leads to a different future. My visions show me how things might play out depending on the choices we make. But it’s never certain—it’s ... unreliable sometimes.”

Freya stared at me, her expression unreadable and I felt my confidence begin to falter. Did she believe me? Or was she trying to decide whether I was lying or just insane?

“I can prove it to you,” I said quickly, desperation creeping into my tone.

Her eyes lingered on mine for a long moment, and I braced myself for her response. Finally, she nodded slowly, the weight of her decision clear in her gaze.

“All right,” she said quietly. “But I hope for both our sakes, you’re telling the truth.”

If she doubted me now, I didn’t want to know what that meant for our future.

Behind her, Shadowheart shifted, her piercing gaze reminding me that trust, in this world, was earned sparingly.

I had bought myself some time. But how long that would last, I didn’t know.

Chapter Text

“Hurry, I’ve got one of those brain things cornered. There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.”

The voice carried across the beach with practiced urgency, honey-smooth and perfectly pitched to inspire trust. 

Freya glanced back at me, her eyebrow arched, a silent challenge in her eyes. I met her gaze, my expression saying exactly what I was thinking: See? I told you this would happen.

Seeing Astarion in person was almost infuriating. In the game, I had known he was handsome—too handsome, really, with the kind of looks designed to make players swoon. But here, in this world, standing just a few feet away from him, that beauty was almost overwhelming. And it irritated me how easily he drew my attention.

He was tall and lean, built like a dancer or a duelist—all controlled grace and coiled energy. His skin held the translucent quality of fine porcelain, so pale it seemed to glow against the weathered stones behind him. Those infamous crimson eyes were exactly as unsettling as advertised, bright as fresh blood and twice as dangerous. They swept over us with calculating intelligence, missing nothing.

His silver hair caught the light like spun mercury, each curl falling with the kind of effortless perfection that spoke of either exceptional genetics or careful maintenance. Probably both. Even shipwrecked and stranded, he looked like he'd stepped from a portrait.

The beauty mark on his right cheek was a small imperfection that somehow made the rest of his features more striking. When he smiled—which he was doing now, all practiced charm and invitation—the expression didn't quite reach his eyes.

It was annoying how easily he commanded attention. Even knowing his game, knowing exactly what he was about to do, I found myself studying the sharp line of his jaw, the way his pointed ears caught the light, the subtle crow's feet that hinted at centuries of calculated smiles.

Focus, I told myself sharply. You know what he is. You know what he's planning.

It took everything in me not to flinch under his gaze, not to let him see that he had any effect on me at all.

There was a meticulousness to him, a vanity that was almost palpable. It made me want to roll my eyes and keep my distance. I had too many other things to worry about without getting distracted by some frustratingly good-looking vampire spawn.

“Easily. Stand back,” Freya replied, her voice steady. She moved forward with the fluid grace of a trained warrior, but I had warned her what would happen next. The knowledge sat curiously in my chest—part anticipation, part dread.

Sure enough, the moment she got close enough, Astarion struck. The "cornered intellect devourer" had been bait. He moved with inhuman speed, tackling Freya to the ground with predatory precision. His dagger appeared at her throat as if by magic, the blade catching the sun with a flash of silver.

“Shh, shh,” he murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that pretty neck of yours.”

Their tadpoles connected with a flash of shared consciousness, and I watched the familiar scene unfold—the mental communication, the gradual revelation of their shared condition.

My mind drifted for a moment, but I snapped back to attention when Astarion laughed, a bitter, hollow sound.

“Of course, it will turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?” he muttered. 

The words hit harder than they should have. In the game, this line had been exposition, character development, a glimpse behind the charming facade. Here, with real emotion coloring his voice, it was a confession of despair.

I knew his story by heart—the magistrate turned victim, centuries of slavery and abuse, the slow erosion of everything good in him until only survival instincts remained. I had sympathy for what he'd endured, genuine compassion for the person he'd been before Cazador destroyed him.

But sympathy didn't mean I liked him.

Early-game Astarion was exhausting. Charming, yes—witty and eloquent with a tongue sharp enough to cut glass. He could make you laugh at the most inappropriate moments, could turn a phrase with the skill of a practiced poet. But beneath all that surface appeal was something harder, more calculating.

He was selfish. Manipulative. He looked at every interaction as a transaction, every person as a potential tool or threat. His default setting was suspicion, and he wore his cynicism like armor, deflecting genuine connection with sarcasm and contempt.

I understood why he was that way—two hundred years of horror would twist anyone into something barely recognizable. But understanding didn't make his behavior any less grating. The casual cruelty, the way he dismissed others' pain as weakness, the constant undercurrent of threat that said he would discard you the moment you stopped being useful.

He was a survivor, and survivors learned to put themselves first. Always.

But I also knew what he could become. Given time, given the right choices, given people who refused to abandon him despite his best efforts to push them away, he could grow into something better. Someone better. The potential was there, buried under centuries of scar tissue and learned cruelty.

That knowledge was almost worse than ignorance would have been. It meant I couldn't simply write him off as irredeemable, couldn't maintain the comfortable distance I wanted to keep. It meant I had to care about his fate, even when I didn't particularly like the person he was now.

“Well,” he said, releasing Freya and stepping back with fluid grace, “it seems we're all in the same boat. Or the same crashed nautiloid, as it were.” His smile was sharp as a blade. “Perhaps we could be of use to each other.”

Freya glanced at me, and I gave her the smallest nod. We had discussed this. Despite my personal reservations, Astarion was too skilled to leave behind. We would need his abilities in the trials ahead.

“You have skills we could use,” Freya said carefully. “And we have the same goal—finding a cure for our condition.”

“How practical,” Astarion purred, his eyes glittering with amusement. “I do so love pragmatic people. Very well—I accept your generous offer of companionship.”

As he spoke, I found myself studying him again—the way he held himself, the micro-expressions that flickered across his face, the careful calculation behind every word. He was performing, even now.

Maybe especially now.

“Wonderful,” Astarion said to himself mockingly. “This is going to be such fun.”

Fun, I thought grimly. If we're very, very lucky.

Chapter Text

After we encountered the mind flayer on the ship—one that was already on the brink of death—Freya took matters into her own hands, stomping on its head to finish it off. She did that entirely on her own, without any prompting from me. That moment confirmed something important: the characters would still behave as they did in the game, even without my influence.

I briefly considered whether we should head to the Overgrown Ruins next, but decided it would be wiser to gather the others first. So instead, I told Freya that she’d meet a certain wizard up the hill.

The climb up the rocky outcropping was treacherous, loose stones shifting under our feet. When we reached the weathered stone wall, I couldn't suppress my grin. The magical sigil glowed faintly in the afternoon light, and right on cue, a disembodied hand materialized from the surface.

“Slap it.” I whispered to her, barely containing my laughter.

She raised an eyebrow but obliged. As her hand made contact, a voice called out in mock pain: “Ow! Perhaps I should have clarified. A helping hand? Anyone?”

The voice drifted from the portal, tinged with embarrassment and a hint of desperation. Freya crossed her arms and shot me a look that was equal parts amusement and exasperation. That moment never got old.

“Maybe you want to be the helping hand?” she said with a smile, stepping aside to give me space.

The suggestion caught me off guard. In the game, this had always been the party leader's moment—a chance to literally pull a companion from danger and establish that first connection. But what would happen if I took the lead instead? Would it change anything significant?

My heart hammered as I considered the implications. Every choice I made rippled outward in ways I couldn't predict. What if pulling Gale from the portal somehow altered his story, his relationships, his fate?

But curiosity won out over caution. I had to know.

I stepped forward and grasped the floating hand, feeling surprisingly solid fingers close around mine. The grip was strong, urgent, and very much alive. With a grunt of effort, I pulled.

The portal erupted in a shower of sparks and displaced air. A figure tumbled through, landing heavily on the stone platform in a tangle of purple robes and flailing limbs. For a moment, we all froze—the newcomer flat on his back, staring up at the sky, while the rest of us processed what had just happened.

Then he sat up, running his hands through disheveled brown hair, and smiled sheepishly.

---

Meeting Gale in person was a different experience compared to Astarion or Shadowheart. There was something comforting about him, almost disarming. It wasn’t just his friendly demeanor or the way he spoke, though that was part of it. No, it was more in the way he carried himself—like someone who had seen much of the world but still believed in its wonders.

Gale had a full, meticulously kept brown beard, the kind that suggested he cared about his appearance but wasn’t overly fussy. His brown eyes were warm, thoughtful, and seemed to hold a depth of knowledge. He wore a blue-purple robe, rich in color but not overly flashy, fitting for someone who appreciated beauty but didn’t need to flaunt it. There was a certain elegance to the way he dressed—genteel, yet practical.

“Hello, I'm Gale of Waterdeep. Apologies, I'm usually better than this.”

Gale’s mannerisms were as polished as his appearance. He spoke with a kind of eloquence that could easily fill a room, his voice smooth and relaxed, making even the most complex ideas sound almost poetic. He was the kind of person who could talk about the intricacies of magic as if he were discussing a fine piece of art or a beautifully composed symphony. To him, the Weave wasn’t just a tool or a means to an end; it was something to be revered, appreciated for its beauty as much as its power.

But I knew there was more to Gale than just his scholarly demeanor. He had a romantic side, an inclination towards grand gestures that might have seemed out of place in someone less genuine. He was the type to read poetry by candlelight or to conjure flowers out of thin air just to make someone smile. It was endearing, even if a bit over the top at times.

However, beneath the friendly exterior and the gentle smile was a man driven by ambition. Gale didn’t just want to be a wizard; he wanted to be the greatest wizard Faerûn had ever seen. That ambition was a fire within him, a constant companion that pushed him to delve deeper into the mysteries of the arcane, to strive for a mastery of magic that few could ever hope to achieve. And yet, despite that drive, there was something almost tragic about him—like a man who had reached for greatness and found it just out of his grasp, but who still refused to stop reaching. I was aware about the price he’d be willing to pay to achieve his goals, and whether that ambition might one day lead him down a path he couldn’t return from.

In any case, Gale was someone I felt I could trust—or at least, someone I wanted to trust. He was a mystery wrapped in charm, and while that made me cautious, it also made me curious. And in a world as dangerous as this one, a curious mind could be just as dangerous as a sharp blade.

“Hi, I'm Artemis. This is Freya, Shadowheart, and Astarion.”

We exchanged pleasantries, the kind of careful small talk that happened when strangers were deciding whether to trust each other. But I could sense undercurrents in the conversation—Gale's subtle probing, Shadowheart's continued wariness, Astarion's calculating amusement. These weren't NPCs following scripted dialogue. They were people with their own motivations.

Gale turned to me and asked, “Back on the ship, you too were on the receiving end of a rather unwelcome insertion in the ocular region, were you not?”

I had been so focused on the impossibility of my situation, on figuring out how to navigate this world, that I hadn't stopped to consider the most basic question: did I have a tadpole?

The others could connect their minds, share thoughts and memories through their shared parasites. If I had one of those things squirming behind my eye, shouldn't I have felt it by now? Shouldn't I have that same ability?

But there was nothing. No alien presence in my mind, no strange whispers or compulsions. When the others had their telepathic conversations, I was left entirely on the outside, watching their expressions change as they communicated in ways I couldn't access.

Was it possible I had somehow avoided infection? That whatever force had brought me to this world had spared me that particular horror? Or was the parasite there, dormant, waiting for the right moment to assert itself?

The silence stretched too long. I could feel their eyes on me, waiting for an answer I didn't have. My mind raced through possibilities, each more unsettling than the last.

Sensing my hesitation, Freya smoothly took over the conversation, guiding it along while I drifted into my own thoughts, trying to puzzle out the possibilities. The question of who I was and why I didn’t have a parasite nagged at me, but I had no answers yet.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I barely registered Freya’s suggestion until she brought me back to reality. “Why don’t we head down to the beach and make camp?” she proposed, her voice cutting through the haze of my mind.

I nodded absently, still lost in the implications of Gale's question. As we made our way down the winding path to the shore, I caught him glancing at me with that same expression of puzzled interest.

He had noticed something. Maybe not the full truth—that would be too much to hope for—but something about my reaction had caught his attention. In a group of people with brain parasites, the one person who might not have one would certainly stand out.

I would have to be more careful. But I also realized that Gale's curiosity might be exactly what I needed. If anyone could help me understand what I was, what had happened to me, it would be a wizard whose passion for knowledge bordered on obsession.

Chapter Text

The sun died in a blaze of copper and gold, its final light painting the waves in molten streaks before surrendering to the encroaching darkness. We found our refuge in a natural cove, sheltered by weathered rocks that had stood sentinel against countless storms. The rhythmic whisper of waves against sand was the only sound that remained from the day's chaos—a lullaby that promised, if not safety, then at least temporary peace.

Freya moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who had made camp in hostile territory before. Her amber eyes swept the perimeter, cataloging potential threats and escape routes before she finally allowed her shoulders to relax.

“This will do,” she said, her tone clipped but satisfied as she dropped her pack with a heavy sigh.

Gale gathered driftwood with the methodical precision of someone who understood that fire meant survival. His movements were economical, graceful, each piece of wood selected and placed with careful consideration. Astarion lingered at the edge of our little circle, a pale figure carved from shadows and starlight, his crimson eyes reflecting the first flickers of flame like captured rubies.

Shadowheart positioned herself where she could watch both our camp and the approaches, her dark silhouette a study in controlled tension. Even in this moment of relative calm, she remained coiled like a spring, ready to strike or flee at the first sign of danger.

The fire caught with a satisfying crackle, sending sparks dancing up toward the emerging stars. Its warmth spread through our small group like a benediction, pushing back the darkness that pressed in from all sides. I settled onto a water-smoothed boulder, close enough to feel the heat on my face but far enough to observe the others without seeming to stare.

It was surreal, sitting here with people I knew so intimately yet had never truly met. Their faces, illuminated by the shifting firelight, were exactly as I remembered yet somehow completely new. Freya's expression held depths I had never seen in any character model. Gale's eyes sparked with intelligence that went beyond scripted responses. Even Astarion's perpetual smirk seemed more complex, layered with meanings I couldn't quite parse.

Gale was the first to break the silence. “There’s something about the sea at night, isn’t there? It feels as though the whole world is holding its breath, waiting.”

I glanced at him, taking in the thoughtful crease of his brow. In the game, such observations had been atmospheric flavor text. Here, they felt like prophecy. Before I could respond though, Astarion let out a low chuckle.

“Or perhaps,” Astarion drawled, his tone dripping with mockery, “we're simply on edge after a day of narrowly avoiding death. Hardly requires poetic interpretation.”

Freya raised an eyebrow at him, her expression dry. “And here I thought you're someone who thrived in chaos, Astarion.”

“Oh, I do,” he said with a smirk, tilting his head as though considering. “But even predators need to rest between hunts. It gives one time to... evaluate the prey.”

Shadowheart said nothing, her gaze still fixed on the darkness beyond the campfire’s glow. Her silence spoke volumes—of vigilance, of suspicion, of things she wouldn’t or couldn’t say aloud. I wanted to ask her what she was thinking, but something about the set of her shoulders warned me off. Shadowheart wasn’t one to open up easily, if at all.

As the fire popped and crackled, I let myself relax slightly, leaning closer to the flames. Yet even as I basked in the warmth, a restless unease tugged at the edge of my awareness.

Freya eventually wandered over to Gale, catching him as he quietly conjured a reflective surface, likely inspecting himself for any sign of ceremorphosis. I didn’t need to hear their conversation to know what they were discussing. The illithid parasite had hung over all of them like a specter, a constant reminder of how precarious the situation was.

But my thoughts strayed to a different possibility—one I hadn’t dared to voice. If I wasn’t infected, could I have taken on the role of the Dark Urge?

The idea made my stomach twist. I hadn’t chosen to play as the Dark Urge in the game, but I’d read enough spoilers to know what it meant: a character plagued by violent, intrusive compulsions. An avatar of chaos and destruction, driven by forces they couldn’t fully control.

The thought chilled me, but as I sat there, scanning my own mind, I found no dark compulsions lurking in the shadows of my thoughts. No whispers urging me toward bloodshed, no insatiable hunger for violence. Nothing. Maybe I wasn’t the Dark Urge after all. Maybe I was just… me.

But that left the question of what I was. If I wasn’t infected and I wasn’t the Dark Urge, what role did I have to play in this story?

“You look awfully serious, darling,” Astarion’s voice cut through my thoughts, startling me. “Plotting something sinister? Or simply wondering who among us will end up a mind flayer’s supper first?”

Astarion's voice startled me from my introspection. He had moved closer without my noticing, now standing just outside the fire's warmth with his arms crossed. 

“Just weighing my options,” I said lightly, meeting his gaze. “I figured I’d let you take care of the mind flayer while I make a graceful exit.”

He let out a soft, amused laugh. “Ah, pragmatism. I’ll make a note of that for when we’re faced with a choice between heroics and self-preservation.”

I smiled, letting a touch of playfulness seep into my tone. “I’m sure you will.”

Before he could respond, the others began to gather around the fire, the moment between us dissipating like smoke on the wind. I pulled my knees to my chest, the warmth of the flames fighting off the cool breeze that swept in from the sea.

After a while, as we arranged our sleeping arrangements, I settled into my bedroll as the others began to drift off, leaving Shadowheart to take first watch. Her silhouette against the dying fire was a stark reminder that safety was temporary, that darkness held secrets we weren't ready to confront.

Chapter Text

“Zorru was right. Yellow as a toad and twice as ugly.”

The argument ahead caught Freya’s attention. We followed the voices until we stepped into a small clearing. There, two Tieflings stood by a crude wooden cage, deep in conversation. Their tension was palpable, and it wasn’t hard to see why.

Inside the cage was Lae'zel. Her yellowish-green skin, marked with dark accents that framed her ochre eyes and traced down her cheeks and neck, made her strikingly distinct. Scars etched across her face, the most prominent running from nose to chin, were clear signs of a seasoned warrior. Her auburn hair, straight and shoulder-length, was adorned with silver braids that ran along the sides of her head, a small bun tied neatly at the back. Though she was shorter than the rest of us, her wiry, athletic frame carried a presence far larger than her stature suggested.

I was surprised to find Lae'zel here. In my playthrough, I’d discovered her lifeless near the mountain pass with the Gith patrol, and I had to revive her to get her to join the team. Finding her caged and very much alive was something I hadn’t expected.

The cage seemed like nothing more than a minor inconvenience to her. The Tieflings debated her fate—one eager to kill her outright, fearing she was too dangerous and to leave her for the goblins, while the other hesitated, unsure if they were making the right choice.

I knew what Lae'zel was—a Githyanki warrior, bred for battle, her entire life dedicated to the service of her people and their queen. But seeing her now, vulnerable and at the mercy of strangers, stirred an unexpected pang of empathy. She was a fighter, yes, but also someone caught in a situation that I could too easily imagine myself in—helpless, yet refusing to surrender. But maybe I was just thinking this way to make me feel better about myself - because if we're being honest, she probably is not as helpless as I am.

Freya glanced back at me, her eyes seeking guidance. She was waiting for me to decide whether we should intervene and free Lae'zel or let the Tieflings make their decision and move on. I didn’t have the answers, but I knew one thing: Lae'zel wasn’t going to die in that cage—we needed her.

As we stepped into the clearing, the Tieflings turned to face us, hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. Lae'zel’s gaze locked onto mine through the bars, and I could see the fire burning within her—a fierce, unyielding resolve that wouldn’t be easily extinguished.

Her gaze shifted to Freya, and I could tell they were using the parasite’s telepathic link to communicate. I had no idea what was being said, and the uncertainty of it all made me a bit uneasy. I should have watched more videos.

“This creature is dangerous. Get out of here—leave it to me!”, Freya decided on a little lie to get the Tieflings to back off, which worked. 

Before they left, they mentioned a blast they heard and felt, suggesting we check out the camp to the northeast. I knew they were talking about the Emerald Grove, especially once they mentioned to look out for Nettie.

“Enough gawking. Let me down,” Lae'zel snapped, her patience clearly wearing thin the moment the tieflings left.

I knew Lae'zel was quick to anger, her eyes narrowing at the slightest provocation, and her words often dripping with arrogance. Every chance she got, she reminded us of her people’s superiority, as if we needed convincing. It was irritating now, and I knew it would only become more frustrating later.

She cared little for the feelings of others and made no effort to soften her rough edges. Her focus was singular: removing the mind flayer parasite that had taken hold of her, and she would stop at nothing to achieve that goal. Intimidating or harming those who stood in her way? So be it. Her loyalty to her queen, Vlaakith, was absolute, driving her every action as she sought to prove her worth to the Lich Queen. There was a desperation in her that was hard to miss—a need to meet the impossibly high standards set by her people.

Despite her often harsh demeanor, Lae'zel had redeeming qualities. She was fiercely observant, more so than she often let on. She could read the emotions of those around her with surprising accuracy, even if she chose not to acknowledge them. And while she was undeniably headstrong, there was a pragmatism in her that allowed her to go along with plans she didn’t entirely agree with, as long as it benefited the group. It was grudging cooperation, but it was there.

I knew, over time, she would likely soften toward us. But until then, like with Astarion, I’d have to set aside my annoyance and let her character growth unfold naturally.

“You know, if you asked nicely and said 'please,' I’m pretty sure we’d get you out of that cage,” I teased, trying to get a reaction out of Lae'zel.

She didn’t even dignify me with a response. Instead, she simply stood there, ignoring me completely as if I hadn’t spoken at all. Her attention was fixed solely on Freya, waiting for us to break open the wooden cage and set her free. I couldn’t tell if it was because Freya was also Githyanki, but whatever the reason, Lae'zel wasn’t about to waste her time on me. I decided to let it slide and not make an issue of it.

“What a lovely, little creature she is,” Astarion whispered in my ear, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I hadn’t noticed him sidle up next to me, and his sudden proximity caught me off guard. I could smell the faint scent of bergamot that clung to his clothes. His breath was cool against my neck, and I fought the urge to shiver.

I could feel a smirk tugging at my lips as I glanced sideways at Astarion. “Oh, absolutely. She’s practically oozing with charm. I can barely keep up with her delightful personality.” I murmured back, matching his tone. “She could give you some serious competition there.” 

Astarion gave me that devilishly sweet smile, his amusement flickering in his eyes. 

“Darling,” he said, his voice dropping to that familiar purr, “I'm devastated by the comparison. Though I suppose we both have our... particular ways of making friends.”

Above us, Lae'zel continued her pointed silence, but I caught the slight tightening around her eyes. She was listening, even if she pretended otherwise. Filing away every word, every inflection, cataloging our weaknesses for future use.

Just like Astarion was doing, in his own way.

“Well,” I said, louder now, “I suppose we should actually get her down before she decides to gnaw through those bars with pure spite.”

Chapter Text

As we walked, I suggested to Freya that we check out the Temple Ruins next. I described the Chapel Entrance, which led to a door to the Refectory, and a hidden hatch to the Dank Crypt. I also warned her that before we could enter, we’d likely encounter an elf and a gnome.

Freya nodded thoughtfully, her eyes scanning the path ahead as the shadows of the trees played across her face. “Alright, I’ll let you handle these two,” she said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I nearly stumbled. “Me? Why would I—”

“Well, you saw the situation in your vision, didn’t you?” Freya replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You probably know the best outcome and how to achieve it.”

“R-Right,” I stammered, realizing I’d just dug myself into a hole. The distant call of a bird punctuated the awkward pause, and I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the task she’d handed me. It looked like I had no choice now.

Ahead of us, Shadowheart slowed her pace, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as she glanced back at us. “What are you two always whispering about?” she asked, suspicion clear in her tone. Her fingers played absently with the strand of her hair.

Freya met Shadowheart’s gaze with steady calm. “I asked Artemis for her advice on what to do next,” she replied smoothly, not breaking stride.

Shadowheart’s expression didn’t soften. “And why her specifically?” she asked, her voice laced with disdain. “Why not ask your own kind?” Her distaste for the Githyanki was evident in every word, her lips curling slightly as she spoke. I couldn’t recall if it had anything to do with how Viconia "raised" her, but I still didn’t like the way she spoke to Freya.

Freya didn’t flinch, though. “What Artemis has advised so far has brought good outcomes for us. I believe she’s a good strategist,” The words hung in the air like a challenge. I watched Freya's jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, but when she spoke, her voice remained level.

Gale, who had been walking a few steps behind, joined the conversation. “Are you working a strategist by chance?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Judging by your attire, I wouldn’t have guessed.” His voice was light, almost teasing, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a half-smile as he studied me, waiting for my response.

Before I could think of a response, Astarion interjected, his tone dripping with amusement. “Judging by her dress, one might assume she’s nothing more than a simple noblewoman.”

Freya rolled her eyes, clearly displeased by his remark. “And who’s to say a simple noblewoman couldn’t also be a strategist?” she retorted, her voice cool but pointed.

“Oh, they certainly can be,” Astarion replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But they’re usually well-off—either through inheritance or marriage.” He paused, his gaze drifting toward my hands. “Though, given the lack of a ring, it seems she’s neither married nor engaged.” His eyes flicked back to me, a sly grin at his lips. “So, perhaps an heiress? Or a strategist after all?”

His underlying mockery annoyed me, though I had to admit there could be a kernel of truth in his observation. The gown I wore was undeniably luxurious—crafted from rich, deep blue fabric, with a bodice and central panel adorned with intricate golden embroidery. The elaborate patterns drew the eye to the center of the garment, while the long, fitted sleeves continued the golden detailing, accentuating the arms with the same meticulous design. Despite the gown being torn, stained, and dirty from our journey, it still radiated a certain grace, hinting at its once-pristine condition.

It was entirely possible that the body I now inhabited belonged to a noblewoman—just one of many endless possibilities. Not exactly comforting, but better than nothing, I supposed.

“My profession isn’t that of a strategist,” I finally replied, my voice steady. I certainly would not give Astarion that satisfaction. In my actual life, I worked as an illustrator—a role that offered little advantage in this world. Instead, I said: “I’m an artist.”—it was the closest truth I could offer.

“An artist!” Gale chimed, his face lit up with genuine delight. “Wizards and artists share a common thread. We’re both creative—at least, wizards can be, sometimes.” His attempt to lighten the conversation was obvious, and I found myself grateful for it.

---

The argument reached us before we saw them—two voices raised in heated dispute over something that clearly mattered a great deal to both parties.

“Got ourselves competition already? That's our ship!” The gnome's voice was high and indignant. Beside him, a high elf stood with arms crossed, radiating the particular arrogance.

I stepped forward, feeling the weight of the others' expectations. Freya had been right—I did know how this could end. But knowing and doing were different things entirely.

I gathered my courage and tried to talk us out of having to attack them—convincing them to flee instead, like I did when I played as Freya.

“If you had actually wandered inside, you would not stand here but run for your lives.” I told them.

“And why is that?” the high-elf retorted, spitting the words and crossing his arms, clearly unconvinced.

I took a step closer, holding his gaze. A strange, unfamiliar confidence welled up inside me. “Have you not read about the deathly curse these ruins harbor for everyone who enters? If you sharpen your senses, you can feel the dread and misery leaking through the cracks. It seeps into your very bones, whispering of the doom that awaits. And that dark energy… it doesn’t just stay within. It calls to the monsters nearby, drawing them in like moths to a flame.”

The high-elf’s defiant stance wavered for a moment, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. He exchanged uneasy glances with his companion, visibly shaken despite their leader’s bravado. There was something about my voice, about the way I spoke—an eerie, compelling undertone that I didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t just the words; it was as if the air itself had thickened with an unseen force, pressing in around us, making them hesitate.

I could feel their doubt growing, as if my words had woven a spell they couldn’t quite break free from. I didn’t know how I was doing it, but whatever it was, it was working. Yet, beneath that small triumph, I felt a twinge of discomfort, as though I had tapped into something I shouldn't have. 

Chapter Text

“These fools, trembling at the mere thought of a curse. It is weakness, pure and simple.” Lae'zel snorted, her voice laced with disdain as she turned her back on the retreating figures. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting shifting patterns on the ground as she strode forward, her posture rigid with contempt. Despite her harsh words, a flicker of something else glimmered in her eyes—a reluctant approval as she glanced at me. “You did well, for a talker,” she added, her tone begrudging but sincere.

Astarion, who had been lounging against a nearby stone wall, watched the exchange with a smirk playing on his lips. He chuckled softly, the sound almost teasing as he straightened up. “My, my, Artemis. Who knew you had such a talent for persuasion? I must say, it’s rather… enthralling.” His eyes gleamed with a mix of admiration and something darker, more playful, as he sauntered closer, his movements languid and feline. “Though, I do wonder—what else might you be capable of convincing people to do?” he mused, his voice a silken purr.

Gale, ever the thoughtful scholar, observed me with a more analytical gaze. His brow furrowed slightly as he stroked his chin, lost in contemplation. “That was impressive, indeed,” he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine respect. “It’s almost as if you tapped into the arcane, weaving a spell with your words.”

Their reactions swirled around me, and the confidence that had surged through my veins moments ago began to ebb away, leaving behind a gnawing unease. But even as I wrestled with this disquieting feeling, one thing was certain: we had gained an advantage. The high-elf’s resolve had cracked, and his companion was visibly shaken. Whether by luck, fate, or something more, we had avoided a battle. For now.

Freya’s eyes met mine, and she offered me a reassuring smile, the warmth in her expression almost tangible. It was a subtle gesture, but it filled me with a quiet sense of accomplishment, as if she was proud of me. It was a nice feeling, one I hadn’t realized I needed until that moment.

As we approached the door leading into the Refectory, Gale took the opportunity to fall into step beside me. His gaze softened, concern evident in his eyes. “I must ask—did you feel anything unusual when you spoke? Anything… out of the ordinary?” he inquired, his tone gentle but probing.

Out of the ordinary? It was hard to say. Everything in this world felt alien, a strange blend of reality and dream that blurred the lines of what was normal. I hesitated, searching for the right words. “I’m… not sure,” I admitted, glancing at him. “Did you notice anything?”

Gale adopted his thoughtful expression, considering my question. He took a moment before responding, his voice measured. “Perhaps it’s nothing, and the tale you told simply intrigued me to the point where I could feel the atmosphere you built,” he said, pausing as if weighing his words carefully. “But I wouldn’t cast it aside so easily. It might be something worth observing… just in case.”

---

“Abandoned. Whatever god this place was built for can't be in great demand.”

After we had managed to slip inside and dispatch the bandits—well, more like the others did, while I stayed safely out of the fray—I noticed Shadowheart trailing behind the group. Seizing the opportunity, I walked next to her, hoping a bit of conversation might help bridge the gap between us.

“A forgotten god, perhaps,” I mused, glancing around the eerie, decaying space. “But that doesn’t mean whatever power lingers here should be underestimated. Abandoned places have a way of holding onto their secrets long after the prayers have faded.” My words carried a subtle hint of what I knew was to come, a veiled reference to the mysterious figure we were soon to encounter. This was where we would meet Withers for the first time—a being who, according to everything I’d read online, might very well be Jergal, the Final Scribe, the Lord of Bones, or whatever other names he went by. And if anyone could help me uncover more about the body I was inhabiting, it would be someone like him. The chances were slim, but it was worth a shot.

Shadowheart gave me a sidelong glance, her expression thoughtful. “That’s a sharp observation,” she remarked, showing a small, almost reluctant smile. “Maybe you should have chosen to be a strategist after all. But I suppose it’s never too late for that.” Even though her smile was subtle, it lifted my spirits. 

As we continued walking, her gaze turned inward, as if considering something more personal. “Do you follow a god?” she asked, the question catching me off guard. I hadn’t expected her to take an interest in my beliefs—but perhaps her own were so strong, she was curious to see if I shared that same conviction.

Her question hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure how to respond. In my world, religion was more of an abstract concept. But here, where gods and magic were tangible forces, the question felt heavier, more meaningful. I could sense that my answer mattered, not just to her, but perhaps to the path ahead.

The thought of lying to Shadowheart crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. It wasn’t just about maintaining my cover—lying here felt like chipping away at the fragile sense of self I was desperately clinging to. The idea of still being “me,” while simultaneously being someone else, was a burden that weighed heavily on my mind. I’d been trying not to dwell on it too much, fearing that if I did, I might crack. But this—this was something I wanted to stay true to. Not just for myself, but for Shadowheart, who seemed genuinely curious.

“To be completely honest,” I began, choosing my words carefully as I met her gaze. “Where I’m from, gods are… different. They’re more distant, more… symbolic, I guess. So my answer might surprise you, but I don’t believe in a god. Or any god, to be exact.” I looked down, trying to steady my voice. “So no, I’m not a follower of anyone or anything. I only believe in myself. Or at least, I try to.”

She paused, her expression softening just a touch. “Not believing in any god... it’s an unusual stance, but not unheard of. There are those who walk the path alone, guided only by their own convictions. It takes a certain strength to do that. But,” she added, a faint hint of challenge in her voice, “it also leaves you vulnerable. Without faith in something greater, who do you turn to when your own strength fails?”

For Shadowheart, faith wasn’t just a belief—it was a lifeline, a source of power and purpose. I could understand that, even if I didn’t share it (especially not Shar). But her words also hit a nerve, making me wonder what would happen if I did fail—if my strength, my will, wasn’t enough. In this world, where the stakes were so much higher, that thought was terrifying.

I looked away, my gaze drifting over the crumbling ruins around us. “I don’t know,” I admitted softly, feeling the weight of the uncertainty pressing down on me. “I guess I’m still trying to figure that out.”

Chapter Text

“You won't be able to avoid fighting forever, you know.”

“I know,” I sighed, accepting the lightweight dagger and a simple bow with a quiver of arrows that Freya was pressing into my reluctant hands.

“Give yourself more credit,” she teased, nudging me playfully with her elbow. “You managed somewhat well for someone who’s clearly never held a weapon before.”

“You mean against that intellect devourer? That was pure dumb luck.”

We stood before the towering ancient door, knowing Withers waited somewhere beyond. But first, we had company to deal with.

“Just like we discussed,” Freya whispered, her voice laced with encouragement. “Keep your distance. Breathe. Aim.”

I nodded, though her words did little to calm my nerves.

---

The stone button clicked under Gale’s fingers, and the secret door groaned open with a shudder that echoed through the crypt. Cold air rushed out, carrying the scent of death. The quiet was shattered as the Entombed Dead began to stir, skeletal hands clawing out of stone tombs, their hollow eyes flaring with a ghastly, pale light.

Lae'zel was the first to react, her blade flashing in the dim light as she charged forward. “To battle!” she cried, her voice a fierce command as she brought her greatsword down on the nearest undead with a brutal swing. The creature crumbled under the force of her attack, but more were rising from the shadows, drawn by the disturbance of their eternal slumber.

Astarion darted past me with a predatory grace, his daggers flashing as he plunged one into an undead’s spine, twisting the blade with a practiced flick of his wrist. “With pleasure.” he drawled, his tone dripping with sardonic amusement as he spun to loose an arrow into the eye socket of another shambling corpse. The creature dropped, but the crypt kept disgorging more.

“Focus on the weaker ones!” Gale called out, his voice commanding but calm. He then unleashed a blast of arcane energy that sent several of the undead sprawling, bones clattering across the stone floor.

Shadowheart summoned a wave of radiant energy that pulsed through the room. The light seared through the undead ranks, causing several of them to stagger and collapse, their dark energies dispelled by her divine magic.

I stood at the back, heart hammering in my chest as I fumbled with the bow. My fingers trembled as I nocked an arrow, trying to focus amidst the chaos. I loosed the arrow, and it whizzed past its target, clattering harmlessly against the wall. My frustration spiked, but there was no time to dwell on it—one of the undead had broken through the line, heading straight for me.

“Artemis!” Freya’s voice cut through the chaos, but I could hardly hear her over the sound of my own pulse roaring in my ears.

Before I could react, the creature lashed out with a bony hand, necrotic energy flaring as it struck. I flinched, bracing for the searing pain—except it never came. Instead, the dark energy seemed to sink into my skin, dissolving harmlessly as if it had been swallowed by a void.

I stared at my arm in disbelief, expecting to see charred flesh or feel the biting pain of the undead's touch, but there was nothing—no mark, no searing agony. Just a lingering chill that dissipated almost as quickly as it had come. The creature’s hollow eyes flared brighter for a moment, as if it, too, was confused, before they dulled in what seemed like a flicker of fear.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow to that single moment, the air thick with a strange, unsettling stillness. Something was wrong—I could feel it, like a whisper at the edge of my mind, but I couldn’t grasp it.

I didn’t have time to ponder as the undead lurched towards me again, but Astarion was there in an instant, his dagger slicing through the creature’s throat in one fluid motion. “Focus, darling,” he chided lightly, a grin on his lips as he moved on to the next target, never missing a beat.

I shook off my bewilderment and reached for another arrow. The shot flew true, embedding itself in the eye socket of an advancing corpse.

The crypt fell silent once more, the only sound the heavy breathing of our group as we surveyed the aftermath.

Freya approached, concern in her eyes as she glanced at me. “Are you alright? That undead creature—it looked like it hit you, but you seem… fine?”

“Yeah… I’m okay.” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. But as I looked at my unscathed arm, a tiny seed of doubt took root. What just happened?

Chapter Text

Night had claimed the camp, wrapping us in shadows that danced at the edges of our small fire. The day's violence felt distant now—just aching muscles and the metallic taste of adrenaline slowly fading from my tongue. For the first time since arriving in this impossible world, something almost resembled peace.

From the far edge of the camp, a figure emerged from the gloom, moving with an eerie, measured grace. Tall and gaunt, his tattered robes seemed to sway and billow on their own, as though the fabric had forgotten the rules of time and space. His skin, pale brown and desiccated, was stretched taut over his skeletal frame, splotched with deep red patches like the stains of ancient wounds. Where his nose should have been, there was only an empty hollow, the absence making the rest of his face—his lips, his cheekbones—strangely intact and even more unnerving. His eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light, cold but calm, like someone who had long since made peace with eternity.

His arms and chest, wrapped in ancient bandages, were adorned with strips of intricate, gilded metal that shimmered in the firelight—regal and haunting, a king in the ruins of his own time.

It was Withers.

I had seen him before, on screen. The same cryptic presence I had witnessed countless times before was now right in front of me, his hollow eyes fixed on us with clarity. A character once bound to a story, now standing in the firelight, as tangible as any of us.

The moment felt wrong, like the lines between reality and fantasy were blurring beyond recognition once again. I had known this world was strange from the beginning, but seeing Withers here, breathing, moving—it twisted something deep inside me.

I let Freya speak with Withers first, content to observe as I mulled over the right words to ask about my own strange situation. Lost in thought, I didn’t notice Astarion until he casually slipped down onto my bedroll beside me, his presence as smooth and uninvited as always.

“Well,”  he drawled, red eyes fixed on our ancient guest. “it seems we're expanding our membership to include the formerly deceased. How wonderfully progressive of us.”

I managed a distracted nod, my attention still fractured between Withers and my own spiraling thoughts.

Astarion wasn't deterred by my lack of engagement. He leaned closer, voice dropping to that honey-smooth whisper: “You know, darling, there's really no need for secrets between us.”

That piqued my curiosity. I furrowed my brows, turning to him. “What are you talking about?”

His smile widened, though his eyes gleamed with a subtle, probing sharpness. “I happened to notice something during that little scuffle in the crypt.” He paused for a beat, “Necrotic energy struck you full-on, yet you walked away without so much as a bruise” He tilted his head, studying me like a cat contemplating a particularly interesting mouse. “I find myself desperately curious about how such a thing might be possible.”

His tone was sweet, almost playful, but there was an edge of expectation in his voice. He was fishing for an answer, thinking his charm might coax it out of me.

Instead, my eyes widened in realization, and I leaned forward, blurting out: “So you saw that too?!”

For once, I'd managed to surprise him. Astarion blinked, his carefully constructed composure flickering. I quickly composed myself, coughing awkwardly as I tried to tone down my outburst. “I thought he missed, or that I just imagined it.”

His surprise melted back into that familiar smirk, though now genuine intrigue flickered behind his eyes. “Ah, so you’re just as mystified as I am,” he said softly. “Intriguing.”

The moment I saw Freya step back from Withers, I practically launched myself off the ground. “Sorry, let's talk later!” to Astarion as I made my way to the bone man. 

---

Those pale eyes fixed on me with the weight of eons, and I had the unsettling impression that he'd been expecting this conversation since before I'd even arrived in this world. There was no surprise in his expression, only a calm certainty that unnerved me.

"It seems thou hast urgent matters to discuss."  he intoned, his voice like wind through a mausoleum—hollow, echoing, eternal.

I swallowed hard, feeling the gravity of his presence press down on me. “Y-Yes.” I stammered, trying to steady my voice. Standing before him felt like facing judgment itself, as if every thought I'd ever harbored lay exposed under his gaze.

“I’ve only confided in Freya about this,” I began slowly, the words trembling on my lips. “But... I’m not from this world. I don’t know how I ended up here, but I don’t belong. Do you know why? And… is there any way back for me?”

Withers held my gaze, his eyes unblinking, as if he could see straight through to the depths of my soul. His presence was overwhelming, but not unkind. “I see thy spirit is not of this realm.” he said, each word deliberate, heavy with knowledge. “Thou art... a stranger here, bound to a body that is not truly thine. Thy essence, it calls to a world far from this one.”

The admission made my heart race. He knew. For the time I’d been trapped in this silent isolation, he gave me proof that I wasn't losing my mind. The relief was almost overwhelming.

“Withers, please,” I whispered, my voice thick with desperation. “Is there a way back? Can I return home?”

He stood motionless for so long I wondered if he'd forgotten my question. When he finally spoke, it was with the careful weight: “How thou camest here, I do not know. But as for returning... there may yet be a path back to thine own world.”

His words hit me like a wave of hope crashing over my entire being. I could go home. Home. The thought flooded my mind—my own bed, the familiar streets of the city I loved, the sounds of life and movement. The sheer normalcy of it all. No monsters, no death waiting around every corner—just me, in my own body, living the life I knew. Now... now there was hope.

“How?!” I shouted, my voice cracking with need. “How do I get back?”

Chapter Text

Withers' words lingered like shadows in my mind, haunting every thought I tried to shake loose. Thou must discover what ritual was wrought, for it passed the soul into limbo, leaving only the body as a vessel. His voice echoed, cryptic and unwavering, a riddle without an answer.

Someone else had lived in this flesh before me. Someone desperate enough to leave their soul adrift in a nameless void, abandoning their body to the whims of fate. And now, here I was. Pulled from my life—my world—and thrust into theirs, without warning, without explanation.

What kind of magic could do such a thing? Withers hadn’t given me answers, only the promise that they existed. I had to uncover them myself. But where would I even begin?

As dawn painted the sky in soft pastels, my companions began to wake around our dwindling fire. The practical demands of another day on the road beckoned, forcing me to shelve my philosophical wrestling match. Yet the mystery haunted me still—somewhere in an endless gray expanse drifted the original owner of this flesh. What terror had she fled from?

My brooding was interrupted by Shadowheart's concerned face appearing in my field of vision, her hand waving to capture my attention. "Earth to you—are you actually here right now?"

"Sorry, just lost in thought," I replied, shouldering my pack and getting to my feet.

"Well, snap out of it," she said briskly. "Today's going to be complicated enough without you wandering around in a daze."

Astarion's voice dripped with sarcastic concern as he added, "Quite right, darling. Save the naval-gazing for when we're not dodging arrows and claws, hmm?"

Despite everything, his theatrical delivery coaxed a reluctant smile from me. Freya laughed, and gradually our motley crew prepared to continue our journey. The road ahead was long, and if Withers was right—and he always seemed to be—answers wouldn’t come easily.

---

By mid-morning, we found ourselves heading toward the towering gates of the Emerald Grove. Sunlight streamed down, casting the stone walls in warm hues, but the tension in the air quickly pulled me out of the momentary peace.

Up ahead, voices rang out, sharp and agitated. A group of adventurers stood at the gate, locked in a heated argument with one of the guards—a stocky figure with graying hair and a stubborn set to his jaw. As we drew closer, I could make out the conversation.

"Open the damn gate, Kanon!" a gruff man barked, his voice laced with frustration. He was flanked by two others—Remira, her bow slung across her back, and Barth, a brooding figure with a heavy axe at his side.

"I told you, it stays shut under Zevlor's orders." Kanon replied firmly, standing his ground. "No one's getting through until we know it's safe."

"Safe?" Aradin scoffed, stepping forward. "We barely made it out alive fighting off goblins, and now you've brought them straight to your doorstep! How’s that for safe?"

Freya shot me a glance, knowing what's to come, her hand subtly resting on the hilt of her staff. I could feel the tension building in the air, like a storm about to break.

Before Kanon could respond, another voice cut through the argument, commanding and sharp. "What’s going on here?"

It was Zevlor. His eyes, filled with concern, scanned the scene. He took one look at Aradin, then at the distant figures approaching from the treeline—goblins, advancing fast.

“Goblins followed us,” Aradin growled, pointing towards the growing threat. “If you don’t open that gate, you’ll have more than just us to worry about.”

Zevlor cursed under his breath and shot a look at Kanon. "Raise the gate, quickly."

Kanon hesitated only for a moment before springing into action, muscles straining as he pulled the mechanism to lift the heavy gate. The sound of creaking wood and iron filled the air, but just as the gate began to rise, a series of arrows whistled through the air, cutting the moment short.

Kanon gasped, stumbling backward as multiple arrows buried into his chest. He fell hard, a sickening thud against the stone.

“Damn it!” Lae’zel snarled, unsheathing her sword as the goblins charged in, wild and relentless. "Hold the line!"

Chaos erupted. Goblins poured toward the gate, arrows flying like a deadly storm. We barely had time to draw our weapons before the first of them were upon us.

I knocked an arrow to my bow, firing into the oncoming horde, but even as I did, it felt like we were being overwhelmed. Freya shouted spells, her hands crackling with magical energy, while Gale summoned a swirling vortex of fire that engulfed the nearest goblins.

The battle raged around us, but for every goblin we cut down, it seemed like three more took its place.

Then, cutting through the melee with almost supernatural grace, I spotted a figure I recognized immediately. Wyll moved like poetry in motion, his blade finding its mark with precision, each strike purposeful and controlled.

I’d seen him on my screen more times than I could count. His dark brown hair kept in neat rows, the sides cropped, and that well-trimmed beard adding to his heroic, noble look. His right eye—a striking Bloodstone, or so he claimed—always stood out to me. Even through his scars, Wyll had a youthful charm, the kind of face that showed a man hardened by battle but not by bitterness. In every scene, he radiated confidence, a beacon of hope for those who needed it.

His modest armor didn’t bear the embellishments of his noble background, but there was something undeniably regal about him. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—his posture, his discipline—he was the kind of hero I’d read about in stories and watched unfold on screen. 

For a moment, I stood there, almost mesmerized.

Wyll sliced through a goblin, sending it crashing to the ground, and turned toward me, locking eyes. His gaze, even in the heat of battle, was warm, friendly—determined. It was the look of a man who wasn’t just fighting for survival, but for something greater.

"Looks like you could use some help!" he called out, his voice cutting through the chaos, tinged with a confidence that made my heart skip a beat.

I swallowed, momentarily caught off guard by how different it felt to see him in person—fighting by my side, rather than as a character I controlled.  But there was no time to process the strangeness of it all. I nocked another arrow and sent it flying into the horde, even as part of my mind marveled at the impossible situation I found myself in.

"Keep your guard up!" he shouted, as another group of goblins surged toward us, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his voice, like this was just another adventure to him. His confidence was infectious, lifting the spirits of those around him—even mine.

Chapter Text

After the dust settled from the battle and the heated argument between Aradin and Zevlor died down, I turned to Freya. Could we stop by the vendor before entering the grove? I desperately need new clothes.”

I glanced down at my dress, which had seen better days. Who knew how long I’d been traveling in this thing? It was torn, dirt-streaked, and completely impractical for combat. Worse yet, it was attracting unwanted attention. I didn’t need to give anyone ideas about robbing me, and fighting in it was a nightmare.

Freya nodded, understanding. Using our accumulated resources—a combination of legitimate looting and Astarion's more questionable acquisition methods—she purchased upgraded equipment and weapons for the entire party. I carefully packed the light armor into my backpack, saving it for later when we made camp. There was something liberating about the thought of shedding this impractical garb, trading it for something more fitting for survival, rather than court appearances.

While I handled our supply needs, Freya engaged in critical discussions with Zevlor. The situation was dire: the druids were expelling the tiefling refugees, holding them responsible for attracting goblin attention. Yet departing meant certain death for the defenseless tieflings. Zevlor requested Freya's intervention with Kagha, in exchange for access to Nettie's healing expertise.

As Freya concluded her diplomatic efforts, I watched her approach Wyll for a private conversation. My pulse quickened at the prospect of the legendary Blade of Frontiers joining our cause. His reputation preceded him, and having someone of his caliber would significantly improve our survival prospects.

“Darling,” came Astarion’s smooth, teasing voice as he sidled up beside me, “your excitement is practically radiating off you. Rather endearing, really.”

I gave him a pointed look while fighting back amusement. “What's wrong with being excited? More allies mean better odds. And Wyll has a solid reputation.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smirk. “Solid reputation, you say? How wonderfully... conventional of you.”

I shrugged. “He's genuinely decent,” I insisted. “That's not an opinion, that's a observable fact.”

“Indeed,” Astarion mused, his eyes narrowing mischievously. “So is that all this excitement is about? Just our odds of survival or is there something else? Perhaps a certain flutter of the heart?”

The unexpected directness caught me momentarily off-balance, but I recovered quickly with a counterattack.

“Careful, Astarion. That almost sounds like jealousy. Concerned about your standing?”

A chuckle rumbled from his throat, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he leaned closer, his lips a breath away from my ear. “Jealous? With this face? The concept is foreign to me.”

His shameless confidence was both irritating and oddly attractive. I shook my head with reluctant delight as we rejoined the group.

---

The grove buzzed with activity and tension. Our path took us past various inhabitants and refugees—Rolan arguing with his worried siblings about their uncertain future, Dammon working on his bench despite the chaos, and Zorru sharing intelligence about the githyanki crèche with Lae'zel. Watching her roll her eyes as I pointed out her mispronouncing of ‘teeth-ling’ was honestly the highlight of my day.

And then there was Sazza, the goblin. We managed to save her, though I wasn’t sure she deserved it. Still, she gave the group some valuable information about Priestess Gut, another potential way to remove the tadpole. After getting what we needed, I told Freya to leave Sazza where she was. We couldn’t afford unnecessary risks, and frankly, she was more trouble than she was worth. As we moved forward, Aradin pulled us aside, revealing more about their failed contract to find a relic called the Nightsong. They had been searching the temple when goblins overran them, capturing Halsin. Aradin’s mention of the Nightsong caused Shadowheart to freeze momentarily, with a barely perceptible tightening around her eyes that she quickly suppressed. If the others knew what I know, it would be a kids play to read her expression. 

Finally, we met Auntie Ethel. She greeted us with her unsettling warmth, offering her “healing potions,” which I quickly advised Freya to dismiss. Something about the old woman unnerved me, her overly kind demeanor barely masking the darkness beneath. As we were about to walk away, her gaze was fixed on me. I stayed behind for a moment while the others continued walking.

“You're not as untouched by trouble as you think, petal. Something’s festering beneath that pretty surface.” she said, her voice low and menacing.

I turned back, feeling my blood run cold. “What are you talking about, hag?”

Her facade cracked for a brief moment, her eyes flashing with something sinister. “Hag? Me? Oh no, just a harmless old woman who enjoys a spot of tea and the occasional potion.” Her tone turned venomous. “Though you might consider watching your tongue, dearie. Sharp words have a way of cutting both ways.”

Freya's call interrupted the increasingly hostile exchange, allowing me to escape the woman's presence. But her words lingered, seeping into my thoughts like poison. 

Chapter Text

“You want to split up?” The words came out pitched higher than I intended, my voice cracking with barely concealed anxiety.

Freya arched an eyebrow, that infuriatingly knowing expression settling over her features. “You were the one who mentioned saving Arabella from Kagha and rescuing that tiefling boy from the harpies at the beach.” she pointed out, her tone calm, pragmatic. “Unless you’ve got a spell that lets me be in two places at once, splitting up is the only option.”

I frowned, turning over the dilemma in my mind. In the game, these things were easy. Quests waited for you—no ticking clocks, no real consequences (except for maybe one or two). But here, time was real. Each day passed like actual days. Time moved like a river here, carrying consequences downstream. While we saved one person, another could be dying. The weight of that reality pressed against my chest like a stone.

I bit my lip, still hesitant. “Maybe we got lucky with the gnolls,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. 

Freya sighed softly. “But we can't cover everything at once. We’ve got to act fast.”

I exhaled slowly, trying to calm the whirlwind of anxious thoughts in my head. I could see the logic of what she was saying, even if every instinct I had screamed to keep the group together. “Okay, you’re right,” I said after a long moment, nodding to myself as much as to her. “How do we do this?”

“Lae’zel, Astarion, Shadowheart, Gale and I will handle the harpies,” she said, her voice firm. She didn’t leave room for debate—there was an edge of authority there that I couldn’t argue with. “You and Wyll handle Kagha and make sure that little girl doesn't become a casualty of druidic politics.”

I nodded, though my stomach twisted slightly at the thought of splitting away from the others. “Alright,” I agreed, glancing over at Wyll, who was chatting with the others.

Freya flashed me a quick, reassuring smile, already shifting her focus to Astarion and Lae’zel. The others were being briefed, and I could hear Lae’zel’s low, impatient muttering as she prepared for battle. Astarion, on the other hand, seemed unbothered, his signature smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if this was all a grand game to him.

The unease followed me like a shadow as we parted ways. Without game mechanics to guide us, every choice felt like walking blindfolded across a tightrope. The harpies were dangerous, but Kagha had power too—an unstable druid, capable of making decisions that could cost a child’s life. And if we were wrong—if we chose wrong—someone would die.

“Be careful.” Freya said, her eyes softening for a brief moment as she clasped my shoulder. “We’ll meet back here as soon as we can.”

“You too.” I replied, offering a tight smile. As Freya and the others began to head toward the beach, I found myself lingering for just a heartbeat longer, watching them go. 

---

The grove hummed with nervous energy as Wyll and I made our way through the ancient pathways. Druids moved with purpose around us, their glances wary but not hostile—Freya must have smoothed our way somehow. Still, there was an undercurrent of tension in their movements, like animals sensing an approaching storm.

Wyll's hand rested casually near his rapier, though his posture remained deceptively relaxed. His scarred face was thoughtful as he took in the weathered stone and twisted roots that formed the grove's architecture.

“We’re close,” I said quietly, my voice breaking the silence between us. “The Druid's Chambers are just ahead.”

Wyll nodded, his gaze hardening. “I don’t like this. Druids aren’t usually this... volatile.” He was right. The desperation radiating from every corner of the grove felt like a fever, burning away the natural harmony these people should have embodied.

As we approached the Chambers, the sound of voices grew louder. Not just conversation—argument. Accusations. The kind of voices raised when things were about to go very, very wrong.

“Something’s happening inside.” Wyll murmured, picking up on the same tension I felt.

We stepped through the archway into the heart of the Druid's Chambers, and the scene before us made my stomach twist. In the center of the room, standing before a small gathering of druids, was Arabella. The young tiefling girl I’d seen earlier, small and defiant but trembling with fear. Her wide eyes darted around the room, searching for someone, anyone, who might help her.

Kagha loomed over the child like a storm cloud, her expression carved from granite. The viper Teela coiled around her shoulders, tongue flicking as if tasting the girl's terror. The assembled druids watched in tense silence, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to challenge their acting leader.

“She stole the Idol of Silvanus!” Kagha announced, her voice echoing through the chamber. “A sacred artifact, essential for the ritual that will seal this grove from outsiders.”

Wyll shot me a glance, his expression grim. “The idol... that’s why the ritual is so important. Without it, they can’t protect the Grove.”

Kagha’s voice dropped lower, colder, as she stepped closer to Arabella. “What should be done with thieves?” Her words were meant for the gathered druids, but her gaze remained fixed on the girl. Teela shifted around her neck, its body tensing as if preparing to strike.

I moved forward before I could think better of it. “She’s just a child, Kagha. Whatever punishment you’re thinking of... this isn’t the way.”

Kagha’s eyes flicked to me, annoyance flashing across her face. “Outsiders. Always interfering in things they don’t understand.” She straightened, lifting her chin with an air of superiority. “This child has defiled something sacred. She must face the consequences.”

Rath, standing among the other druids, finally found his voice. “This is madness Kagha! Just let that child go!”

I felt a knot tighten in my chest, frustration building. I curled my fingers in a fist, and I could have sworn I felt a low hum vibrating beneath my skin.

“Sure, she has to pay,” I heard myself say, my voice now disturbingly calm, cold, and almost distant. “She has to know the weight of what she’s done. But death... it’s a heavy thing to carry, isn’t it, Kagha? Do you really want to bear it?”

I took a step forward, the shadows seemed to lengthen, and I saw Kagha’s face pale ever so slightly as my words hung in the air. The light around me dimmed as if being swallowed by the tension, drawing everyone in—and not in a good way.

Arabella whimpered, and Kagha’s expression hardened, though there was a flicker of fear in her eyes. “Enough!” she said, but her voice wavered, as if she was trying to shake off a weight she didn’t understand. “This child...”

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder, warm and grounding, pulling me back from this edge. Wyll stepped up beside me, his presence like sunlight cutting through fog. “Artemis, let’s not lose ourselves here.” he said gently, his voice a calming contrast to the strange tension in the air.

He turned to Kagha, bowing his head slightly in deference. “Lady Kagha, surely you’ve seen much in your time leading the druids. There’s wisdom in you, I can see it. Why not use that wisdom here? The child made a mistake, but she doesn’t need to pay for it with her life.”

The weight in the air began to lift, the unsettling cold receding as Wyll’s words cut through the darkness. I blinked, my heartbeat slowing as the strange sensation that had overtaken me ebbed away. The world around me brightened again, the warmth returning.

Kagha’s eyes flicked from Wyll to me, then back to Wyll. She took a slow breath, the tension in her stance easing as she regained her composure. “Very well,” she said after a long pause, her voice quieter now. “But only because this is her first transgression.”

Her gaze remained on me for a moment longer. Then she turned away, gesturing for the other druids to disperse. Teela relaxed against her shoulders, no longer poised to kill, and Arabella sobbed with relief.

Wyll gave me a quick, knowing glance, his hand still on my shoulder. “Good work, Artemis.” he said quietly.

I nodded, but inside, a tremor lingered.

Chapter Text

By the time we regrouped at the edge of the Grove, the sun was already dipping below the horizon. Freya and the others arrived first, looking a little worse for wear but triumphant. They had managed to save the tiefling boy and it seemed their efforts hadn’t gone unnoticed. The kids from the Grove had invited them to Mol’s hideout, though Freya didn't seem particularly thrilled by the idea of dealing with more thieving youngsters.

After a quick round of updates, we followed up with the visit to Nettie—the druid apprentice who, as it turned out, wasn’t quite the healer they hoped for. Thanks to my warning, Freya had avoided Nettie’s poisoned vial, the one she had intended as a "mercy" for their tadpole-ridden bodies. Nettie had confirmed their worst fear though: there was no simple cure for what plagued them. The only real hope was in rescuing Halsin, who had been captured by the goblins.

Unfortunately, I knew the truth—that rescuing Halsin wouldn’t magically fix things. A far more complicated journey lay ahead of us. Still, it wasn’t the time to reveal that yet. One step at a time.

We left the Grove behind, setting up camp in a quiet spot nestled between the trees. The crackle of the fire and the comforting smell of roasting meat filled the air, offering a brief reprieve from the weight of the day’s trials. 

Freya leaned back against her pack, her eyes scanning the flames, deep in thought. Wyll had taken to sharpening his blade, his movements slow and methodical. Lae’zel sat a little farther off, her intense gaze never fully relaxing, while Astarion, always the picture of grace even when exhausted, stretched out on a bedroll near the fire. Gale and Shadowheart exchanged words, their conversation barely audible over the crackling wood.

I stared into the flames, but their warmth couldn't chase away the cold certainty growing inside me. Something was deeply wrong. This body I inhabited wasn't behaving like it should—I'd walked away unscathed from necromantic attacks that should have left me writhing in agony. 

And it wasn’t just my immunity to necrotic damage. There were moments where my words seemed to carry an unnatural weight, where I could feel my voice almost... compel people to agree with me, as if persuasion wasn’t just persuasion anymore but something ... more. I wasn’t sure how to explain it. Was it her—this body’s—power? Or something else?

I flexed my fingers, staring at my hands as they caught the faint glow of the firelight. It was starting to feel like the body left behind for me was more than just a shell—something strange that clung to me. 

I needed answers. I needed to know more about her, about this body, and what exactly it was hiding from me. Maybe there were remnants of her life left on the road somewhere—old belongings, journals, something that could tell me who she was before I stepped into her skin. But how could I go about it without raising suspicion? 

And did I even want to know? What if there was something worse lurking beneath the surface, something that would make my situation even more depressing than it already was?

There was one truth I could no longer avoid, though. Since arriving in this world, I'd refused to truly look at myself, terrified of seeing a stranger's face staring back. But I couldn't keep running from my own reflection.

Moving away from my companions and their quiet conversations, I approached the small mirror we'd acquired during our travels. My hands shook as I lit several candles, their flickering light dancing across the glass and finally, I let my gaze fall upon the reflection in front of me.

The woman gazing back was beautiful—and completely alien to me.

Her eyes were sharp, deep blue, glowing faintly in the dim light. They were intense, too intense—unsettling. They almost looked like they could see through me, into the very core of who I was. 

Piercing blue eyes seemed to glow with their own inner light, intense and unsettling in their depth. A small dark mark decorated the corner of my left eye, lending an elegant mystique to features too sharp and refined to be my own. Auburn hair fell in lustrous waves, catching the candlelight like burnished copper. But it was the pointed ears that delivered the final, devastating blow: I was no longer human. I wasn’t even close.

I raised a hand, touching the side of my face, feeling the warmth of the skin beneath my fingertips. This perfect, elven face belonged to someone else entirely. None of this was me.

The realization crashed over me like a storm, a sudden flood of reality that swept away any semblance of control. It felt as if the very ground had shifted beneath me, and the emotions I had suppressed for so long began to break free with a ferocity I couldn’t contain. Tears began to flow, first in small, shivering drops, then in torrents that shook my entire body. I sobbed, a desperate, uncontrolled outpouring of grief that seemed to have no end.

But alongside the sorrow came a deeper, more unsettling current. It began to manifest more vividly, twisting the emotional storm into a deep, dark sadness. My sobs grew into a guttural, mournful wail that seemed to resonate with an eerie energy. I clutched at my chest, trying to quell the rising tide of emotions, but they were relentless, overwhelming.  The ache within me felt like an abyss, pulling me deeper into a well of despair that I had no strength to escape. My breath came in ragged gasps, and every inhalation felt like it was drawing in more of the crushing weight.

As the shadows stretched around me, I heard footsteps—distant at first, then growing nearer. A gentle touch broke through, and suddenly, there was a presence beside me.

Shadowheart knelt down, her eyes wide with concern and confusion. She didn’t say a word; she simply wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a tight embrace. Her touch was tentative at first, but then it became more resolute, as if she was trying to anchor me, to keep me from being swallowed by my own grief.

Chapter Text

I couldn't tell if the tears had actually helped or simply left me empty. The crushing weight had lifted, but in its place was a numb hollowness that felt almost worse. Shadowheart remained beside me far longer than I'd anticipated, her quiet presence more stabilizing than any words could have been. She didn't rush to fill the silence with empty platitudes or false reassurances—that wasn't her nature.

When she finally spoke, her voice carried that familiar directness I'd come to appreciate.

“We all have our demons to wrestle with,” her gaze shifted momentarily to the candles, almost distant, before she looked back at me. “But surrendering to it—that's still a choice we make. And we currently don't have the luxury to do so.”

I felt her studying my reaction, though she didn't press further. No sugar-coating, no promises that everything would be fine—just her characteristic bluntness. In a way, it was comforting. Because I knew it was her way of being kind.

---

Dawn broke with soft pastels painting the sky, but the night's emotional toll clung to me like a shadow. Perched at our camp's edge, I watched the forest gradually come alive while my thoughts remained tangled in the previous evening's revelations. The intensity of my breakdown had caught me off guard—I'd known I was struggling, but the sheer force of that despair had been suffocating, like drowning in my own grief.

Fatigue weighed down my limbs, but I couldn't afford to indulge in self-pity. Too many dangers lay ahead, and wallowing would only make me a liability to the group. 

As I stretched my aching muscles and prepared to face the day, a flash of pale movement caught my attention. Astarion emerged from the shadows with that predatory grace of his, wearing his typical expression of amused superiority.

“My dear, you look positively dreadful,” he announced sarcastically.

I grimaced. Between my swollen eyes and general haggard appearance, I probably looked exactly as wrecked as I felt.

“It was a rough night, darling” I replied, my words coming out harsher than intended. “I'm really not up for your usual mockery right now.”

Something shifted in his expression—a brief crack in his usual detached amusement. “My, my. I wasn't planning anything particularly vicious,” he said, his tone surprisingly gentle. “You genuinely look terrible. And coming from someone who's technically been dead for two centuries, that's really saying something.”

He rummaged through his belongings and produced an elegant silver flask. “Here,” he offered with a sardonic smile. “You clearly need this more than I do. Consider it... charity work.”

I stared at the container skeptically. “Seriously, alcohol? It's barely past dawn.”

“Sometimes a little liquid courage is exactly what one needs to face another tedious day of heroics and moral hand-wringing,” he replied with a wink. “Not that I would know anything about either, naturally.”

After a moment's hesitation, I accepted the flask and took a cautious sip. The liquor burned going down but spread warmth through my chest, a tangible reminder that I was still among the living.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, my voice still rough from crying.

He waved dismissively, though the gesture lacked his usual dramatic flourish. “Don't go getting all weepy about it, darling. This was a moment of weakness on my part—I simply couldn't bear watching you look quite so pathetic,” The words sounded cruel, but kindness lingered in his eyes. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

Despite everything, I found myself smiling slightly. “Right. Can't have people thinking you care.”

“Precisely. The very idea is revolting,” he replied.

The crushing weight in my chest had eased just a little. Astarion's humor could be maddening, but in moments like these, his particular brand of care—wrapped in sarcasm and delivered with a grin—was exactly what I needed.

Chapter Text

Before we headed to the Blighted Village, I finally had the chance to change into my light armor. It was a relief, honestly. I couldn't believe I had been wearing that dress for days—though it wasn't like I had any other options. As I began to undress, something immediately caught my eye.

It was hard to miss.

Scars, pale and faded but unmistakable, crisscrossed my wrists. They were deep, deliberate, clean lines—far too precise to be accidental. No, this wasn’t the kind of harm people inflicted on themselves to cope. This was... final. The kind of action that left no room for second chances, no cries for help—unless someone intervened.

My breath hitched as my fingers traced over the ridges of the scar tissue. My gut clenched. Whoever she was, whatever struggles she had faced, this woman had reached a point so utterly devoid of hope that she had seen no other way out. A lump formed in my throat as questions swirled in my mind, questions I would likely never have answers to. Did someone find her in time? Did she change her mind at the last second? Did she scream for help, realizing too late what she’d done?

I felt an overwhelming wave of pity for her. I hoped—no, I wished—she had found some kind of peace in limbo. If nothing else, she deserved that much.

There was little time for grieving someone I didn’t even know, though. I shook off the thoughts, pulling the blouse over my head, its fabric scraping lightly against my skin.

The outfit I changed into felt strange. It was nothing like the soft, oversized clothes I used to wear during my late-night gaming sessions back home. This was practical, utilitarian, but still oddly detailed. The blouse was made of a dark, almost coarse fabric that clung to my form. A ruffled white collar framed my neck, a stark contrast to the ruggedness of the ensemble. Brass buttons fastened short sleeves, leaving my wrists exposed.

The scars would be visible now and I wondered if the others would notice. Would they say something? Or would they, like me, just accept that there are some things better left unspoken?

I tucked the blouse neatly into a pair of high-waisted pants, snug and reinforced with brown leather panels stitched across the thighs—sturdy, meant for travel and combat. Functional knee pads made of slightly dented brass completed the look. The whole ensemble seemed worn, as though it had seen its share of adventure.

I felt out of place in it. No matter how practical it was, I still felt like I was playing dress-up.

Before we left camp, Freya approached me, her usual confidence tempered by a rare moment of hesitation.

“Have you... seen anything about a Dream Guardian in your visions before?” she asked, her tone careful, as if probing for something I hadn’t yet shared.

I stifled a groan. The damn Emperor. In the game, he was important in the journey, ensuring the others were protected from turning illithid. Him being Balduran was also impressive, but I couldn’t shake my feelings about him. 

“I may have.” I answered, avoiding her gaze as I busied myself with tightening the laces on my armor. “But as you know, he's always there. Listening, seeing everything.” I glanced at her, my voice lowering. “I'll just say this: be careful.”

I mean sure, ultimately, his goal is a moral one. If he was purely selfish, he probably would have fled to the other side of the continent the moment he was free, instead of risking a fight with the Netherbrain. To some degree, the Emperor is altruistic. But, he’s also manipulative, callous, hypocritical, and generally a dick. When I freed Orpheus—justified or not—the Emperor had revealed his true colors. Siding with the Netherbrain was the ultimate betrayal. Fuck that guy.

I didn’t voice any of that, though. Freya didn’t need to know the whole story. Not yet, anyway. “Just... keep your wits about you, alright?”

Freya gave a reluctant nod, clearly unsatisfied with my vagueness, but we both knew there was no time to delve deeper into it now.

---

As we neared the bridge to the Blighted Village, a strange sight caught our attention. A boar—stone dead, yet strangely intact. Its body was drained, as though something had sucked the very life out of it.

“Strange,” Freya mused, crouching beside the animal. “It looks healthy. But it’s dead.”

I gave Astarion a side-eye, who was studying the scene with false interest. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

“The pig’s dead, my friend,” Astarion said, a casual shrug accompanying his words. “Staring at it won’t bring it back.”

As they finished their conversation, Freya managed to persuade the goblins guarding the village’s entrance up ahead to let us through without any bloodshed. But as we moved further into Blighted Village, my mind drifted back to Astarion and the dead boar. I wondered when, or if, I should tell Freya the truth. Interfering too soon might change things too much, and I had to be careful about how I altered these moments.

We continued our trek towards the windmill, navigating the crumbling ruins and strange, ominous atmosphere that seemed to cling to this part of the land. After a tense few minutes, we managed to rescue Barcus.

It wasn’t long before we found ourselves descending into that creepy, musty old basement of the apothecary. The air was thick with dust, the walls lined with relics of forgotten times, and at the center of it all... The Necromancy of Thay.

I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

The others weren’t exactly thrilled. In fact, most of them seemed downright horrified that I even suggested we keep the book. But I had Gale and Astarion on my side, and honestly, it felt like a good move. Who knew when we might need the extra power? More spells, and maybe, just maybe, the ability to summon a few ghouls if things got rough. It wasn’t exactly a democratic decision, but I held my ground, despite the suspicious looks from the others.

During our little exploration of the basement, I found the Scroll of Summon Quasit that I've been looking for. I was trilled and handed it over to Freya who seemed hesitant when I told her to use it. She eyed me, clearly unimpressed.

“Are you mad?” she asked, her eyebrow arching with the kind of skepticism only she could muster.

I could feel a grin spreading across my face as I clasped my hands together in mock pleading. “Pleaaaaase, Freya,” I begged, giving her the most exaggerated puppy-dog eyes I could manage. “Shovel is so much fun to have around. And she’s actually deeply loyal, I promise. Plus…” I raised a finger dramatically. “If she messes up, you can just dismiss her. Easy! I'm no sorceress, so only you can summon her.”

Freya sighed, rubbing her temples as if she was already regretting this conversation. “Ugh, fine. I’ll use the scribe later. But if she so much as looks at me wrong…”

I practically bounced on the spot. It might have been a little irresponsible of me, but who could resist? Shovel was a carefree, upbeat little fiend—one that found joy in the most chaotic of things: murder, arson... even eating babies. As horrible as that sounds, there was something absurdly charming about her. She was goofy, weirdly delightful in her wickedness, and—underneath it all—more than a little tragic. Ilyn Toth, the necromancer who had originally owned her, had been cruel and neglectful. He didn’t just forget to feed her—he’d verbally and physically abused her too, treating her like little more than an afterthought. Maybe that’s why I had such a soft spot for creatures like her. Shovel wasn’t just a fiend—she was someone (or something?) who had been mistreated and yet still found joy in the chaos she created. Who was I to deny her a chance to live a little?

By the time we left the alchemist’s lair, the sky had already begun to shift, the sun setting low on the horizon. Hues of deep orange and red streaked across the clouds, turning the landscape into something almost dreamlike. For a brief moment, everything felt strangely still, like the wind had stopped blowing and the world was holding its breath.

Then, a sudden wave of heat washed over me—a strange, uncomfortable sensation that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The breeze had stilled, and yet, it felt like the air had thickened, pressing down with an intensity that made it hard to shake the feeling that something—some presence—was watching us.

I glanced around at the others, wondering if they felt it too. But if they did, they gave no sign. Yet something had shifted, even if I couldn’t quite place what it was.

“My, my, what manner of place is this? A path to redemption, or a road to damnation? Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning.”

Chapter Text

Raphael.

I remembered the first time I saw him in the game—cloaked in a perfectly tailored human disguise, his features almost too refined, too perfect. His dark hair swept back like it was sculpted to the contours of his skull, framing a face that could have belonged to any highborn noble. At first glance, he seemed almost ordinary, good-looking in that aristocratic way, with just a faint hint of something... off. Something too polished, like a portrait that never quite came to life.

But now, standing it front of him, there was the skin. Faintly red. Barely noticeable, like an illusion just beginning to crack. One might overlook it at first, dismiss it as a trick of the light. But the longer I stared, the more unsettling it became. The closer I got to him, the more the edges of his form seemed to blur between what was real and what was... fiendish.

Of course, that was just a mask. His real self was far more disturbing. And far more dangerous.

The moment he catapulted us into his "dining hall", he shed the human façade, the transformation was nothing short of horrifying. His skin deepened into a vivid, burning red that made his previous appearance seem almost laughable. And those horns—thick, twisted things, like the jagged ornamentation of a demonic crown—curved dramatically from his skull. They weren’t just decorative, though; they were a warning, a reminder of the power he wielded and the malevolence that coursed through him. His wings, leathery and bat-like, stretched wide, their membranes pulled taut like the sails of some cursed vessel, ready to take him aloft into the air—above us all, looking down with that same insufferable arrogance. His yellow eyes glowing like embers from the deep pits of his skulls, as he moved with an eerie grace, each step resonating with the power of someone who knew the Hells had molded him into a weapon.

There was something almost theatrical about him, too. He reveled in it. The horror. The spectacle. He didn’t just want to frighten or dominate—he wanted to perform, to create a grand scene in which he was always the star. Raphael’s love for the dramatic was obvious in the way he spoke, his words flowing like the verses of some twisted poem, each sentence carefully crafted to entice, to manipulate. He was always aware of his audience, savoring every reaction like it was a fine wine.

Despite the horror, there was a twisted charm to it all. It wasn’t just his power that made him dangerous—it was the way he could ensnare you, draw you into his web with honeyed words before he revealed the poison behind them. Cunning and manipulative to the core, Raphael played with lives like they were pieces on a chessboard, tormenting those who thought they could outwit him. And gods, how he loved it. His smug grin, the arrogance that dripped from every gesture, every word—it was like he believed himself untouchable, that the Hells themselves revolved around him.

I couldn't wait to kill this bastard. 

“You're mad if you think I'll make a deal with a devil,” Freya declared, crossing her arms with finality, her voice edged with defiance.

Raphael's lips curled into a devilish smile. “Oh, by all means, try to cure yourself. Shop around. Beg, borrow, steal—exhaust every possibility until none remain.” His tone was almost playful, like a cat toying with its prey. “And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair—that's when you'll come knocking on my door.”

He shifted his weight, a low laugh bubbling from his chest. “Hope. Hahah! What a tease.” The word itself seemed to mock. His reference stung, especially after knowing what we would find in his twisted "House of Hope" later down the road—that poor, shattered woman who had been driven mad by years of torment, both physical and psychological.

Lae'zel growled, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. “I will rip out your mocking tongue.” she hissed, venom lacing every word.

But Raphael merely shrugged, immune to the threat, as though he found her rage... amusing.

The exchange continued for a few more tense moments, and then, with a simple snap of his fingers, the others vanished. Just like that. One blink they were there, the next, I was alone. I felt my stomach drop, panic flaring briefly before I forced it down. I couldn't let him see that.

Raphael took his time, his smile widening as his form shifted back into his human disguise. He began to circle me, his eyes trailing over me with a disgusting, predatory amusement. “Don't worry, my dear. The others won’t even notice you’re gone. I have something... private to discuss with you.”

His voice slid over me with a dark promise. I held my ground, even though my heart pounded in my chest. “What do you want, Raphael?” I forced confidence into my tone, but I could feel the cracks in it, betraying the uncertainty simmering underneath.

“You see, I know things. Important things about that body you now wear like a second skin.”, he said, his voice carrying a silken, dangerous quality.

I stiffened, forcing myself to maintain a neutral expression. “You don’t know anything about me,” I retorted, though my voice wavered.

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound low and almost affectionate, as though he were speaking to a particularly naive child. “Don’t I? Do you think I’d bother with you otherwise? Oh, darling, I’ve known more about you than you’ve ever known about yourself. About her.”

The words were like daggers, each syllable driving deeper into my uncertainty. He knew. He knew something about the woman whose body I had taken—secrets I didn’t even know, and that was terrifying. My heart raced, and the illusion of control I’d been clinging to began to unravel in his presence.

Raphael stepped closer, lowering his voice, almost conspiratorial. “That body of yours—its previous owner, she was more… important than you could ever imagine. A fate interwoven with power, tragedy, and darkness. I could tell you more, much more… but, of course, I’d need something in return.”

“And what do you want in return?” I asked, the bitterness in my tone barely masking the growing knot of dread in my stomach.

“Ah, a fair trade, naturally. Information is a valuable currency, especially in a place like here.” Raphael mused, his lips curling into a grin. “But I’m not asking for much, really. Just a small favor.” He leaned in closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Lead your merry little band into a particular... arrangement. Nothing too dangerous—well, for you, anyway.”

I frowned, my thoughts racing. “A trap?”

“A trap? Such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as a... mutually beneficial situation. You help me, I help you. And in return, you’ll learn everything about that woman whose life you’ve taken. Perhaps the knowledge will even help you escape this mess you're in, hmm? The choice is yours.” His smile widened, wolfish and smug.

Could I trust him? Of course not. I needed to do everything in my power to unravel the mysteries myself. Taking a deal from Raphael comes with a cost I was not willing to pay.  But could I afford not to take the offer, when down the road I was at a dead end?

His voice broke through my internal turmoil. “Tick tock, darling. Opportunities like this don’t come around often.”

I clenched my fists, my thoughts spiraling. To betray the others, to risk their safety for my own selfish need for answers? I desperately clung on my on beliefs that I'd never do something cruel like that. 

Chapter Text

Man, was I tired. After everything that had happened today, what kept me going wasn’t just picking up Scratch along the road, though the sight of that good boy did wonders for my mood. No, it was the fact that I was about to meet her. Karlach.

Karlach was a living bonfire—a blaze of heat and passion you could feel before she even spoke. When I first laid eyes on her, I swear it was like a burst of flame igniting the space around her. Fiery, untamed crimson hair spilled down her back, looking more like a wild inferno than anything you’d see in a formal setting. But that hair—those sparks in her eyes—they weren’t just for show. She was raw energy, burning so brightly it felt impossible to contain. And gods, was that energy infectious.

“She’s trying to trick us—don’t believe her lies!” Wyll’s voice boomed as he gripped his weapon, casting a hard glare at Karlach.

Without thinking, I stepped between them, arms spread wide. “Wyll, goddammit, hear her out!”

I felt the tension snap through me like a bowstring, my eyes locking with his, pleading silently. He didn’t know what I knew. He didn’t feel the same overwhelming sense of attachment that had been building in me since I first heard Karlach’s story, before I even knew I’d be face-to-face with her one day. All those hours playing BG3, watching her endure the pain and betrayal, feeling her rage and vulnerability seep through the screen... That bond didn’t disappear just because I was here now, in this strange reality.

Freya’s eyes caught mine. I had already filled her in on Karlach, letting her know what was at stake. She didn’t need to say much—she could feel my desperation. But still, it felt like I was the only one who could stand here, trying to shield Karlach from Wyll’s misinformed wrath.

Karlach stood tall behind me, an undeniable presence of strength. But there was more to her than her imposing stature. Despite the scars marking her body like battle trophies and the mechanical heart thrumming under her skin, she had a vulnerability that was easy to miss if you didn’t look close enough. She was a fighter, sure, but she cared—deeply. About life. About people. About the chance to live in a world where she wasn’t constantly hunted or betrayed.

Freya finally spoke, her voice calm but firm. “Stand down, Wyll. You saw what I saw.”

Wyll cursed under his breath but reluctantly lowered his weapon, stepping back. Relief rushed through me, like a wave breaking against the shore. I breathed deep, letting the tension ease from my shoulders. The others could talk things out now, but me? I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Karlach, standing here, right in front of me. Not pixels, not dialogue boxes—her. Flesh and blood.

Gods, she was built like a fortress. Muscles rippled beneath her scarred skin, the kind of strength you earn through countless battles, surviving what others couldn’t. But what really hit me wasn’t just her strength, her imposing presence—it was how she lived. Everything she did, from cracking jokes to talking about food, was full-throttle. Like she was experiencing the world for the first time, tasting everything it had to offer, one overwhelming sensation after another.

She was alive in every sense of the word, and it was impossible not to get swept up in it. That joy, that relentless zest for life—it was contagious. I found myself smiling without even realizing it as we agreed to help her hunt down those fake paladins. This was Karlach. The same Karlach I’d defended with everything I had in the game, and now? Now I had the chance to stand by her side for real.

As we made our way up the road, her deep, gravelly voice cut through the air. “Hey, I don’t know why you did what you did down there, standing between me and ol’ Wyll, but… thanks for sticking your neck out for me.”

I glanced over at her, unable to hide the grin spreading across my face. “It’s the least I could do. Besides, someone has to look out for you.”

She barked a laugh, the sound like a crackling fire. “Looking out for me? That's a first.”

Her smile was full of warmth, a rare kind of brightness that flickered, even amidst the pain she carried with her. Beneath her hardened exterior, there was a softness there, buried deep under years of betrayal and loneliness. She hadn’t had a friend in a long time—let alone someone willing to step in for her, to believe in her even when the world seemed to have given up.

Karlach wasn’t just a fighter or a survivor. She was someone who loved life, who threw herself headfirst into every moment, savoring it for what it was. It didn’t matter if she was facing down enemies or tossing back a drink; she lived for it all. Even as I stood there, watching her laugh about some ridiculous, trivial thing, I felt a flicker of warmth in my own chest. Like maybe, just maybe, that fire of hers had the power to heal more than just herself.

Chapter Text

Evening had painted the heavens in shades of purple and gold, though the throbbing ache in my shoulder commanded far more attention than any scenic beauty.

“Perhaps next time you'll pay closer attention to what's happening around you,” Gale remarked, his voice low.

I glared at him with undisguised annoyance, my temper flaring alongside the pain that made me flinch. “Ouch!” The hiss escaped my lips as Freya's careful fingers worked a healing salve into my scorched flesh, the battle's aftermath still wreaking havoc on my body.

Freya's features gentled as she continued her ministrations, though her hands never paused in their steady work. “Sorry,” she muttered, but I could tell her mind was already elsewhere. “Shadowheart’s tending to the others. Once she’s done, she’ll take care of this properly.”

I offered her a small, tight nod of thanks, trying to keep my focus away from the throb of the wound and onto the camp around me. We had survived another fight—those "paladins" we had fought were nothing but scum. 

After Shadowheart worked her healing magic, the agony melted away in moments, succeeded by a gentle warmth that made my eyes grow drowsy. I burrowed into my sleeping roll, fatigue pulling me downward, and consciousness abandoned me swiftly.

Sleep came profound and empty—the sort that envelops you completely, peaceful and motionless. Yet it proved brief. A sound, subtle yet piercing, shocked me back to awareness. Something had occurred directly beside my head, close enough to make every nerve ending stand alert.

I opened my eyes in confusion, then spotted something gleaming—a glimpse of ivory in the blackness. Pointed teeth.

“Shit.”

I scrambled upright, heart racing as adrenaline surged through my veins. The figure crouched near me was all too familiar—Astarion, his pale face mere inches from mine, his mouth slightly parted, exposing sharp, gleaming teeth. His eyes were wide, caught between guilt and desperation.

“What the fuck?” I muttered, still rubbing the grogginess from my eyes. My pulse thundered in my skull while my mind raced to process the scene before me.

He retreated somewhat, palms raised defensively, panic dancing across his face. “I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed—well, blood.”

Astarion's throat worked as he swallowed hard. I remained silent.

“It’s not what you think—I’m not some monster.” he started again, his voice shaking, his appeal nearly frantic, as though he expected me to cut him down without hesitation.

I focused on his face; that ghostly complexion, those hollow eyes dark with need. Still, beneath all that desperation, something about him seemed... needy. Exposed in ways I hadn't witnessed before. My stomach clenched with an emotion that wasn't quite sympathy, but something similar.

"I know." I replied, almost carelessly, the words emerging before I could consider them.

Astarion's eyes grew wide, authentic bewilderment washing over his features. He appeared stunned, completely caught off guard by my reaction.

I let out a slow breath, glancing toward the others. Freya was still asleep by the fire, her figure curled under her cloak. 

“First of all,” I murmured, facing Astarion again, “lower your voice. You’re going to wake everyone up.”

He stared at me blankly, still processing. His typical self-assurance wavered, giving way to something tentative. “Wait... you knew?”

I arched an eyebrow, folding my arms. “It’s actually pretty obvious if you connect two and two together.” I gestured toward his mouth. “The fangs, the biting marks, the red eyes. I'm not exactly blind.”

He studied me for an extended moment, his expression impossible to read, before a slow, incredulous grin spread across his face. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises?”

I rolled my eyes. “Now, are you going to explain why you were about to use me as your midnight snack?”

Astarion’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “You're my favorite of the group. I found myself strangely attracted to your particular essence.”

I recognized this as his standard manipulative charm. I wasn't truly his favorite—he simply had none. He trusted nobody. He probably thought I was the easiest prey. Defenseless. With no fighting skills or whatsoever. That hurt my pride. 

“I could have killed you, you know.”  I said quietly, my tone playful though my heart continued racing.

Astarion's smile broadened, his charm sliding back into position, though I could still detect the tension in his bearing, the rigidity in his frame. “Oh, darling, I doubt it. I’ve faced far worse than a slightly miffed woman in the dark.”

His usual swagger was present, but it rang hollow tonight. Like a facade he could barely maintain.

"Uh-huh." I raised an eyebrow, noticing how his gaze lingered too long on the pulse at my throat. “You’re starving.”

The quiet stretched between us, broken only by the soft crackling of our fire. Astarion's attention flickered from my eyes to my neck, his hunger hanging in the atmosphere like something almost solid, pressing down on both of us.. 

"Starving is a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”  His manner was lighthearted, but his voice trembled, revealing the reality. He was starving—desperately so.

I should have felt terror. I should have been enraged. Instead, an odd tranquility descended over me, a sort of unsettling clarity that cut through the moment's confusion. I could sense the force of his desperation, the craving he fought to contain. The way his hands twitched slightly, as if resisting some primal urge.

More importantly, I could truly see him—a glimpse of his authentic self. The charming facade he used to maintain distance from others, all of it stripped away. What remained was raw, almost mortal in its vulnerability.

“And here I thought you loved a bit of drama.” I teased, even as my pulse quickened. I tried to lighten the situation. My gaze flickered to his lips, slightly parted, fangs just barely visible in the moonlight.

“Caught me.” he murmured, his voice a velvet purr.  His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as if trying to fight against the gnawing hunger inside him. 

A thousand possibilities flooded my thoughts. I understood the risk. I knew this could end catastrophically. But... it wasn't solely about danger. Part of me, the part still adjusting to this world's reality, wanted to discover how far this could progress. How authentic it might become.

I exhaled slowly, my heart pounding in my chest as I made a choice.

“Then take it.” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Astarion's eyes flew to mine, wide with shock, his composure crumbling. “What?” he gasped, as though he'd misheard.

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. “Take what you need. I’m offering. But not a drop more.”

His lips compressed into a tight line, his shoulders tense. He remained motionless, but his eyes—those red, haunted eyes—locked with mine, as if seeking any trace of uncertainty.

He took a step closer, his hand lifting as if to touch me, but he stopped just short. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

The words were intended as a warning, but carried a hint of temptation. He was testing me, gauging how far I'd permit him to go. Classic Astarion. Always pushing limits.

But I wasn't some naive victim. I knew precisely what he was attempting. His breathing hitched, eyes narrowing slightly, trying to decipher my intentions.

He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against my wrist, a featherlight touch that sent a shiver down my spine. “Are you sure?” His voice was a whisper, hoarse and uncertain.

I hesitated only for a heartbeat before nodding. “Yes. Just try not to make a mess of it.”

His lips twitched, but the tension in his jaw was undeniable, along with the way his hands shook slightly as he drew nearer. “You do know how to tempt a man, don’t you?”

Before I could reply, his mouth was at my neck, his breath warm against my skin. He hesitated, hovering just above my pulse point, the anticipation making my flesh tingle.

I could feel the intensity of his need, the hunger clawing at him, and yet... he waited. For my consent. For that final permission.

I angled my head slightly, exposing my throat a bit more.

“Go on, then. Just... try not to drain me dry, yeah?”

Astarion released a soft, almost desperate laugh, and before I could speak again, his fangs pierced my skin.

The sensation was keen, sudden, but not as agonizing as I'd anticipated. There was an unusual heat to it, a pull that transcended the physical. It felt as though I could sense his need through the bite, the raw hunger he struggled so hard to conceal.

He groaned against my neck, the sound sending a shock through me as his grip on my wrist intensified. For a moment, reality seemed to shift, everything narrowing to just this—the bite, the warmth of his mouth, the steady draw of blood. It was intimate in ways I hadn't expected. It felt like surrendering to something primitive, something dangerous, and yet... something strangely magnificent.

After a few long, charged moments, Astarion pulled back with a gasp, his lips red with my blood, his eyes wide and... haunted. 

I pressed a palm to my neck, feeling the sting of the wound, but it was already beginning to clot. The world swayed slightly, my head light from blood loss.

“Easy, darling.” he whispered, wiping the blood from his lips with the back of his hand. “You should rest.”

I sank back onto my bedroll, propping myself on my elbows. “Please, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were concerned.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smirk was back. “Concerned? Hardly. Simply impressed by your reckless foolishness.”

“Glad to know I made an impression,” I countered with a grin.

Astarion laughed, but there was a gentleness to it now, the tension that had been building between us slowly dissolving. For a moment, we were simply two people in the night's quiet, the fire crackling softly between us, our shared secret suspended in the air.

As he departed, his words lingered in the atmosphere: "This is a gift, you know. I won't forget it."

Chapter Text

“Wait, Astarion’s a vampire?!” Karlach’s voice rang out, far too loud for my ears, sending a spike of pain straight through my skull. It felt like someone was hammering inside my head. Every word, every noise grated against me like nails on a chalkboard.

I groaned, sitting up slowly, feeling the world spin around me. Lightheaded. Weak. It was like the worst hangover of my life. My limbs felt like lead, and my throat was drier than a desert.

Karlach’s shrill voice wasn’t helping.

“And you just—what, let him snack on you like some midnight treat?” Gale's disbelief echoed around the camp, drawing the attention of the others. Shadowheart glanced up from her gear, arching a brow but staying silent, while the others gathered around.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the pressure behind my eyes throb. “Yeah, well, now you know.” I mumbled, trying to ignore the swirling nausea in my gut. “I let him have a nibble because he asked. You guys want to discuss it further, take it up with him.”

Astarion, who had been lounging a few feet away, cleaning his nails with a dagger, looked up with a lazy smirk. “A nibble,” he repeated, amusement lacing his tone. “How charmingly understated.”

I stood abruptly, swaying a little on my feet but managing to steady myself. “I need to get ready.” I said, my voice firmer, though the fatigue weighed me down.

Without waiting for a response, I left the camp behind, ignoring the raised voices and the curious looks of my companions. I needed space. I needed to breathe. My mind was still a haze, the world slightly out of focus, as if everything was tilting just a little too far to the side. I couldn’t deal with moral dilemmas right now. Not when my own body felt like it was barely keeping it together.

I stumbled to the edge of the camp, finding a patch of shade beneath a gnarled old tree. Its roots twisted out of the earth like jagged bones, and I leaned against the bark, letting the rough surface ground me. The cool breeze helped soothe the heat flushing through my skin, and I closed my eyes, trying to calm the buzzing in my head.

What the hell was I thinking? Letting a vampire feed on me like it was nothing. I pressed a hand to my neck, feeling the faint throb of where his fangs had sunk into my skin. It didn’t hurt anymore, not physically. 

Astarion—he’d been so careful. The way his voice softened, how his usual cocky demeanor faltered for just a second. It was almost like I’d glimpsed a side of him no one else got to see. But that’s just it. It was manipulation, wasn’t it? I wasn’t stupid. I knew he was playing me, keeping me close because it suited him for now. Still, something gnawed at me. Maybe it was the exhaustion talking, but it wasn’t as simple as I wanted it to be.

I leaned my head back against the tree and exhaled slowly. There was no time to untangle all of this right now. We had places to be, and staying still too long wasn’t an option. Waukeen’s Rest was next on the map.

“Alright, focus.” I muttered to myself, blinking the fatigue away.

The others had started packing up camp. Karlach was still murmuring something to Astarion—though he, in typical fashion, looked entirely too amused by her outrage—and Shadowheart was gathering her things in quiet efficiency. Gale had already extinguished the fire with a flick of his wrist, Wyll helped collecting our things, Lae'zel was nowhere to be seen and Freya... Freya was watching me.

She didn’t say anything, just caught my eye with a soft, questioning look, as if silently asking if I was alright. I gave her a small nod, forcing a weak smile. I didn’t know if she believed it, but she let it slide, turning back to help with the last of the supplies.

I wandered back toward the group, feeling a little more stable now that the dizziness had eased. My head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton, but I could push through it.

“We’re heading to Waukeen’s Rest next, right?” I asked, mostly to change the subject from... well, me. Anything to distract from the vampire bite fiasco.

Gale glanced over, adjusting his pack. “That’s the plan, assuming we don’t run into any more unpleasant surprises along the way. But knowing our luck...”

“Don't jinx it.” Shadowheart cut in, rolling her eyes. “We have enough to deal with.”

---

He fucking jinxed it.

“Florrick, no!”

Wyll’s voice cracked as he fell to his knees beside her charred body, his hands trembling as they hovered above the lifeless form. The air around us was thick with the stench of burnt wood, ash, and death. He clenched his fists, biting down on his lip to keep the tears from spilling over, but the anguish in his eyes was impossible to miss.

She was dead. Really, truly dead.

I stared at the scene, my mind scrambling to catch up. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. I had told Freya about her—how important she was, how we had to save her. It was supposed to be a rescue mission, not... this.

Were we too late? My heart pounded in my chest as the reality settled in. I felt the edges of panic creep in. What if this is my fault?

Lae'zel surveyed the destruction around us, the embers still glowing in the wreckage of Waukeen’s Rest. Shadowheart stood a few paces away, her face a carefully constructed mask of indifference, though I could see the tension in her posture. Even Astarion had gone quiet, his gaze flicking between Wyll and Florrick’s body, his expression unreadable.

And then there was me—staring blankly at the aftermath, my mind spinning. Should I tell Wyll about his dad? What if this mess spirals into something worse?

“I'm so sorry Wyll.” I heard Karlach say, kneeling down to Wyll as well. 

Freya nudged me gently, breaking my spiral of thoughts. I glanced down at her, noticing the worry etched on her face. She gestured for me to step aside, clearly wanting to talk.

“Didn’t you say we’d rescue her from the fire?” Her voice was low, cautious, as if she didn’t want to add to the weight of the moment. “Was your vision wrong?”

I blinked, trying to form a coherent response as my mouth went dry. How was I supposed to explain this? How was I supposed to make sense of what hadn’t happened?

“I—” My voice cracked slightly, and I cleared my throat, trying to steady myself. I needed to keep it together. “We should have been able to save her.” The words felt hollow, like a false promise. I let out a breath, my frustration and guilt bubbling beneath the surface. “I guess... I guess we were a day late. Another possibility of the future played out.”

Freya’s expression softened, but there was something distant in her eyes, as if she was trying to piece together how things had gone so wrong. She stayed quiet, lost in thought. I knew she wasn’t blaming me—at least not directly—but that didn’t ease the weight pressing down on my chest.

The crackle of dying embers filled the silence between us, and I could still hear Wyll’s ragged breathing as he knelt by Florrick’s body. He wasn’t crying. Not outwardly, at least. But the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched at nothing—he was barely holding it together. I didn’t know if it was my place to say anything to him now. I didn’t even know if it would help.

I could hear Karlach muttering to herself, her fists clenched in frustration. Her eyes were burning with anger, her usual fire more literal than figurative now. She glanced at Wyll, then at us, as if waiting for someone to say something that could make any of this make sense.

“We're going to murder those goblins, Wyll.”, she said.

Shadowheart stepped closer, her voice cool and measured. “We can’t stay here. The flames are dying, but this place... it’s not safe anymore.”

Wyll finally stood, his face set in a grim expression, though there was a storm raging behind his eyes. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. His silence spoke volumes. He gave one last look at Florrick, his hand hovering over her as if trying to say a final goodbye without words, and then he turned away.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, and started walking ahead, leading us away from the burning wreckage.

Chapter Text

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Freya asked, tilting her head, skepticism lacing her tone.

“We could use the extra supplies. Stacking up on gold, new weapons, maybe even a bit of armor—it makes sense.” I shrugged, keeping my tone casual but focused. “We just need to be careful. The Zhentarim aren’t exactly known for their hospitality.”

Freya narrowed her eyes, chewing over my words. She didn’t say anything, but I could see the wariness in her posture. Still, we both knew this was a risk we had to take. The Zhentarim basement held more than just coin; if my memory served me right, there was valuable loot down there. Dangerous to retrieve, sure, but useful? Definitely.

And gods know, we’d need every advantage we could get.

We persuaded Salazon, the gatekeeper in the barn’s, to hand over the key. I didn’t miss the way his eyes darted nervously between us, like he was already regretting his decision. But once we stepped inside the barn, it all seemed so ordinary—just rows of barrels, dusty crates stacked in careless heaps, and the faint smell of hay. At the back, though, was the real reason we came.

A narrow wardrobe stood flush against the wall, half-hidden behind crates. It looked unremarkable at first glance, but I knew better. I gestured toward it with a tilt of my chin. 

“Through there,” I whispered, as if even speaking too loudly would alert someone to our presence.

The stone stairs descended into darkness, the sound of our boots scraping against the cold steps echoing louder than I would have liked. The temperature dropped noticeably as we went further down, the air turning damp and thick. Torchlight flickered on the rough stone walls, casting jagged shadows that danced eerily in the corners of my vision. Something about this place made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Maybe it was the silence, or maybe it was the scent—musty with the underlying tang of blood and sweat. 

We reached the deeper part of the hideout, where the atmosphere became even more oppressive. Zarys, the Zhentarim leader, stood with her arms crossed, her gaze hard and cold as she surveyed us. She threatened to kill us on the spot, but Freya, ever calm and composed, talked her down. I still didn’t know what exactly she said to sway Zarys, but it worked. Zarys agreed to speak with us later, instructing us to meet her back upstairs. For now, we moved deeper into the hideout, our eyes scanning for any opportunity.

That’s when we stumbled upon Oskar.

He was slumped against a stone wall, his wrists bound, his body bruised and filthy. His clothes hung in tatters, his face bruised and swollen, and he looked like he’d spent days, maybe even weeks, in captivity. His eyes were half-closed, but when he heard the sound of our boots, his head snapped up. His gaze, bleary at first, sharpened as his eyes landed on me. 

Before I could get closer, Brem stepped in, sneering at us.

“Well, don’t you cut a fine figure,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he looked me up and down. “Want your portrait done? If you’ve got the gold, my pet artist here will make you look most heroic.”

I barely heard him. Oskar was staring at me with such intensity it made my skin prickle. His lips moved as though he were trying to form words, but no sound came out at first. I felt Astarion lean in close behind me, his voice low and teasing in my ear.

“Looks like you’ve got an admirer, darling.”

I shot him a look, but followed his gaze back to Oskar, who was still watching me like his life depended on it. His lips moved silently at first, as if he were struggling to get the words out. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse but certain.

“Lady Penelope?” His voice cracked, disbelief lacing every word. “Is it… is it really you?”

Penelope?

Freya’s eyes flicked to mine, her brow furrowing in confusion, but I could see the sharpness there too—she was waiting for me to decide how to play this. She could tell this moment was more than just a misunderstanding. 

My heart picked up its pace, pounding harder in my chest. Could Oskar truly know the original owner of this body? The thought curled through my mind like a serpent, twisting itself into knots I couldn’t ignore. Was this finally the thread that would unravel the mystery? Hope and fear collided inside me, a chaotic swirl of emotions I couldn’t quite keep down. If Oskar could offer me a glimpse into "Penelope’s" past, if he could help me understand how I came to be here... what would that mean for me? 

Freya leaned close, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Play along,” she murmured, just loud enough for me to catch. “Let’s see where this leads.”

I nodded, more out of instinct than thought, before turning back to Oskar with a neutral expression. But before I could say anything, Brem cut in, sneering once again.

“Hey, no small talk with the painter. You either pay for a portrait, or, if you’re that eager to talk to him, you buy him.”

“Buy him?” Karlach’s voice boomed from behind, incredulous and outraged. “What—like some kind of slave?” Her snort echoed through the room, but I forced myself to stay focused.

I clenched my jaw, ignoring the flash of irritation that spiked through me. This wasn’t the time for arguments. My mind was spinning, racing with too many thoughts at once, but one thing was clear: I needed to speak to Oskar. I had to know what he knew. If he recognized me—or rather, her—there was a chance he held answers I hadn’t even thought to ask yet. And I couldn’t walk away from that possibility. Not now.

I turned to Freya, feeling a knot of urgency tightening in my gut. “Please,” I began, my voice low but urgent. “I need to know what he has to say.”

Freya’s eyes softened, and she placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. That small gesture, the quiet understanding between us, did more to calm my nerves than anything else could’ve in that moment. “Of course,” she said gently, with that same steady calm she always exuded.

Then she turned to Brem, her expression hardening. “How much,” she asked coldly, “do you want for him?”

“10,000 gold.” Brem replied, a sickening grin spreading across his face. The number hit like a slap—completely outrageous.

“That’s way too expensive!” I couldn’t help the protest that burst from my lips. We didn’t have anywhere near that much gold.

I thought briefly of trying to persuade him. It had worked before, after all. By now, I was beginning to realize that something was going on when I did it—like I was compelling people. But before I could act, Freya had a different idea.

“Let’s talk to Zarys,” she said smoothly, crossing her arms. “We might be able to strike a deal.”

Chapter Text

Freya walked beside me, her expression cool and calculated. I knew that look; she was already thinking ahead, mapping out the next move before we even reached Zarys. That was one of the things I appreciated about her—she didn’t waste time on uncertainty when there was an opportunity to be seized. And right now, Oskar was our opportunity. We just needed to find the right leverage. And I had one.

“Tell her that you know about the missing shipment.” I whispered to Freya.

“Missing shipment?”

“Just, trust me on this one.”

As we approached the higher area, the flickering torchlight grew brighter. Zarys was waiting for us—no doubt impatient. I could feel the weight of her scrutiny the moment we approached.

The leader of the Zhentarim stood at the far end, arms crossed, her eyes cutting through the shadows. She was every bit as imposing as the first time we met, her posture rigid with an air of barely contained danger. A smattering of her people were gathered around, eyes glinting with curiosity, but none of them made a sound as we approached.

Freya, ever composed, was the first to speak. “Zarys,” she began, her voice steady, “we’ve run into an... unexpected complication.”

Zarys raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Complication? That doesn’t sound like my problem.”

“Not yet,” Freya countered smoothly, her tone calm but deliberate. “But it could be. You’ve got a shipment that’s missing, don’t you?”

At that, Zarys’s eyes narrowed. The room felt like it went still, all eyes snapping toward us. Freya had struck a nerve, and that was exactly what she’d been aiming for.

“How do you know about that?” Zarys asked, her voice low, suspicious.

Freya shrugged lightly, unfazed by the sudden tension in the room. “Word travels. We hear things.”

The others of the group exchanged confused looks with each other. They probably wondered where Freya got that information from.

Zarys said nothing, but the look in her eyes shifted—calculating now, sizing us up. Freya stepped forward, her gaze locked with Zarys’s, and this time, she didn’t hesitate.

“We’ll make you a deal,” Freya said, her voice firm. “We find your missing shipment and bring it back to you. In return, you let us take Oskar off your hands.”

Zarys’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smirk, though her eyes remained hard. “Oskar?” she repeated, as if the name were a curiosity. “The painter? What could you possibly want with him?”

I could feel her eyes drifting to me for the briefest moment, but I kept my expression neutral. No need to show her the desperation simmering under the surface.

Freya, sensing the shift in Zarys’s mood, pressed on. “That’s our concern, not yours. You get your shipment back, and you don’t lose anything of value. Oskar’s hardly worth the trouble, but your cargo? Now that’s something I’m sure you’d prefer not to lose.”

Zarys’s gaze lingered on Freya, then me, before she finally uncrossed her arms and took a step forward. The air felt heavier, like a storm about to break.

“And what makes you think you can find my shipment when none of my people have been able to?” Zarys asked, her voice like steel.

Freya didn’t blink. “We have our ways.”

For a long moment, Zarys said nothing. The silence stretched on, thick with tension, as the room waited for her decision. Then, finally, she exhaled, a sharp breath that broke the stillness.

“Fine,” Zarys said, her tone clipped. “You bring me the shipment, and the painter is yours. But,” she added, her eyes narrowing dangerously, “fail, and there will be consequences.”

Freya nodded, her expression as calm as ever. “We won’t fail.”

With that, she turned and strode toward the back of the room, leaving the rest of her men to eye us warily. As we turned to leave the hideout, I caught Freya’s eye. She gave me a small, knowing nod, a silent reassurance. We had what we needed. Now we just had to deliver.

---

As soon as we stepped out of the Zhentarim hideout and back into the open air, the tension that had been simmering inside exploded into the cold breeze of the evening. The murmur of distant birds was the only sound that filled the silence as the door closed behind us. But I could feel the weight of their eyes on me—questions unspoken, but not for long.

Lae'zel was the first to break the quiet, her voice sharp and unforgiving. “This is foolishness,” she growled, crossing her arms over her chest as she glared in Freya’s direction. “A shipment for a worthless artist? There’s no glory in rescuing weaklings. He is nothing but a liability.”

Shadowheart stepped forward, nodding in agreement, her brow furrowed. “I hate to agree with Lae’zel, but she has a point. Whatever history this Oskar has, it doesn’t concern us. He’s hardly worth risking our necks. Why not focus on finding something more valuable—something that could actually help us?” Her voice was calm, but there was a cool detachment to her tone.

Freya didn’t flinch at their criticisms, but I could feel her eyes subtly flicking toward me, waiting for my response. This had been my call, after all.

Karlach, arms akimbo, let out a small, frustrated sigh, shaking her head. “Come on, it’s not that simple,” she said, her gravelly voice softened with concern. “We’re not heartless. Oskar’s been through hell, clearly. We can’t just leave him to rot down here, no matter what he’s worth to Zarys.”

Wyll nodded, his expression grim but resolute. “She’s right,” he said. “There’s a line between doing what’s tactical and doing what’s right. Leaving a man to suffer just because it doesn’t seem like the best use of our time? That’s not right.”

Even though Karlach and Wyll stood on my side, I could feel their hesitation. Wyll glanced at me, concern creeping into his eyes. “But… Artemis,” he began carefully, “you seem particularly set on getting Oskar out of there. I know it’s the right thing to do, but... it feels like there’s more to this than just a good deed.”

Karlach nodded. “Yeah, Wyll’s got a point. We’re all wondering… why him? And why now? He called you by another name, and you didn’t correct him. What’s going on?”

I could feel all of them waiting for my answer, the weight of their stares pressing down on me. Even those who remained silent—Astarion, standing a few steps behind, watching with mild amusement, and Gale, his usual quiet contemplation deepening—seemed curious about my next words.

My mind raced for a moment, grappling with how much to reveal. The truth was, I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Oskar’s recognition myself. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was connected to the larger mystery of my past—the past that wasn’t really mine. And that made him important, whether they saw it or not.

Freya, sensing the storm of questions gathering around me, stepped in. “I know you’re all concerned about why we’re getting involved in this. Oskar’s a bargaining chip, yes, but he’s also a person. One that Artemis has some connection to—though that’s her business to explain or not.”

She glanced at me, offering a small nod of support, but she wasn’t going to speak for me.

Shadowheart’s eyes lingered on mine. “You’re right about one thing, Freya—this is her business. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t question it. We have a mission, and I’m not willing to risk it for a man who, by all accounts, should be left behind. Not unless there’s something you’re not telling us, Artemis.”

Karlach threw her arms up in frustration. “By the hells, does it matter? He’s a human being! We’re already waist-deep in danger—what’s one more risk if it means saving someone?”

Wyll nodded, though his gaze didn’t leave me. “We just need to understand, Artemis,” he said gently. “What is Oskar to you? If there’s something we need to know, now’s the time to say it.”

I swallowed, my thoughts tangling together as I tried to find the right words. 

“I-I know it's a lot to ask of you guys. But please believe me when I say this: I need ... certain answers, only Oskar can give me. Once I spoken to him, I'll reveal it to you. And tell you why he called me by another name. You just have to trust me- at least, this once.”

I must have sounded desperate, because Shadowheart’s expression softened just slightly, though there was still wariness in her gaze.

“I would actually like to see what she has to say. And I'm always looking forward to spill some blood.” Astarion said, grinning as he shifted his pose. Is he trying to help?

Karlach, ever the optimist, gave a firm nod. “That’s all I needed to hear, Artemis. We’ll figure it out, together.”

Wyll, too, offered a tight-lipped smile. “We’ll get him out of there. If he can help you, then it’s worth the effort.”

Chapter Text

“Gnolls,” Lae'zel muttered, her eyes sweeping the jagged horizon, one hand resting on the hilt of her blade. “We’re close.”

Karlach’s grip tightened on her axe, her muscles tensing like a coiled spring. “Good,” she growled, a fire flickering in her eyes. “I could use a decent fight.”

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. We had barely caught our breath since leaving the Zhentarim hideout, and already we were walking into another storm. The tension between us hung in the air like a blade, ready to cut. Yet, there was no turning back. Not with the howls drawing nearer.

The path twisted sharply, leading us to a cave mouth that yawned wide like the jaws of a beast, a darkness that seemed to swallow all light. The stench of death and wet fur clung to the air.

“Oi! Help us, would ya?” A rough, desperate voice cut through the noise.

I peered inside, spotting two figures near the back of the cave. They were cornered, pinned against the cold stone by the unmistakable shadow of movement deeper inside. Rugan and Olly—Zhentarim smugglers. Rugan, the larger of the two, was battered and bleeding, his sword slick with blood. Olly, smaller but no less hardened, leaned against the cave wall, barely standing. His breath came in short, shallow gasps.

Beyond them, gnolls. Dozens of them. Their glowing eyes and slavering jaws glinted in the dim light of the cave, the stench of them nearly overwhelming. Their guttural snarls filled the air, the sound of a hunger that promised only violence. The sight of them made my stomach churn.

Freya stepped forward, her sharp gaze locking onto Rugan. “You’re trapped.”

Rugan let out a bitter laugh, though there was little humor in it. “Aye, and it’s about to get worse unless you lot fancy helping us out. Gnolls’ve got us surrounded. Any minute now, they’ll be at our throats.”

“Looks like we don’t have a choice,” Wyll muttered, drawing his rapier. His eyes flicked to Karlach, who gave him a fierce nod.

As the first gnoll burst from the darkness, the ground beneath us trembled, and the fight began.

The gnolls didn’t simply charge—they crashed into us like a wave of snarling, vicious hunger. The first one lunged straight for me, its jagged teeth bared in a grotesque grin. I barely sidestepped its axe, the force of its swing kicking up dirt where my shoulder had been seconds ago. The gnoll’s growl turned into a hiss as it prepared for another strike.

A flash of steel blurred past me—Karlach. With a savage roar, she swung her axe, cleaving into the gnoll’s chest with a force that sent it crumpling to the ground in a heap of blood and bone. The sickening crunch echoed in my ears, but there was no time to linger on it. More were coming.

Lae'zel fought like a storm, her blade dancing in swift, precise arcs. I watched her parry a gnoll’s heavy strike and, in a fluid motion, drove her blade into its throat. Blood sprayed the cave walls. I winced, stumbling back as the scent of iron filled my nostrils. I had seen violence before, but not like this—not so close.

Across the cave, Rugan and Olly struggled to hold the line. Rugan’s bulky frame was moving slower, his strikes lacking the power they had at the beginning of the fight. Olly, already pale and exhausted, was barely standing. His sword arm trembled as he parried a gnoll’s attack.

I felt the gnoll’s strike before I saw it—a powerful blow from the side that knocked me to the ground. My head spun, vision blurry as the cave seemed to tilt. The gnoll loomed over me, drooling, its eyes filled with malicious glee. I tried to push myself up, but my limbs felt heavy, sluggish.

Then Karlach was there, her axe cleaving through the gnoll's side with a roar of triumph. The gnoll collapsed, twitching at her feet.

“They just keep coming!” Gale’s voice rang out, his breathing labored as he deflected another gnoll’s claws with a flick of his hand, arcane energy crackling in the air. His spell sent one gnoll flying back, but there were still more.

“Hold the line!” Freya barked, but her voice wavered. She was slowing, blood dripping from a deep gash along her ribs.

And then it happened.

A gnoll’s claws tore into Olly’s chest. The sound of rending flesh was unmistakable. I heard him scream, his small body crumpling under the force of the blow. Blood—so much blood—splattered the cave floor, and he staggered, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Rugan’s roar of fury was the next thing I heard, but his grief was his undoing. As he turned to help Olly, a gnoll tackled him to the ground. Its jaws snapped at his throat, and before we could move, it tore into him.

“No!” I screamed, but the cave swallowed the sound. It was too late.

Rugan’s body jerked once, then stilled, his blood soaking the ground beneath him. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The gnoll’s teeth were red, dripping with fresh blood, but before it could attack again, Karlach was on it. Her axe came down with brutal finality, cleaving through the gnoll’s skull with a sickening crack.

The world seemed to slow.

Blood pooled around Rugan and Olly’s lifeless bodies. It stained the ground, seeping into the cracks of the stone. My hands were shaking, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I was trembling, but I didn’t know if it was from exhaustion or the horror that clawed its way up my throat.

The gnolls kept coming, relentless in their numbers. But even as I fought, something in me had changed. The violence around me blurred, a red haze of panic and revulsion. I moved through the motions—strike, parry, dodge—but my mind kept returning to the sight of Rugan’s throat torn open, to the wide, glassy eyes of Olly, who had died just moments ago.

“Focus!” Lae’zel’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding. But my stomach churned. The stench of blood and death thickened, the coppery taste clinging to the back of my throat.

One by one, we cut down the remaining gnolls, until finally, the last of them lay dead. The cave was littered with bodies, gnoll and human alike. My ears rang in the sudden silence, broken only by the sound of labored breathing and the steady drip of blood.

--

I stood frozen, my eyes locked on Rugan and Olly’s lifeless bodies. Their blood, thick and dark, pooled around them, seeping into the cracks of the cave floor. My breath caught in my throat, shallow and fast, the coppery scent of death clinging to the air like a sick perfume. For a moment, I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t move.

Is this it? Is this what my life is going to be now?

The question crawled up from somewhere deep inside me, a pit of cold dread settling in my gut. I had heard about death, read about it in books—heroes falling in glorious battle, their deaths noble, their sacrifices necessary. But there was no nobility here. No glory. Just blood. Just… emptiness.

They’re dead, I thought. Two lives, snuffed out in seconds. For what? For a shipment we don’t even understand? For a cause that doesn’t feel real?

The gnolls were dead, but the memory of their savage grins and glowing eyes lingered, as if they were watching still, waiting. There was something primal and vicious in their attacks—so mindless, so brutal. And that brutality was everywhere in this world. It was the air we breathed, the ground we walked on. It would follow us, hunt us down, no matter where we ran.

My hand trembled as I pressed it to my mouth, bile rising in my throat. The blood—it was everywhere. The scent, the sight of it—it was suffocating. I wanted to scream, to run, to claw my way out of the cave and leave all of this behind.

But there was no escape, was there?

This is what the world is. Brutal. Unforgiving. People die here, they die horribly, and it’s never going to stop. I’ll see more blood. I’ll see more bodies. More death. This isn’t the last time. This is just the beginning.

The weight of that realization pressed down on me, suffocating, wrapping around my chest like a vice. I felt… small. So much smaller than I’d ever felt in my life. I could still hear the sound of Rugan’s throat being torn open, the wet, sickening sound of it echoing in my mind. The gnoll’s teeth ripping into flesh. His body jerking as life drained out of him.

What if I’m next? What if it's one of us?

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless. This wasn’t like the stories. 

My stomach churned violently, the bile rising faster, and I couldn’t stop it. I bent over, gagging, my entire body shaking. The contents of my stomach came up in a rush, splattering onto the stone floor in front of me. I heaved, my throat burning, the smell of vomit mixing with the stench of blood and death.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to shove the images and the fear back down, but it was no use. The sounds, the sights—they weren’t going away.

This is my reality now. This is what I’m going to live with.

Tears stung at the corners of my eyes, though I fought to keep them from falling. But the truth had settled in, cold and hard.

People will keep dying. I will keep seeing it. Feeling it. And there’s no way to stop it.

I retched again, my body convulsing with the force of it. I could hear the others shifting uncomfortably behind me, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t breathe. I felt raw. Exposed. Weak.

A soft chuckle broke through the haze, and I slowly raised my head, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Astarion stood a few paces away, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Ah, the ever-delightful initiation into violence,” he remarked dryly, his pale eyes gleaming in the low light. “It's probably your first time. Don’t worry, darling, it gets easier after the first few bodies. The gagging, that is.”

I stared at him, still gasping for breath, unable to find the words to respond. The casualness in his tone, the way he seemed entirely unaffected by the carnage, by the death, sent a chill through me.

He tilted his head, his smirk deepening as he continued. “Though I must admit, I was expecting a little more… composure. You’re usually so poised.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. I was still too shaken, the stench of death too thick in the air. My head was spinning, and I could still hear the echoes of Rugan’s dying gasp, feel the wet heat of the blood splattering across my skin.

Karlach’s heavy boots crunched against the stone as she approached, her gaze flicking to Astarion before settling on me with something close to concern. She offered a hand, her grip firm and grounding.

“You alright, Artemis?” she said softly, pulling me to my feet. “It’s a lot. Take your time.”

But the truth was, I wasn’t sure if I would ever be alright again.

The brutal reality of this world, the deaths that would follow us, the blood that would keep spilling—how was anyone supposed to live like this?

Chapter Text

The road back to Zarys felt endless, as if every step stretched the distance between us and the bloodshed we had left behind. The metallic scent of iron still lingered in the air, stubbornly clinging to my senses as though it had seeped beneath my skin. Rugan and Olly’s lifeless forms weighed heavily on my mind, their blood soaking into the cold stone floors of that forsaken cave. No one spoke. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the soft rustle of wind through the dry grasses and the crunch of gravel beneath our boots. I kept my eyes lowered, unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze.

Freya led the way, clutching the shipment we had fought tooth and nail to recover. Her steps were deliberate, firm, but there was an underlying tension in the way her fingers curled around the package—knuckles white, her jaw clenched tight. Karlach and Wyll flanked her, their eyes scanning the horizon with practiced caution. The fight with the gnolls had taken its toll, but Karlach seemed to feed on the adrenaline, the flicker of battle still dancing in her eyes. Wyll, on the other hand, carried the weight of it more quietly, his stiffened shoulders betraying his exhaustion.

I trailed behind, flanked by Astarion and Gale. Neither of them said a word, each lost in their own thoughts, their footsteps almost silent beside mine. Every now and then, Astarion’s gaze flicked toward me, as sharp and unreadable as ever. I could feel his eyes, pricking at the back of my neck like needles, but each time, I quickly looked away.

Shadowheart and Lae’zel walked at the rear, their conversation barely audible, but I caught the occasional flash of irritation in their hushed tones—still debating the worth of what we had traded so much for. I couldn’t blame them.

What if this was all for nothing?

---

Zarys stood waiting at the far end of the dimly lit area when we arrived, her sharp eyes gleaming with a mix of impatience and barely veiled curiosity. She leaned against a rickety table, her expression cold, calculating—like a merchant weighing the worth of her next deal. 

“You have it, then?” she asked, her voice as sharp as the dagger at her belt.

Freya stepped forward, her boots echoing ominously against the stone floor. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the shipment onto the table between them, the thud louder than it should have been in the still room. “Your precious cargo,” she said, her voice steady, though a thread of impatience wove through her words. “Now, our part of the bargain.”

Her eyes lingered on the package, her fingers tapping against the edge of the table as she appraised it. She motioned to one of her underlings with a lazy flick of her hand. “Bring him.”

The moment seemed to stretch, tension simmering just beneath the surface. I could feel my heart beating faster as the anticipation grew. From a dark corner, the sound of footsteps echoed—unsteady and hesitant. Then, Oskar emerged.

“Here he is,” Zarys said, her tone smug, clearly enjoying the power she held over the moment. “Our deal is complete.”

Freya wasted no time. She grabbed Oskar by the arm, pulling him closer to us, away from Zarys and her thugs. “You’re coming with us,” she muttered, barely giving him a glance before turning to lead the way out.

---

I knelt beside him, untying the frayed ropes that still bound his wrists. His skin was bruised, his clothes torn and dirtied from his captivity, and he winced as I worked the knots loose. The tension in his posture never left, his eyes flicking nervously from my hands to my face, as if waiting for something to go wrong.

“Thank you,” Oskar rasped, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. He shifted, trying to stretch his stiff limbs. “I... I don't know how to thank you enough for saving me.”

I sat back on my heels, meeting his gaze. His words, though polite, felt hollow—stretched thin, like they had lost their meaning somewhere between his thoughts and his mouth. There was something more to his tone than exhaustion.

“You can start by answering a few questions,” I said, keeping my voice steady but allowing a sharp edge to cut through. I needed answers—this wasn’t a rescue out of the goodness of our hearts. “Guys," I turned to the others, “can you give us a moment?”

Lae'zel, always skeptical, grunted her protest, arms folded across her chest. “This is a waste of time,” she muttered, her gaze sharp and distrustful. 

But Freya, standing a little to the side, gave a nod. "Let her speak with him," she said, her voice low but firm. “We’ll keep watch.”

One by one, the others stepped away, giving me space but staying close enough to overhear if needed. Lae'zel lingered longer than the rest, her disdain clear, but she followed when Freya shot her a warning glance.

I turned back to Oskar, lowering my voice. “Oskar,” I began, leaning in a little closer, “the truth is, I survived... a crash. I don’t remember much from before that. I’ve been trying to piece things together, but it’s all fragments.” I hesitated, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. “I’m suffering from memory loss. Can you help me fill in some gaps?”

His expression shifted. For a fleeting moment, something flickered behind his tired eyes—something cautious. But then he smiled, a practiced curve of the lips, and nodded.

“Of course.” he said smoothly. His eyes, soft as they seemed, were too careful though.

I pushed, my voice firmer now. “Where did we meet? How do you know me?”

There was a pause. Just long enough to make me suspicious. Oskar glanced down at his hands, rubbing his wrists where the ropes had chafed his skin, before answering. “I... I painted a portrait of you. It must have been about six months ago. In your home.” His voice was steady, but there was a tension in his words, like he was measuring how much to say.

I frowned, something in my chest tightening. “And... where is home?” The question slipped out, though I already knew. I had to ask, just to see his reaction.

His eyes widened, and for the first time, genuine surprise flashed across his face. “You don’t remember that either?” His voice was quiet, almost disbelieving. “It’s Baldur’s Gate. You live in the Upper City, my lady. In a manor that... well, it’s hard to forget.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Baldur's Gate. 

“What is my family name?”  I pressed, my heart pounding in my chest.

Oskar froze, his fidgeting hands suddenly still. His gaze flickered away, avoiding mine. “I-I... can’t remember,” he stammered. “It’s been too long. I’m sorry.”

A cold knot of suspicion twisted in my gut. “Oskar... you’re lying. You’re holding something back. What aren’t you telling me?”

He opened his mouth, but no words came. He swallowed, his throat bobbing as he bit the inside of his cheek. “I... I’ve been through a lot.” he finally muttered, his voice so quiet I almost didn’t hear him.

Something dark and cold began to unfurl within me, spreading like ice through my veins. He was lying—or at the very least, hiding something. 

“Why?” I demanded, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “What are you afraid of?”

Oskar’s eyes flicked toward the others, standing a short distance away. His voice dropped lower, a whisper meant only for me. “You don’t understand. I literally cannot say more.”

A tremor of frustration shot up my spine, dark and restless. I could feel the anger brewing, twisting beneath my skin like an infection spreading, hot and cold all at once. My blood stirred, an icy whisper scraping at the back of my mind, nothing I've ever experienced. I tried to push it down, but my grip on it was slipping, like water through my fingers.

“We saved you from the Zhentarim,” I seethed through clenched teeth, the words coming out like venom. “And you dare tell me I cannot know?”

Without thinking, I lunged forward, my hand snapping out to grab Oskar by the shoulder. My nails dug into the thin fabric of his blouse. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t flinch.

“You’re going to tell me everything,” I hissed, my voice low, quiet, dangerous. The words carried a weight I couldn’t explain, like something dark and cold clinging to each syllable. I felt it crawl out of me, something unseen yet undeniable, wrapping around him like a suffocating fog.

But nothing happened.

Oskar’s eyes remained clear, his breath steady. He didn’t crumble under my demand as I expected, didn’t bend to my will. Whatever power had surged within me before, it slid off him like water, leaving me grasping at nothing.

I blinked, confusion and anger mixing in my chest. Why isn’t it working?

I could feel the something thrumming in my veins, feeding on my anger, pushing me to press harder, to drag the truth out of him no matter what. A sinking feeling of dread washed over me though as I stared at Oskar, my fingers still digging into his shoulder. For the briefest moment, I saw my reflection in his eyes—furious, terrifying. This wasn’t me. My grip loosened, the tension in my fingers releasing as I took a shaky breath. 

I could still feel the anger simmering beneath the surface, but it was different now—less consuming, more like a distant echo. I let it go, slowly, forcing the cold grasp to retreat.

Astarion’s voice broke the silence. “Well,” he drawled, “this is positively riveting. Shall I fetch some wine while we wait?”

I shot him a glare, though part of me was thankful for the interruption. It broke the tension just enough to help me regain control. Oskar flinched, his posture tightening under Astarion’s scrutiny.

I softened my tone, forcing calm into my words. “Oskar... anything you can tell me might help. Please.”

Chapter Text

Night had fallen by the time we returned to camp, the stars hanging low in the inky sky like distant watchers. Oskar was on his way back home and everyone had settled into their usual routines—Karlach sharpening her axe, Gale and Wyll debating over some obscure magical theory, Shadowheart maintaining a wary distance while tending to her gear. Lae'zel and Freya were talking.

But I could feel the weight of their glances, the questions they didn’t dare voice outright—not yet.

Astarion was the first to break the silence. He came closer to where I sat by the fire, his movements languid and calculated. “Well, darling,” he purred, sinking down beside me with a smirk playing on his lips, “I do believe we’re all dying to know what that little display with Oskar was about.” His eyes gleamed, half amused, half curious. “Care to enlighten us?”

I stiffened, the weight of his words pressing down on me, but before I could respond, the others began to gather around the fire, drawn by the promise of an explanation. Freya stood just outside the circle, her arms crossed over her chest, watching me with those sharp, assessing eyes of hers.

A tense silence fell over the group as they waited, all eyes on me.

“Come on, Artemis,” Gale finally said, his voice quieter but no less insistent. “We’re in this together. You can trust us.”

The crackling of the fire filled the space between us, but it didn’t soften the tension in the air. I could feel their questions closing in around me, but it wasn’t the curiosity that gnawed at me—it was the suspicion. It hung over the camp like a shadow, growing darker the longer I stayed silent. I couldn’t keep hiding this.

They will find out, sooner or later. Better it's coming from me.

Taking a deep breath, I stood, moving closer to the flames. Their flickering light danced across my hands, and for a moment, I was transfixed by the way the fire seemed to blur the lines between reality and the gnawing confusion inside my own head.

“I...” My voice faltered, and I hesitated, feeling the weight of what I was about to say. “I’m not who you think I am.”

That got their attention.

Karlach frowned, lowering her whetstone. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, her deep voice filled with concern rather than accusation. 

My throat tightened, the words caught somewhere between my fear and the truth. I felt the heat of the flames on my skin, but they couldn’t reach the cold knot in my stomach. “This body doesn’t belong to me. Or more like, I don't belong in this body. I actually don't belong in this world.”

A stunned silence fell over the group.

Lae’zel’s eyes narrowed, the suspicion I had feared flaring into something more dangerous. “Explain yourself, outsider,” she growled, rising to her feet, hand resting on the hilt of her sword. “Are you telling us you’ve been deceiving us all this time?”

Freya uncrossed her arms, stepping into the circle of firelight, her voice calm but commanding. “Stand down and hear her out.”

I swallowed, forcing myself to meet their gazes, even as the weight of their judgment pressed in around me. “I don’t know how it happened, or why. But I’m not the person this body belongs to.” My voice shook, but I didn’t stop. “I woke up in it—trapped, with no knowledge of who this person is.”

A murmur rippled through the group. Astarion’s smirk faded into something more contemplative. Gale’s brow furrowed, clearly intrigued but cautious, and Wyll’s gaze softened, sympathy flickering across his face.

“You’re saying you’re a... a spirit? A soul displaced?” Gale ventured, his tone a mix of curiosity and concern. “That your consciousness has somehow been... transplanted into this body?”

I nodded, biting my lip. “Yes. Or something like that. I don’t know the details. All I know is that I’ve been living in a body that doesn’t belong to me.”

Shadowheart’s voice cut through the tension. “How do we know this isn’t some kind of trick?” Her words piercing in their clarity. “What if this is some magic—some ploy—to manipulate us?”

I flinched, the doubt slicing into me deeper than I expected. “I’m not lying,” I said, forcing the words out, my voice rough with emotion. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want to be trapped in someone else’s skin, but it happened. And now, I’m just... trying to figure out who I am. What I am.”

Wyll stepped forward, his expression kind but firm. “And this Oskar? What does he have to do with all of this?”

“He claims to know me,” I admitted, “from before. That is why I was so perplexed when he called me Penelope. He painted her portrait—he says we met, in a mansion in Baldur's Gate. In the Upper City.”

The fire crackled between us, but the weight of my confession seemed to absorb the warmth, leaving only the cold, biting truth. I could feel their eyes on me, their minds racing as they tried to reconcile the person they had come to know with the truth I had just laid bare.

Astarion broke the silence, his voice softer, almost thoughtful. “Well, that certainly makes things... complicated.” He tilted his head, studying me with that sharp gaze of his. “But it does explain a few things. You’ve always seemed... how shall I put this? A little lost.”

“Weakness,” she spat. “This is why you hesitate. Why you doubt. You are not whole.” Lae’zel snorted, clearly unimpressed. 

I opened my mouth to argue, but Freya spoke before I could. “This isn’t about weakness, Lae’zel. This is about figuring out who Artemis really is.” Her voice softened as she turned to me, her eyes searching mine.

Karlach leaned back against the log she had been sitting on, crossing her arms with a thoughtful frown. “So, what now?” she asked, her voice low but steady. “You keep looking for answers? Try to figure out who you really are?”

I nodded. “I have to. I need to know the truth.”

Wyll stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Then we’ll help you,” he said simply, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

I smiled back, but uncertainty still clung to me, stubborn and persistent. The relief of finally telling them the truth about the body-possesion was fleeting, overshadowed by the much bigger question I hadn’t yet answered—how much should I really reveal?

Freya already knew more than the others. I had given her the simplest answer I could think of my knowledge of events: “They’re visions.”

But the rest of them... Could I lie to them, too? Or should I even call it a lie? I had no other way to explain what I knew. And how could I make them understand? That I had seen their lives unfold, knew of their struggles and fates, before I had ever set foot in Faerûn. 

Lae’zel already doubted me, Karlach and Wyll had their own battles to fight, and Gale... Gale would likely try to rationalize it, find some arcane explanation that fit. Astarion? He’d laugh it off and call me mad, most likely. But then again, through all the madness - maybe it would make sense for them?

I stared into the fire, its flickering flames casting shadows across the camp. The group’s conversations faded into a low murmur.

Freya said with a quiet command, “We should rest. Tomorrow’s not going to be any easier.”

One by one, they moved to their bedrolls, their whispers fading into the night as the camp settled.

Chapter Text

The steady rhythm of sleep was settling over the camp like a lullaby.

But I couldn’t sleep.

I got out of of bedroll and sat a few feet from the fire, my knees pulled to my chest. The warmth of the flames had long since faded, but I wasn’t cold—just restless, thoughts turning over and over and over.

Lost in thought, I didn’t hear the soft footsteps until they were nearly upon me. I turned my head, startled, and found Astarion standing there, bathed in moonlight.

His silver hair gleamed like the stars themselves, and his eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—caught the light in a way that made them almost glow. For a moment, he looked ethereal, otherworldly. But then he smirked, that familiar, mischievous curl of his lips, and any illusion of softness vanished.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low, a teasing lilt to it as he came closer.

I shrugged, still not quite sure how to navigate conversations with him. “Something like that.”

He hummed quietly, his gaze sweeping over our sleeping companions before returning to me. “Seems I’m not the only restless one tonight,” he remarked, his tone casual.

I offered a faint smile. “What about you? Can’t sleep either?”

He huffed a soft laugh and lowered himself to the ground beside me, far closer than I’d expected. I could feel the warmth of his body, a stark contrast to the cool night air. “Darling, I don’t sleep. Not like the rest of you.” He paused, his lips quirking up in amusement. “Perks of being a vampire, I suppose.”

I nodded, though part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I was, having a casual conversation about vampirism with Astarion. Something that doesn't exist in my world. The disconnect was dizzying.

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the dying fire crackling between us and the distant rustle of leaves in the wind. It felt oddly intimate—the two of us alone while the rest of the world slumbered, like we were the only two people who existed.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, his voice softer now, “Care to share what's troubling that mysterious mind of yours, or shall I indulge in wild speculation?”

I laughed under my breath, shaking my head. “Wild speculation, huh? Sounds entertaining. Go ahead.”

He turned to me, arching an eyebrow. “Well, let’s see. You’ve had a rather eventful day, haven’t you? Revealing all sorts of secrets about yourself. I imagine it’s not easy, unburdening yourself to people like them—like us.” He gestured vaguely toward the sleeping camp. “Trust is such a delicate thing, isn’t it?”

The weight behind his words wasn't lost on me. There were layers there, depths he wasn't ready to explore—not yet. But the irony was almost painful. If only he knew how much I already knew about his secrets, his pain, his story.

I sighed, dropping my gaze back to the embers.

“It's hard, knowing how much to say. How much to keep hidden.”

His eyes flickered with recognition, maybe even sympathy, but he masked it quickly with that practiced smirk. “Careful, darling. You’re starting to sound like me.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Depends. Do you enjoy being enigmatic, mysterious, and impossibly charming?” He grinned, flashing his fangs ever so slightly.

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn't suppress my smile. “I’ll leave the impossibly charming part to you.”

He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Wise decision.”

The banter felt natural, easy in a way that surprised me. Maybe it was because I'd heard his voice so many times before, watched his expressions, learned his rhythms. Or maybe it was because he, like me, knew what it was like to wear masks, to perform a version of yourself for others' consumption.

“Why did you follow me?”

I asked suddenly, the question escaping before I could think better of it.

His smirk faltered for just a heartbeat—so brief I might have missed it if I hadn't been watching him so intently. He leaned back, hands braced against the ground, and looked up at the stars.

“Oh, you know me—I do so hate to miss out on a bit of midnight drama. And you, my dear, have been practically radiating angst all evening.”

“Is that so?”

When he looked back at me, there was something unguarded in his expression that made my breath catch. “Besides,” he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual mockery. “you're the only one who doesn't disregard me when I speak. Do you have any idea how refreshing that is?.”

The warmth that bloomed in my chest had nothing to do with the fire. This wasn't a line from his programmed responses—this felt real and spontaneous, like he was actually trying to understand me.

I looked down at my hands, unsure how to respond without giving too much away.

“Well, you’re not exactly easy to figure out either.”

His smile returned. “Good. Where’s the fun in being predictable?”

I chuckled, shaking my head.

“But speaking of mysteries: you could have avoided this entire conversation, could have feigned sleep when you heard my devastatingly quiet footsteps. Yet here you are, keeping a vampire company in the dead of night. Either you're remarkably brave or remarkably foolish”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come. He was right, and we both knew it. I could have walked away, could have kept my distance like I probably should have.

Instead, I stayed. And in that moment, watching the way the dying firelight played across his face, I realized something that both thrilled and terrified me: I didn't want to leave. Not just this conversation, but this strange, impossible moment where he existed beyond the confines of a screen.

Where he could surprise me.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the thin veil of mist that hung over the camp. It was still early, the air cool and crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pines.

Everyone was preparing for another day of survival.

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to chase away the slight chill that clung to my skin—though I wasn’t sure if it was the morning cold or the lingering unease from last night. My eyes drifted toward Astarion. He was leaning casually against a tree, his arms crossed, his face unreadable as he observed the camp. Our brief moment from the night before hovered like an unanswered question in the back of my mind.

His words yesterday had caught me off guard. And worse—I had let my guard down in return.

I hadn’t meant to.

Last night, something had shifted between us. I couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a dangerous one. Astarion was like a blade hidden beneath silk—beautiful, sharp, and capable of cutting deeply when least expected. And yet, there was something in the way he’d spoken to me. A vulnerability? No, not quite. But a curiosity, a tension that felt… different from his usual playfulness.

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of emotions. Focus. There were more pressing matters at hand.

Across the camp, Freya was tightening her bracers, her brow furrowed in concentration. As our unofficial leader, she’d be the one to decide what came next—with me next to her, whispering what move she should do next. I was very well aware what responsibility I had burdened myself with, so I coudn't allow myself more any fuckups.

So. Mayrina?

The name echoed in my head, along with memories of her crying for help, her voice pleading to save her from whatever horrors the swamp held. In the game, it had been a choice—one of many side quests that could either be completed or ignored. In the game I came to her help, because I played the goody-two-shoes that needed to do the right thing. Now, I couldn’t help but wonder: Would not going after Mayrina derail everything? Could it change the plot too much? Because honestly, in this world were everything was real: I'm not so sure if I can play the selfless hero. I'd rather more focus on my survival.

I mean, my memories of the game were like a roadmap, guiding me through this strange world. But I had already altered things by being here, by making different choices, by involving myself in ways I never should have been able to. Was there a point where the world would push back? Where the plot, like a river, would fight to stay on course no matter how many stones I threw in its path?

The others had no idea that their fates might already be different just by having me among them.

I frowned, glancing at Freya again. If I suggested going after Mayrina, would we lose too much time? Would some other threat catch up with us? And how would it affect Freya’s plans—or whatever Raphael was scheming?

Raphael. I hadn’t forgotten this bastard.

My hands tightened into fists. This weight of knowledge, the endless what-ifs, they were suffocating.

“Your mind is elsewhere. Thinking about our little intimate moment yesterday?”

His voice was almost too close, breaking through my thoughts like a whisper on the breeze. I blinked as Astarion appeared beside me, his steps silent, his presence unnervingly effortless. His eyes gleamed, sharp and curious, but there was something else lurking beneath the usual teasing.

I exhaled slowly, forcing a small smile. “Ha, keep telling yourself that if it makes you sleep better at night. I’ve got other things on my mind.”

“Ouch, I'm wounded,” he quipped, his lips curling into a smirk. Then, he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, a glint of real interest sparking in his gaze. “What exactly is occupying that sharp little mind of yours? What could possibly be more intriguing than me?”

I gave a soft huff, but my thoughts betrayed me—circling back to the truth I still wasn’t ready to face, to share. “To be honest, I'm just going through it. I’m afraid the thoughts won’t stop coming.”

“Ah, yes. A burden I’m all too familiar with.” He said lightly, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his voice, something almost empathetic. “You mortals and your endless worries. Though, I suppose in your case, they might actually be worth having. Considering your… unique situation.”

For the briefest moment, I considered telling him about my “visions,” letting him in on the knowledge I possesed, but I quickly dismissed the idea. There was no easy answer—especially not with Astarion. I had seen him twist the truth, manipulate the others with a smile and a honeyed word. He played his cards too well, and I didn’t doubt for a second that if he chose, he could turn any secret I revealed into leverage.

No, I wasn’t ready to be a pawn in his game.

I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Worries may be the least of my problems. But I won’t let them get in the way of… everything else we have to deal with.”

He tilted his head, watching me carefully, the playful mask still there, but I could see him weighing my words, as if searching for cracks in my armor. “Just remember, darling—no need to carry that weight alone. Not when you’ve got such... resourceful companions.”

I gave a noncommittal nod, letting the conversation fade, but my mind was already elsewhere, searching for a way to settle this growing uncertainty. As Astarion turned his attention elsewhere, I spotted Freya a little ways off, sitting near the campfire.

Making my way to her, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of decisions looming over us. I had been trying to steer the group, subtly nudging them toward the path I knew would lead us to answers or safety. But now… now I wondered. How much had I been letting my knowledge control everything? I could feel the burden pressing down on me, suffocating. Maybe it was time to stop guiding and see what Freya—on her own, without my influence—would choose.

Freya looked up as I approached, her expression calm, but there was a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

“Mind if I join you?” I asked, my voice softer than it had been with Astarion.

She smiled, gesturing to the spot beside her. “Of course not. What’s on your mind?”

I sat down, taking a moment to collect myself. I had been holding so tightly to the reins that I hadn’t even considered how heavy they were getting. “I’ve been thinking,” I began, staring into the fire.

reya raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.

“Where do you want to go next?” I asked, my voice carefully neutral. “If it were up to you, no guidance, no pushing—just your decision—what would you choose?”

She blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting the question. “You didn't have any visions last night?”

I smiled, but there was a heaviness behind it. “I did. But sometimes things can also unfold in a way I've haven't been able to see. What I'm trying to say is ... Maybe it's time for you to decide today what comes next, without… my influence. Let's see how things go.”

Freya studied me for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. I could see the gears turning in her head, the weight of the decision settling on her shoulders. And for once, I let it. I didn’t push, didn’t prod. I just waited, feeling an odd sense of relief wash over me.

Whatever she chose, it would be her choice. Not guided by my foreknowledge or the burden I carried. Just… hers.

Chapter Text

Freya made the decision for us.

“If we’re going to have any chance of getting rid of these parasites, we need Halsin. He’s the only one who knows enough about this curse to help us.”

Ah, sweet ignorance.

I didn’t respond immediately, letting her words linger in the air. Heading into a goblin-infested camp was a gamble—one with odds decidedly not in our favor. The thought of walking straight into their den was enough to make anyone second-guess themselves.

Freya must have sensed my hesitation. She met my eyes, her expression softer, almost pleading. “I know it’s risky, but we can’t keep running in circles.”

I nodded slowly, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Alright. Goblin Camp it is. Just hope you’re ready for all the trouble we’re about to walk into.”

She smiled back, a bit more confident now. “I think I can handle it. Besides, it’s not like we’ve had a quiet day since this all started.”

---

Shadowheart’s gaze flickered to Freya, her expression wary. “We’ll be walking straight into their lair. You know what that means, don’t you?”

Freya’s shoulders squared, her chin lifting with quiet resolve. “I do. But we’ve faced worse and come out stronger. This is a risk worth taking.”

Gale chuckled softly, giving a half-shrug. “Well, if we must consort with goblins, I’d rather do so with a powerful ally in tow. I admit, I’m curious to see if Halsin lives up to his reputation.”

“Oh, a daring rescue? How terribly heroic.” Astarion glanced at me, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I suppose I could be convinced to play the gallant savior… for a little while.”

Freya didn’t seem fazed by his tone, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips. “Good. Then we’re settled. We’ll move out as soon as we’re ready. Gale, could you come here for a moment?”

As the group scattered to pack up, I found myself lingering, the decision still buzzing in my mind. Going to the Goblin Camp was a gamble, and I couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways it could go wrong. But it was a solid plan, and for once, I was content to let Freya bear that weight. Maybe it was selfish, but I didn’t want to be the one making all the decisions anymore—not when the stakes were this high. Still, I nudged in the right direction, made certain preparations, just in case things went south. I liked the feeling of control, if I was completely honest. Or maybe it was just my survival instinct?

I was lost in thought when Freya approached, her steps light but deliberate. “Thank you,” she said quietly, almost as if the words were meant only for me. “For trusting me with this.”

I met her gaze, seeing the quiet determination there, and nodded. “It’s your call. We’re all relying on you, but that doesn’t mean you have to do this alone.”

She seemed to consider that for a moment, then offered a faint, grateful smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Just… be ready for anything. We don’t know what we’ll find in that camp.”

I returned her smile, feeling a bit steadier. “I’ll be ready.”

As we moved out, I caught up to Freya, falling into step beside her. “So,” I said, my voice light but with a hint of challenge, “are you ready to play the hero today?”

---

The Goblin Camp was a chaotic mess of tents and ramshackle wooden structures, clustered around a central courtyard where a large bonfire crackled and smoked. Goblins, hobgoblins, and bugbears swarmed the area, their guttural voices rising in a cacophony of shouts, laughter, and curses. They moved with a restless energy, as if bracing for a celebration—or a massacre.

Freya crouched behind a thicket, signaling the rest of us to gather. “Alright,” she whispered, glancing back at us, “we need to find Halsin and get out without drawing too much attention. If we can take down their leaders quietly, we might be able to scatter them. But the second things go wrong, we retreat. No heroics.”

“Ah, how disappointing,” Astarion murmured, his voice barely audible but carrying a playful lilt. “And here I thought we were going to put on a grand show. I was looking forward to a bit of bloodshed. Perhaps even a dance around their bonfire.”

Freya shot him a sharp look, but there was no real bite to it. “Save your theatrics for later, Astarion. Let’s focus.”

We slipped through the outer edges of the camp, sticking to the shadows. Freya led with practiced stealth, her movements fluid and precise. For a while, it seemed like we might actually get away with it. We managed to skirt past two goblin patrols, ducking out of sight as they bickered about missing rations and the latest orders from their leaders.

I had to force myself to breathe steadily. The last thing we needed was to draw attention, but with each step, my nerves felt like they were fraying. Freya’s expression was stoic, while the rest of us followed, keeping low and quiet.

As we neared the entrance, we spotted two goblin guards lounging lazily by the gate, their weapons held loosely, eyes half-lidded in the midday sun. For a moment, hope flared—they looked bored, distracted. Maybe we could slip past unnoticed.

“Just stay behind me,” Freya whispered, glancing back at us. “If we’re lucky, we won’t have to—”

“Oi! Who goes there?” one of the goblins barked, snapping to attention.

The other goblin narrowed his eyes, raising a rusted spear. “Sneakin’ around, are ya? Think ya can just waltz in like ya own the place?”

Freya froze, a curse barely concealed behind clenched teeth. The goblins stepped forward, their gazes flitting over us, suspicion darkening their beady eyes.

“We’re from the Absolute!” Freya blurted out, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “Here to… uh, pay tribute. We’ve brought offerings.”

The two goblins exchanged skeptical glances, but before they could respond, Freya’s expression shifted. Her eyes darkened, taking on an otherworldly gleam. I felt the air around us change, a strange pressure that made my skin prickle. When she spoke again, her voice was different—stronger, more commanding, with an undercurrent of something unnaturally persuasive.

“We are true followers of the Absolute,” she said, her tone smooth, almost hypnotic. “And you will let us pass.”

I watched as confusion flickered across the goblins’ faces, their sneers faltering, as if they were trying to resist but couldn’t quite manage it. One of them rubbed at his temple, eyes glassy. “The Absolute…” he muttered, trailing off.

“The Absolute,” the other echoed, his grip loosening on his spear.

I held my breath, hardly daring to believe what I was seeing. Freya had done it—she’d used the illithid power. Was it the first time? I didn't know. But from her reaction, it was clear even she was surprised by what she’d just done.

The first goblin shook his head, looking momentarily dazed. “Right, right… from the Absolute. You lot can go in. But don’t cause no trouble, y’hear?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Freya replied, her voice back to normal but with a slight tremor that betrayed the effort it had cost her.

---

We didn’t have time to process what had just happened. There would be time to question Freya at camp—if we made it back. For now, we had to concentrate on the mission. We slipped past the gate, moving deeper into the heart of the camp. As the noise of the goblins’ revelry surrounded us, I couldn’t shake the unease.

As we moved deeper into the camp, dodging goblins and weaving between makeshift tents and crude fortifications, something caught my eye—movement near the pen, where they kept their captured creatures. A small, black-and-white form, curled up in the corner, wide, fearful eyes staring through the bars. My heart clenched as I recognized it: the owlbear cub.

I stopped in my tracks, my gaze locked on the little creature. Its feathers were ruffled, and there was a roughness to its breathing that made it look smaller, more fragile. It was terrified, huddled away from the goblins that occasionally poked at it with sticks, taunting it.

“Artemis, keep moving,” Astarion murmured, appearing beside me like a shadow. “Unless you fancy getting us all killed.”

“I’m not leaving it here,” I said, my voice firm, even as my heart raced.

“Darling, we’re here to rescue the druid, not play zookeeper,” Astarion whispered.

“I don’t care.” I turned to Freya, a plea in my eyes. “We have to get it out of here. We can’t just leave it.”

She hesitated. “If we try to free it, we’ll draw attention.”

“Not if we do it quickly,” I insisted. “I know it’s a risk, but…” I struggled to find the right words, trying to convey how wrong it felt to leave the cub behind, knowing what fate awaited it. “I have a soft spot for animals. Please?”

For a moment, Freya’s eyes softened, and she gave a small nod. “Alright. But we do it fast. Gale and you handle it. The rest of us will keep watch.”

We slipped over to the pen, moving as quietly as we could. The goblin standing guard was distracted, more focused on a flask in his hand than anything else, so he barely noticed when Gale murmured a quick incantation, the lock on the pen clicking open. I reached out, gently coaxing the cub out. It was wary at first, but when it recognized me, it let out a soft, pitiful hoot, pressing its head against my hand.

“Good, that’s it,” I whispered, my heart aching at how desperate it seemed for comfort. “You’re safe now. We’re going to get you out of here.”

Gale’s hand touched my shoulder, a gentle but insistent nudge. “We have to move, Artemis.”

But as we started to pull back, leading the cub away from the pen, a shout rang out. “Ey, whatcha think your doing?”

Chapter Text

The goblin’s shout rang out, cutting through the din of the camp, and for a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze. My mind raced, my heart pounding as I instinctively reached for this power buried deep within me, that strange, dark presence that I had taped into since the crash. I hadn’t used it since… well, since Oskar. I mean it didn't work on him, but maybe if I just focused, I could make it work again.

I locked eyes with the goblin, my voice calm but laced with the same eerie, persuasive undertone I used before. “There’s nothing here for you to worry about,” I said, feeling the words roll off my tongue like honey, trying to weave that subtle magic around them. “You’ll forget you saw us. Go back to your drink.”

The goblin blinked, his eyes glassy for a moment, and I thought, It’s working. But then he shook his head, his face scrunching up in confusion before twisting into a sneer. “Nah, I ain't that stupid,” he snarled, gripping his spear tighter. “Ya think ya can just waltz in 'ere and make me forget? Yer either brave or bloody foolish.”

Panic clawed at my chest. Why didn’t it work, again? Was it because they're under the influence of the Absolute? But if I remember correctly, Oskar wasn't tadpoled. Or was he and it just never showed in the game? Or perhaps I just I hadn’t mastered it. Maybe there was something wrong with me, something that made my attempts falter and fail.

Gale moved beside me, trying to murmur a spell, but the goblin’s eyes snapped to him, and his sneer deepened. “Oi, don’t even think about it, wizard.”

My pulse quickened, but before I could react, a dark shape moved past me, stepping out of the shadows.

“You dare threaten us, worm?” Lae'zel’s voice was a low, menacing growl, dripping with contempt. She loomed over the goblin, her posture radiating the kind of lethal confidence only a githyanki warrior could muster. “Do you not see who you are addressing? You would be wise to hold your tongue if you wish to keep it.”

The goblin’s eyes darted to Lae'zel, and I could see the bravado waver, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. He was faced with a choice: stand his ground or back down and avoid a fight he knew he wouldn’t win. Lae'zel didn’t give him the time to deliberate. She took a step forward, forcing him to stumble back, her yellow eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam.

“Leave,” she said, her voice cold and sharp. “Before I decide to decorate my blade with your innards.”

That did it. The goblin grunted, spitting on the ground near our feet but stepping back nonetheless. “Fine, fine. Ain’t worth it, anyway,” he muttered, his bravado cracking as he retreated, glaring at us from over his shoulder. “But I’m watchin’ ya. One wrong move, and yer all dead.”

He shuffled away, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. But the relief was short-lived, replaced by a wave of frustration. Why couldn’t I do it? Why did the power slip through my fingers when I needed it most?

Lae'zel turned to me, her face a mask of scorn. “You’re lucky I intervened, or that pathetic display would have gotten you killed,” she snapped. “You waste time and expose us all with your feeble attempts to control the situation. Next time, keep your foolishness in check.”

Gale placed a hand on my shoulder, his expression more sympathetic, though no less serious. “She’s not wrong, Artemis. We need to be careful.”

I wanted to argue, but there was no point-they were right. We were still in enemy territory, and every second we stood here was a risk. “Yeah.” I said, trying to push down the frustration roiling inside me. “Let’s just get this done.”

Lae'zel gave a curt nod, clearly satisfied with my compliance. “Good. Now, keep your head down and follow.”

We slipped further into the camp, moving past goblin patrols and drunken revelers. The sounds of chaotic revelry grew louder as we neared the central courtyard, where goblins danced and howled around the bonfire. I kept my gaze straight ahead, trying not to draw attention.

As we entered what was once a Selûnite temple (Shadowheart was clearly 'disgusted' by the sight, I wondered how it slipped by the others) and made our rounds to familiarize with the place, we heard a familiar, frantic voice echoing from a nearby room.

“Please, you must help me! I’m too talented to die here, don’t you see?”

Volo. I had completely forgotten about him, but there he was, trapped in a makeshift cage, his bright, colorful outfit striking even under the dim light of the torches. Two goblins stood lazily by the cage, occasionally prodding at the bars with their spears, chuckling at the bard’s pleas.

Volo’s eyes widened as he caught sight of us. “You! Yes, you! My saviors! Come, release me from this horrid place. I promise you, there will be tales of your heroism sung across the land for ages to come!”

For a moment, I hesitated, glancing around at the others. Wyll and Karlach had already moved closer, Wyll’s brow furrowed with concern. “We can’t just leave him,” Wyll said quietly, his voice urgent. “He’s a prisoner, and if we’re discovered here, who knows what they’ll do to him?”

Karlach nodded, her fiery eyes blazing. “We can’t leave him to rot. Besides, wouldn’t mind smashing a few goblin heads to get him out.”

But Lae'zel was already shaking her head, her jaw tight. “No,” she said sharply. “He is not our concern. We are here for the druid. Nothing more.”

Astarion stood beside her, nodding. “For once, I’m inclined to agree with our dear githyanki friend. We don’t have time to play hero. Let the bard sing his last tune if he must, but we should be moving.”

Freya hesitated, torn. I could see the conflict on her face, the way she glanced back at Volo, biting her lip. It was almost as if she could see his fate hanging by a thread, and she was trying to decide whether to cut it or pull him back to safety. “Maybe… if we’re quick…?”

But we weren’t quick. That was the problem. Every detour, every moment we spent here, was another moment that could lead to disaster. I remembered what happened to Florrick—the way we I thought we’d saved her, only for everything to fall apart anyway. Halsin was still alive (I believed) downstairs, and we had to find him before it was too late. I couldn’t let what happened before happen again. Not this time.

“No,” I said, and my voice came out stronger than I expected. “We can’t risk it. We’ll come back for him if we can, but right now, we need to find Halsin. If we fail here, none of it will matter.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, barely audible, and turned away from him. It felt wrong, like I was betraying some unspoken promise, but I couldn’t shake the fear gnawing at my gut. The timeline had already changed once, and if it changed again… I didn’t know if I could live with another failure.

Lae'zel nodded approvingly. “Good. You are learning. Hesitation will get you killed. Now, move.”

I glanced back at Volo one last time, but his desperate eyes quickly blurred into the shadows as we continued deeper into the temple. My stomach twisted, a knot of guilt settling there, but I forced myself to keep moving. We’ll come back for him later, I told myself again, hoping it would sound more convincing in my head than it did out loud.

As I stepped forward, I noticed Astarion fall into stride beside me. He didn’t block my path or force me to stop, but I could feel his crimson red eyes on me.

“You know,” he said, his tone light, almost conversational, “I’m positively impressed. I never expected you to be the one to prioritize our survival over a helpless stranger’s life. Perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

I tried to ignore him, but he leaned closer, his voice lowering to a soft, teasing murmur. “I know you want to play the hero, just like Freya wants to save every poor soul we come across. And I see how easily influenced she is by your words, for whatever reason. So here you are, making the hard choices for her. It suits you, darling.”

The knot in my stomach tightened, and I clenched my fists to keep my hands from trembling. “We just… don’t have the time to save him right now.”

“Of course,” he said, but I could hear the amusement laced through his words. “I’m not criticizing, dear. I’m merely… surprised. I didn’t think you had it in you, but I’m glad to be proven wrong.” He glanced over at me, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. “You don’t have to play the saint all the time, you know. There’s nothing wrong with a little self-preservation.”

For a moment, I couldn’t think of what to say. Because wasn’t that exactly what I was doing? Saving ourselves, saving me from the risk of another failure, another loss? But even as the guilt clawed at my chest, I could feel the fear hiding underneath it, the terror that if we tried to save everyone, we’d end up saving no one.

“I’m doing what I have to,” I said, forcing the words out, even though they tasted bitter on my tongue. “We’re not safe here, and we need to be. If we fail, then none of this will matter.”

Astarion hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. “Oh, I don’t doubt that. I just find it fascinating, that’s all. You, making the ruthless call… it’s almost inspiring.” He grinned, showing the barest hint of his fangs. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

I quickened my pace, trying to put some distance between us, but he only followed, his expression one of bemused curiosity. He had this way of picking at my thoughts, unearthing things I didn’t want to confront, and I hated it. I hated how easy it was for him to see through me, to find the cracks in the armor I tried to wear.

Focus, I reminded myself.

I caught Freya’s eye, seeing the uncertainty there, the way she kept glancing back where Volo was kept. “Halsin’s is downstairs.” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “They’ve got him caged up. That’s where we’ll find him. In his bear-form.” She looked surpised for a second and then nodded, her jaw set with determination. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

I barely heard Freya’s whispered plan before we moved. In a blur, Lae'zel was on the two goblins guarding the door, her blade slicing through the air, a flash of steel and a muffled cry. The goblins hit the floor before they could even think to raise an alarm.

“Efficient,” Gale murmured, stepping over the bodies with a grimace.

Freya glanced back, nodding sharply. “The door. This has to be it.”

“We should hide the bodies before we go inside. Don't want the others alarmed,” I said.

Lae'zel and Karlach lifted the goblins, their lifeless forms slumping as blood dripped down. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, but I moved forward to test the handle. It was unlocked. For a moment, I hesitated, letting my hand linger on the wood, and then I pushed it open, the hinges creaking as the door swung wide.

Inside was a dimly lit chamber, more spacious than it looked on screen, filled with the harsh scent of sweat, blood, and something else—something animalistic. At the far end of the room, behind bars, was a massive bear, its fur matted and dark eyes glinting with an intelligence that sent a shiver down my spine. For a split second, the bear’s gaze locked onto mine, and I felt a strange, fleeting sense of recognition.

“That’s him,” I whispered, barely audible over the ragged breathing of the beast. “Halsin.”

Lae'zel and Karlach dropped the bodies in a dark corner, and as we inched closer, a few smaller figures skulked nearby—goblin children, their curious eyes darting between us and the prisoner as they prodded each other and whispered in low, guttural tones. One of the larger goblins, a sneering, greasy-haired creature, noticed us and lumbered forward, blocking our path.

“You lot think you can just stroll in 'ere, gawkin' at our new pet?” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at Halsin, still trapped in his bear form. “Been givin' us some good fights, this one has. We ain't lettin' him go nowhere.”

A flicker of anger flared inside me. The way they spoke about Halsin, as if he were nothing more than a plaything, made my skin crawl. I stepped forward, struggling to keep my voice calm but unable to hide the edge of disgust. “He’s not a pet. He’s a person, and you have no right to keep him like this.”

The goblin sneered, showing off a set of jagged, yellow teeth. “Oh, got yerself a soft spot, do ya? Big tough bear ain't so tough no more, eh?” He spat on the ground, prompting a cackle from one of the goblin kids nearby. “Not our fault if he got caught.”

“You’re treating him like an animal!” Karlach snapped, her hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of her axe. “He doesn’t belong here, and you know it.”

The goblin's grin twisted, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, I see how it is. Think you’re better than us, don’t ya? Just 'cause he’s big an’ strong, don’t mean we can’t break him. The Absolute likes to see things broken… so we’re doin’ our part.”

I felt a flare of rage, but before I could say anything, Wyll stepped in, his voice smooth but firm. “We’re not here to argue. Let us pass, and we won’t have to make this messy.”

The goblin hesitated, glancing at Wyll, and then over to Lae'zel, who had subtly shifted her posture, her hand poised near her weapon. A silent threat. I could see the indecision flickering in his eyes—he wanted to push back, but the odds were against him. With a reluctant grunt, he stepped aside, waving the smaller goblins away.

“Fine, fine. Go and talk to 'im then.” He glared at us, his bravado faltering slightly.

As we moved past, one of the goblin children piped up, their voice thin and mocking. “You think yer gonna save 'im? He’s jus’ gonna get caught again.”

Lae'zel’s eyes flashed, but she held her tongue, stalking past without a word. I could feel the tension radiating from her, and I knew it mirrored the frustration we all felt. There was no reasoning with them, not when they were so entrenched in the Absolute’s lies.

The moment we turned our backs, the goblin barked a command, and his underlings that were napping previously agains the wall surged forward, their sneers turning into battle cries. Wyll’s rapier flashed as he deflected the first blow, and the room erupted into chaos. I barely had time to draw my weapon before a goblin lunged at me, its blade slicing through the air where my head had been a second ago.

I parried, the clash of metal ringing in my ears, and shoved it back with my dagger, adrenaline surging. From the corner of my eye, I saw Shadowheart raise her hand, radiant magic shining around her fingers as she muttered a spell. A bolt of yellow light shot across the room, slamming into the goblin and sending him sprawling.

The chains that held Halsin creaked, groaned, and then snapped, metal links scattering across the floor. The bear charged forward through the gates, barreling into the goblins with a ferocity that left no doubt of who had the upper hand.

I stumbled back, nearly colliding with Astarion, who gave me a sly, amused look even as he parried a goblin’s strike. “Well, this is certainly more exciting than a quiet escape, isn’t it?”

The goblins didn’t stand a chance. Between the others and Halsin’s sheer, brutal strength, they fell one by one, their cries fading into silence. When the last of them lay motionless on the floor, I finally allowed myself to breathe.

Halsin shifted back, his human form reappearing, though his eyes still burned with that primal intensity. And, he was freaking naked.

“I don't know who you are, but thank you,” he began, his voice hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used in days. “Are you with the grove?”

Freya stepped forward, her eyes softening. “Yes. We’re here to free you. We’ve come with a message from the grove… they need your help.”

Halsin’s eyes closed briefly, a flicker of relief washing over his features. “Thank the Oak Father… I feared I wouldn’t see the light again. But from your expressions…” He trailed off, his gaze shifting to each of us, assessing. “You’re not just here for me, are you?”

I glanced at Freya, unsure how much to reveal, but she didn’t hesitate. “No. We need your help with something else. We’ve been… infected. Illithid parasites.”

Halsin’s eyes widened, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of the same dread that had haunted the others since the crash. “Illithid parasites…” He seemed to collect himself, drawing in a slow, steadying breath. “Then we have no time to waste. But I cannot leave yet. Not while these monsters still threaten my people.”

He turned, gesturing to the room above us. “The goblins have been gathering their forces here, consolidating power. Their leaders—True Soul Gut, Dror Ragzlin, and Minthara—must be dealt with. If we kill them, the rest will scatter. Only then will the grove be safe.”

The urgency in his voice was clear, and I felt a chill pass over me; even though I knew this would happ

“We’ll help,” Freya said, resolute. “We’ll take them down.”

Halsin’s gaze sharpened, and he nodded. “Good. But be warned—they are powerful, and they command loyalty. If we are to do this, we must be swift and decisive.”

“How about putting on some clothes in the meantime?” Gale's voice came through.

But Halsin ignored that.

“I'm going to wait here to not raise suspicion. But hurry—you need to strike soon, before they realize what’s happened here.”

Freya nodded, wiping the blood from her staff. “We’ll be right back.”

I moved to follow the others, but as I passed by the corpses, especially the children, I couldn’t help but feel sick at the gravity of it all.

“You’re hesitating again, Artemis.” Astarion’s voice teased. “Careful, or you’ll end up like them.” He nodded to the fallen goblins.

I shot him a sideways glance, trying to muster some defiance. “I’m not—”

Astarion’s lips curled, but there was no cruelty in his smile this time, just a hint of exasperated amusement. “Oh, come now. You can’t fool me. I can see the doubt all over your face.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “Sometimes, dear, we must silence that inner voice, just for a while.”

“I wish it were that easy,” I muttered, and the confession surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. Not anymore.

Astarion leaned in, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Well, luckily for you, I’m here to make it easier. Now stop brooding—we have a few more throats to cut. Then you can wallow as much as you like.”

Despite everything, a faint smile tugged at my lips. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

He feigned a thoughtful look. “It’s what passes for comfort, darling. Now, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Freya halted just before the entrance to Gut’s quarters, her eyes narrowing at the crude, makeshift shrine to the Absolute draped with rotting meat and bone trinkets. “We need to be smart about this,” she whispered, glancing back at us. “True Soul Gut is clever. If we rush in, she’ll alert the whole camp.”

“She fancies herself a priestess, doesn’t she?” Astarion mused, a smirk playing at his lips. “Perhaps we can use that.”

Lae'zel scoffed, her eyes glinting dangerously. “Or we could end her quickly. Blood will silence her tongue.”

“We’ll need a mix of both,” Shadowheart countered. “Get close, then strike.”

Freya then looked at me, her expression unreadable for a moment. “Think you can distract her?”

I nodded, trying to keep my nerves in check. “Yeah. I can try.”

“Good.” Freya’s eyes flicked to the others. “The rest of you, stay out of sight until I give the signal. And remember: we need to do this quietly.”

The door to Gut’s chamber creaked open, and I was hit with a wave of stale, musty air. Inside, the room was lit by a few flickering candles, casting shadows that danced eerily over the walls. The room was cluttered with strange relics—twisted bits of metal, blood-streaked idols, and vials filled with murky, unidentifiable liquids. Gut herself was hunched over an altar, muttering under her breath, a twisted smile curling on her lips as she ran a hand over one of the shrines.

She looked up, and her eyes gleamed when she saw me. “Well, well, what do we 'ave 'ere?” she crooned, her voice oozing false warmth. “Come to seek the blessings of the Absolute, 'ave ya?”

I forced a smile, stepping closer. “I’ve heard you have a way of… communing with the Absolute. I’d like to learn more.”

Gut’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to read me, then widened with a sickening kind of delight. “Oh, I can show you, dearie. I can show you things you can’t even dream of.” She reached for a vial on the altar, her fingers curling around it like claws. “But it’ll cost ya. Nothin’ worth doin’ comes without a price.”

I took a slow step forward, careful to keep my expression open, curious. “What kind of price?”

“Oh, we’ll get to that,” Gut said, her grin widening. “First, let me see what’s in that pretty little head of yours.”

Before I could react, she lunged forward, her fingers splayed, reaching for my forehead. I caught her wrist, but her strength surprised me, and she hissed, eyes narrowing. “Resist, will ya?” she sneered, her breath hot and rancid against my face. “That just makes this more fun.”

There was a flicker of movement behind her—Lae'zel slipping into the room, silent as a shadow, her blade glinting in the dim light. I had to keep Gut’s attention just a little longer.

“I’m not resisting,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I just want to understand. The Absolute’s power… it’s incredible.”

Gut’s expression softened, her grip loosening slightly. “Ah, yes, it is, isn’t it? The power to see, to know…” She leaned in, whispering. “To control.”

Now.

With a sudden, sharp motion, I slammed my dagger into her side. Gut gasped, her eyes widening in shock as she staggered back, blood blossoming around the blade. But she wasn’t down yet. She screeched, and I could see her mouth start to form the words for a spell—words that would bring every goblin in the camp down on us.

A flash of light and a crackle of energy interrupted her as Wyll stepped from the shadows, hurling a bolt of fire that exploded against her chest. Gut screamed, her robes catching flame, but even then, she was still fighting, clawing at the air, her eyes wild with fury.

Lae'zel didn’t hesitate. She moved in, her sword slicing clean through Gut’s throat, silencing her once and for all. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of Gut’s body hitting the floor, then the crackle of the flames as they burned out.

Gale looked down at the smoldering corpse, then up at me, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, that was… dramatic.”

“Quick and decisive,” Lae'zel said, wiping her blade clean. “Exactly as it should be.”

I breathed out, the adrenaline still thrumming in my veins. “We need to move. If anyone heard—”

“We’ll deal with them too,” Karlach interrupted, stepping closer, her voice almost thrilling. “But we’ve made a bit of noise. Might be time for a strategic retreat.”

We slipped out of Gut’s chamber, the corridors felt more claustrophobic now, the narrow passageways pressing in on us, and I could swear I heard whispers echoing off the walls. For a moment, I thought it was just my nerves—until I realized the whispers were getting louder, more distinct.

“Something’s wrong,” Gale murmured, his eyes scanning the darkened path ahead. “We should’ve seen a few goblins by now. Too quiet.”

Shadowheart stiffened, her eyes darting around the dimly lit hallway. “It is a trap,” she spat, as if the words themselves were a curse. “We are being led.”

Freya turned back, her expression grim. “They know.”

“What?” I whispered, glancing over my shoulder. “But how—?”

The words barely left my mouth when a guttural cry echoed through the tunnels, followed by the sound of clattering footsteps. Goblins began to spill into the corridor from hidden passages, their beady eyes glinting in the dim torchlight. They looked wild, eager, the promise of a fight burning in their gaze.

“Ambush!” Astarion hissed, drawing his daggers and falling into a ready stance.

The goblins didn’t hesitate. They surged toward us, weapons brandished, and the narrow hallway exploded into chaos. I barely had time to raise my dagger before one of them lunged at me, its blade cutting a narrow slice across my arm. I yelped, staggering back and parrying the next attack, my heart thudding against my ribs.

“Stick together!” Freya shouted, deflecting a blow aimed at her head. “Don’t let them split us up!”

Lae'zel was already in motion, cutting down two goblins with swift, precise strikes. “Do not falter! Fight!” she barked, her voice fierce, commanding.

Gale ducked low, a flicker of magic weaving around his fingers. “Clear some space,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Then, with a sudden, sharp gesture, he released a burst of fire that roared down the corridor, engulfing a cluster of goblins in a blinding blaze. The heat singed my skin, but I didn’t care—the screams of the goblins were drowned out by the crackling of the flames.

More goblins poured in, undeterred, and it was then I realized what this was—a delaying tactic. They weren’t here to kill us, not yet. They were stalling. Why?

“Above us!” I yelled, my eyes catching movement near the ceiling, a shadow darting along the rafters. The goblins seemed to react to my shout, their attention momentarily split as they glanced up, giving Karlach just enough time to barrel through their ranks, her axe swinging like a hammer.

“Who are they signaling?” Karlach grunted, her teeth bared in a wild, bloodthirsty grin. “Because they’re not going to make it out alive to tell anyone!”

“I’ll get it,” Astarion said, and before I could say anything, he was gone, slipping through the fray with the kind of fluid grace that only a vampire could manage. I lost sight of him, but a moment later, there was a muffled yelp from above, and a goblin body tumbled down, limp, its throat neatly slit.

“Got him,” Astarion said, reappearing beside me, blood staining his lips, his eyes alight with a wicked thrill.

The corridor was thick with the stench of sweat and blood, the goblins pressing in, trying to force us into a corner. But the moment of hesitation they’d shown after their scout had been taken out was all we needed. We regrouped, forming a tight, defensive line, and one by one, the goblins fell.

When the last of them dropped, gurgling and sputtering, I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. My arm throbbed where the blade had cut me, but I ignored it. We couldn’t afford to slow down.

Wyll knelt down, wiping his rapier on a goblin’s tattered cloak, his eyes hard. “We don’t have much time before they send more.”

“They might even be waiting for us,” Gale said, his voice grim. “If they know we’re coming…”

“Then we’ll give them something to fear,” Lae'zel said, a dangerous smile on her lips. “Let them prepare. It will make their fall all the sweeter.”

Chapter Text

As we pressed further ahead, faint voices echoed from a room up ahead—Ragzlin’s chamber, if we were right. Freya raised a hand, signaling the others to halt, and pressed herself against the cold, rough stone, listening intently. The rest of us followed suit, hearts pounding, breaths shallow.

Ragzlin’s voice rumbled through the air, thick with arrogance and venom.

“We can’t trust her anymore,” he growled. “She’s been too desperate. The Absolute don’t favor the weak.”

There was a murmur of agreement, followed by another voice, higher, more nervous. “That’s right. She’s still talkin’ about the grove like it’s some great victory, but she ain’t delivered yet. Not like you, boss.”

Freya’s eyes flicked to mine, narrowing. They were talking about Minthara. And if we were right outside Ragzlin’s chambers, this wasn’t just idle chatter—it was a conspiracy, plain and simple.

We edged closer, straining to catch every word. Ragzlin’s tone dripped with disdain, dark and resolute. “She’s a zealot. So blinded by her own ambition, she can’t see what’s right in front of her. The Absolute don’t care about some little druid grove—it wants power, control. An’ that’s what I’m gonna give it. But first, we gotta get rid of her. She won’t leave on her own… so we’ll make her.”

Freya backed away slightly, turning to us, her voice barely more than a breath. “We need to get to Minthara,” she said. “If we can warn her before Ragzlin makes his move, we can turn this whole situation on its head.”

Gale’s brow furrowed. “Warn her? We’re talking about the same Minthara who wants to wipe out the grove, yes? Hardly an ally.”

“No,” I said quietly, catching onto Freya’s plan. “But if she thinks she’s being betrayed, she’ll have no choice but to retreat. She’ll have to go back to Moonrise Towers, regroup. If she leaves, it throws Ragzlin’s plans into chaos. And if we’re lucky, we might not even have to fight every goblin in this wretched place.”

Astarion’s lips curled into a sharp, pleased smile. “Ah, divide and conquer. Create a little... discord. I like it. Let them tear each other apart.”

---

My heart pounded as the plan churned in my head. If we could get to Minthara, convince her that Ragzlin was planning her downfall, maybe we could push her out of the picture without spilling our own blood. It was a risky gamble—Minthara was ruthless, fanatical, and she’d see through any hint of weakness or deceit. But if there was one thing I’d learned, it was that power-hungry tyrants like her were always paranoid. We just had to give her enough reason to doubt.

We reached Minthara’s quarters, her door half-open, light spilling into the dark hallway. Her voice was low, harsh, snapping orders to her subordinates, who stood nervously around her. She was still plotting the attack on the grove, perhaps, oblivious to the knife poised above her back.

Something came over me then, a surge of determination (or maybe desperation, to be fair). I whispered to Freya, “I'll talk to her.” Before she could protest, I stepped inside, my heart hammering in my chest.

From the moment I laid eyes on Minthara, I knew she was trouble. It wasn’t just the way she carried herself—cold, calculated, and always coiled like a serpent ready to strike—it was her very presence. She had that piercing, crimson gaze that seemed to cut straight through you, sizing you up, deciding if you were worth her time or just another piece on her board. Like most drow, her skin was a deep, purplish-blue, almost shimmering in the dim light, and her silver (or blonde?) hair was pulled back in a messy top bun, a few stray strands framing her sharp, angular face. The effect was oddly regal, even when she was barking orders or threatening to carve someone in half.

The seal on her neck caught my eye—the black mark of House Baenre, the ancestral house of Menzoberranzan. A mark of power, a mark of blood. It spoke volumes of where she came from—a noblewoman from the Underdark, bred in the shadowy courts of the drow, where cruelty was a weapon and deceit was a way of life.

She had been raised to see others as tools, obstacles, or enemies, and she was damn good at sorting people into those categories. Her armor was sleek, dark, and polished, a perfect blend of function and intimidation. It looked like it had been made by someone who knew exactly how to craft fear as much as protection.

Personality-wise, I knew from the game that Minthara was everything I’d expected from a drow who’d spent her life clawing her way up in a world built on lies and betrayal. She had a way of speaking that made every word sound like a threat, even when she was just making an observation. It wasn’t just the tone; it was the certainty behind it, as if she believed, without a shred of doubt, that she was better than anyone she was speaking to.

I had to give her this much—she was sharp. More observant than most people gave her credit for. She could see the cracks in others, even if she didn’t care enough to try and fix them. To her, it was just information, another tool she could use when the time came. I’d seen her look at her own followers with that same, cool detachment—studying them, measuring their worth, always ready to cut them loose.

Still, she wasn’t just cruel for the sake of it. Everything she did, she did with purpose. If she was violent, it was because violence got results. If she was deceitful, it was because deception would win her what she wanted. That made her dangerous—not just because she was powerful, but because she was smart. She understood the game she was playing, and she was willing to do whatever it took to win. And if she had to cut down anyone who stood in her way, so be it.

I didn’t trust her, not for a second. But I understood her, in a way. She was a survivor, like me, trying to navigate a world that was hell-bent on tearing her apart. She was ruthless, and cruel, and power-hungry—but she was also fighting for something, even if I couldn’t see what it was. And that made her dangerous, because people like that... they’re the hardest to break.

I stepped inside, and the room fell silent. Minthara’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing as she registered who I was. Her hand went immediately to the hilt of her blade, her posture coiled, ready for a fight.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her tone sharp and commanding.

I raised my hands, signaling that I was unarmed. “It’s about Ragzlin.”

“Ragzlin?” she repeated, her lips curling into a sneer. “What of him? Speak quickly, or I’ll have your tongue.”

I swallowed hard at her tone, trying to sound as confident as possible.

“He’s planning to betray you. He’s been rallying the other goblins against you, telling them you’re weak, that you’ve failed the Absolute by not delivering the grove yet. He wants you gone, and he’s planning to make his move today.”

Minthara’s expression didn’t change, but I could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes, the slightest tightening of her grip on her weapon. “Lies,” she hissed, but there was less conviction behind it than before. “You think I don’t know Ragzlin? He’s a brute, but he’s loyal.”

“No,” I said, stepping closer, forcing her to meet my gaze. “He’s loyal to himself. He sees an opportunity to take power, and he’s going to use you as a stepping stone. Think about it, Minthara. Why would he keep you here, in the shadows, planning for a grove you haven’t even conquered yet, when he’s gathering all the other leaders to his side?”

The room was still, the silence heavy. Minthara’s eyes darted, weighing every word. She was angry, I could see that—the kind of anger that comes from feeling cornered, vulnerable. But more than that, she was calculating, trying to piece together the puzzle I handed her.

“Even if you’re right,” she said finally, her voice low and dangerous, “why should I care? The Absolute’s will is all that matters, and if Ragzlin thinks he can defy it—”

“He’s using the Absolute as a cover,” I interrupted. “You know that as well as I do. He doesn’t care about the grand plans or visions. He wants control. And if you don’t act now, he’ll make sure you don’t get a second chance to prove your loyalty to the Absolute.”

For a moment, I thought she might strike me down, but then she laughed—a bitter, harsh sound. “You’re bold,” she said, almost amused. “I’ll give you that. But if Ragzlin is plotting against me, he’s a fool. I can crush him and his pathetic band of goblins. And I don't know what you are gaining out of this situation.” Well, shit. 

“If you stay, you’ll be fighting a war on all fronts. But if you retreat to Moonrise Towers, regroup, you can come back with reinforcements. Wipe him out and claim the stronghold for yourself.” I was hoping these reasons sounded convicing enough, without having to explain myself.

“You want me to run?” she said, her tone dripping with disdain. “Cowardice.” Well, I guess that hit a nerve.

“Survival,” I corrected. “You know better than anyone how to bide your time, to wait for the right moment to strike. This isn’t retreat—it’s strategy. If Ragzlin’s so desperate to seize power, let him think he’s won. Let him become the problem, and then deal with him on your terms.”

 She stared at me, the room heavy with her silence. I could feel the tension building, the moment stretching out, each heartbeat hammering in my chest. 

“If this is some trick, I will see to it that your death is slow and agonizing.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” I said, holding her gaze. My palms were getting sweaty.

As she wanted to say something, one of her lieutenants burst into the room, out of breath, eyes wide with panic. “Commander! There’s been—”

He froze when he saw me, his face going pale. Minthara’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and demanding. “What is it?” she barked.

“The goblins... Ragzlin’s goblins,” he stammered, “they’ve been watching the tunnels. They’re gathering now, ready to... attack your quarters.” Ah, perfect timing. 

Ragzlin was moving faster than we thought, trying to wipe out Minthara and anyone associated with her before she could catch on to his plan. Maybe that's why he had spies on us too. 

Taking a minute to think about everything, I was still surprised by the turn of events. The game didn't show any hint of an internal betrayal, that's why I was so unsure about this risky plan. But maybe it was exactly what we needed. 

She pushed past me, then through the others after she went trough the door, not even reacting to them standing there. Her footsteps echoing down the dark hallways as she made her way to the hidden tunnels. I walked back to the group, my mind racing. “We need to make this look like chaos,” I said. “If Ragzlin thinks we’re on Minthara’s side, he’ll come for us. But if we can make him believe it was all a distraction, we might be able to throw him off long enough for her to get away.”

Astarion’s grin was sharp, almost feral. “Oh, I do love a little chaos.”

“Then let’s give them hell,” Gale said, flames flickering to life in his palm.

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.”

Chapter Text

Minthara had left, her lieutenants trailing after her, but the fortress felt no safer than before. In fact, it felt even more volatile, like the walls themselves were bracing for impact. I could still feel the weight of her final words hanging over me, heavy and cold, a promise of violence waiting to be fulfilled. But not just that—she said she knew me? Recognize me? I'll have to wait 'til Moonrise to ask her why I, or more like Penelope, seems familiar to her.

Freya’s hand lingered on my shoulder a moment, grounding me, but even she couldn’t mask the tension that coiled around us. “We should get moving,” she said softly. “Before things get worse.”

But things did get worse.

A guttural roar echoed through the corridor, followed by a chorus of war cries. It was Ragzlin’s forces, the sound of them thundering through the temple, the heavy clank of iron and the snarling hiss of goblins preparing for a fight. We had no time left to slip away quietly, no chance to avoid this. They were already here.

“They’ve breached the eastern wing,” Gale said, his voice urgent. “We have to cut through, or we’ll be surrounded.”

Wyll unsheathed his rapier, the blade glinting under the flickering torches. “I’d suggest we run, but something tells me we’re not getting out of this without a fight.”

Freya’s eyes hardened, and she pulled out her staff, the familiar gleam of determination settling in. “Then let’s make it a fight they’ll remember.”

We moved quickly, pushing our way through the narrow passage until it opened up into a larger hall. It was chaos—cultists and goblins clashing, the air thick with the scent of blood and smoke. Ragzlin’s forces had swarmed the area, overwhelming Minthara’s followers. For a moment, it was hard to tell who was winning, but it didn’t matter. We were right in the middle of it, and we were outnumbered.

I barely had time to draw my daggers before a goblin lunged at me, its jagged knife aimed at my throat. I twisted, slashing upward, catching it under the chin. It staggered back, but I didn’t have a moment to breathe before another rushed in, and another. My arms burned as I blocked, parried, struck back, but there were too many of them. I could hear Freya cursing as she spun, her magic cutting down anything that got too close, and Gale’s incantations as he hurled fire at the advancing horde.

Karlach was a blur beside me, her axe flashing, but even she was struggling to keep them at bay. “They’re pushing us back,” she shouted, her voice barely audible over the din. “We need to break their line or we’re done for.”

And then I saw him—Ragzlin, hulking and brutal, his massive frame towering over the smaller goblins as he carved a path through the chaos. His eyes were wild, filled with the thrill of the fight, and when he spotted us, they gleamed with recognition.

“There you are,” he snarled, his voice booming across the hall. “Thought you could sneak away, didn’t you?”

He charged, swinging his massive axe with terrifying speed. I barely had time to react, throwing up my daggers to block, but the force of the blow sent me reeling. My arms shook, the metal vibrating against my bones.

I felt something warm and wet trickling down my arm—blood. My vision blurred, and I stumbled back, trying to steady myself. Ragzlin grinned, his teeth sharp and gleaming. “I’ll enjoy tearing you apart,” he said, raising his axe again.

But before he could bring it down, Shadowheart shouted a spell, and a wall of light magic erupted between us, forcing Ragzlin to step back. “We need to take him out now,” she said, her voice strained. “Before he rallies the rest of them.”

I knew she was right, but I could barely stand, let alone face Ragzlin head-on. My arms felt heavy, my limbs sluggish, and I could feel my strength slipping away. I looked around, searching for anything, anyone that could help us, but all I saw were more enemies, more bloodshed.

And then Ragzlin was on me again, the fire doing little to deter him. He swung his axe low, aiming for my legs, and I barely managed to dodge, the blade grazing my thigh. Pain exploded, hot and sharp, and I fell, my knees hitting the cold stone.

“No!” I heard Freya scream, but I couldn’t see her, couldn’t see anything but Ragzlin’s shadow looming over me, his axe raised, ready to deliver the final blow.

I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t die. Not like this, not when there was still so much I had to do, so much that depended on us making it to Moonrise Towers. Desperation surged in me, dark and frantic, and I reached out, not knowing what I was reaching for, but something answered.

It was cold, colder than anything I’d ever felt, like a shard of ice piercing through my chest, spreading out through my veins. My vision darkened at the edges, but I didn’t let go. I held onto it, that cold, unrelenting power, and it moved through me, filling me, taking over.

Ragzlin’s axe came down—but it never connected. Black and green tendrils shot out from my hands, twisting around the blade, around his arm, and for a moment, his eyes widened in shock. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I didn’t need to. I could feel the power, like a dark, hungry thing inside me, and I let it out.

The tendrils tightened, seeping into his skin, and I saw the life drain from his eyes, his body crumbling, decaying, as if the very essence of him was being sucked away. Ragzlin screamed, but it was cut short, his voice dissolving into a choked, gurgling sound.

I could hear the others shouting, but their voices were distant, drowned out by the roar of blood in my ears. All I could see was Ragzlin, his flesh withering, his strength fading, until there was nothing left but a husk, a hollow shell that collapsed at my feet.

The tendrils retreated, slipping back into me, and the cold ebbed, leaving me gasping, shaking. I looked down at my hands, half-expecting to see them blackened, charred, but they were just hands—my hands. But I could still feel it, that darkness, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting.

“What... what did you do?” Gale’s voice broke through the haze, and I looked up to see him staring at me, wide-eyed, like he didn’t recognize me. Freya was beside him, her face pale, her eyes full of questions, but she didn’t say anything.

I didn’t have an answer for them. I didn’t even have an answer for myself. All I knew was that Ragzlin was dead, and I had killed him—really killed him, in a way that felt more final, more absolute than any sword or spell could have managed.

And it terrified me.

“We need to move,” Astarion said, breaking the silence, his voice urgent. “More of them are coming. We can’t stay here.”

I nodded, forcing myself to stand, to push the fear and confusion down. But my body didn't let me, it was too weak to stand. Wyll came to me and lift me up, his arms around my shoulders, helping me walk.

As we hurried through the blood-streaked halls, I glanced back at Ragzlin’s lifeless body, and a shiver ran down my spine.

If Minthara knew what had just happened... she wouldn’t just kill me. She’d fear me.

Chapter Text

The temple was a bloodbath. Everywhere we turned, there was another wave of goblins, and we cut through them like shadows, swift and relentless. My daggers was slick with their blood, my muscles burning with the effort of every swing. I could hear Lae'zel’s war cries, Gale’s incantations, and the slicing whisper of Astarion’s daggers as he moved beside me, never missing a step. But for every goblin we felled, another two seemed to take its place, snarling and shrieking, eyes wild with fury.

My side throbbed, a sharp, stabbing pain where Ragzlin’s axe had cut deep. Shadowheart had managed to heal some of the worst of it, but she’d been pulled away before she could finish. Now, each movement felt like a knife twisting in my ribs, and I could feel the warmth of blood soaking through my clothes again, sticky and wet. I bit down on the pain, forcing myself to keep moving. We were so close—Halsin was somewhere deeper, waiting for the signal that it was safe to make his move. We just had to reach him.

A goblin lunged at me, its jagged blade aimed at my throat, and I barely managed to parry, my arm screaming in protest. I shoved it back, stumbling, and felt the world tilt for a moment, my vision blurring. I could hear Karlach shouting something, but the words were lost in the cacophony around us. I tried to focus, tried to steady myself, but the pain was blinding, a hot, searing thing that made it hard to think.

“Artemis!” Astarion’s voice cut through the chaos. He appeared beside me, his twin daggers flashing as he dispatched the goblin with a single, brutal slash. He caught my arm, steadying me, his crimson eyes flickering with something I couldn’t quite read. “Try not to die, darling. It would be dreadfully inconvenient.”

I forced a weak smile, even though it hurt. “I’m fine,” I lied, trying to pull away, but he didn’t let go.

“You’re bleeding everywhere,” he said, his voice low, almost accusing. “And not in the fun way.”

“Keep going!” Shadowheart shouted from ahead, hurling another lightwave that exploded against a cluster of goblins, scattering them. “We’re almost through!”

“Karlach and I are going to get Halsin, you guys head out!” I heard Wyll shouting.

“You should go with them. They will need your help.” I said to Astarion, my voice raspy from pain and exhaustion.

Astarion’s grip tightened for a moment, like he was going to argue, but then he let go, turning to slash at another goblin that had crept too close. “Fine,” he muttered. “But if you collapse, I’m not carrying you. Someone else will have to play hero.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue, so I just nodded and kept moving, one foot in front of the other, even as every step sent jolts of pain up my spine. The corridor was narrowing, the walls closing in, and I could see the exit just ahead, a faint glimmer of moonlight filtering through the cracks. We were almost there.

Freya was the first to burst through, and I followed, stumbling into the cool night air, my chest heaving. The goblin camp stretched out before us, a dark sprawl of tents and makeshift barricades. Fires burned, casting long shadows, and in the distance, I could see the grove, a dark silhouette against the horizon. We just had to make it there.

But then, more goblins appeared, blocking our path, their weapons glinting in the firelight. My heart sank. We were so close, and I didn’t know if I had the strength to fight anymore. My vision swam, and for a moment, I thought I might fall.

Then, out of the darkness, a massive figure stepped forward, his broad shoulders blocking out the light. Halsin. He moved with the quiet, effortless grace of a predator, his eyes sharp and bright, and when he raised his hand, I saw the glint of a silver staff, the runes along its length glowing faintly. “Get down!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the din, and I didn’t hesitate, dropping to the ground as he swept his staff in a wide arc.

A wave of energy exploded outwards, slamming into the goblins with the force of a storm. They were thrown back, their bodies crumpling, and the few that remained standing quickly turned tail and ran, disappearing into the night. The camp was silent, the air still buzzing with the echo of Halsin’s magic, and I let out a shaky breath, my limbs trembling with exhaustion.

“Are you all right?” Halsin asked, striding over to me, his eyes scanning my injuries. “You're bleeding quite heavily.”

“I can keep it up.” I said, but my voice was weak, and even I could hear the lie in it. Halsin frowned, kneeling beside me, his hands gentle as he inspected the wound on my side. I winced as he pressed down, and he muttered something under his breath, his brow furrowing. “This needs attention now, or you'll be feeding more than just mosquitoes.”

He began to work, his hands moving deftly, and I felt a warmth spread through me, soothing the pain, dulling the edges of it. I could see the faint glow of magic, feel it knitting the torn flesh together, but it wasn’t enough to heal me completely. Just enough to keep me standing. “This should hold for now,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting mine. “Nature's healing can mend this, but you should rest soon.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, and for a moment, the world seemed to blur, the edges going soft and hazy. I was so tired, my body screaming for rest, but I forced myself to stay awake. We still had to get to the grove.

Halsin didn’t let go of me, even when he was done. He slipped an arm around my shoulders, just like Wyll did earlier, his grip firm but gentle, and lifted me to my feet. “Easy,” he said, steadying me as I swayed.

“Oh, how fortunate,” Astarion said, his tone light, almost playful, but there was something else to it that made me glance over at him. He was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What's next, leeches and tree bark tea?”

“Mock it if you will,” Halsin replied evenly, not looking up from his work, “but this 'rustic' magic will keep her from bleeding out while you stand there preening.”

“Preening?" Astarion's voice pitched higher with indignation. “I'll have you know I was keeping watch for more enemies. Some of us can't just lumber about like oversized badgers.”

The druid's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly—the only sign of irritation he'd show. “And some of us actually help when our companions are injured.”

“Oh, how deliciously self-righteous,” Astarion purred, but there was a genuine edge beneath the mockery. “Tell me, does that halo ever get heavy?”

“Could we perhaps save the philosophical debate for when we're not surrounded by corpses?” I managed.

“Let’s just go.” Gale said, cutting through the moment with a look of exasperation. “The last thing we need is another wave of them.”

Halsin nodded, and we started to move, making our way through the camp, the forest, the shadows stretching long and dark around us. I leaned against him, grateful for the support, even if it made me feel small, fragile. It was strange—Halsin’s presence was so solid, so sure, and for a moment, I felt safe, like nothing could touch me as long as he was there. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Astarion watching, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark and glittering, and I wondered what he was thinking.

We made it to the edge of the grove just as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, turning the sky a pale, silvery blue. I could see the others from the grove waiting, their faces a mix of relief and worry as we approached. Halsin didn’t let go of me until we were right at the entrance, and even then, he kept a hand on my arm, guiding me forward.

“Get her to the healers,” he said, his voice firm, and I felt a surge of warmth in my chest, a flicker of something that I didn’t quite understand. “Make sure she gets the care she needs.”

Freya and Gale moved to take me from him, but before they could, Astarion stepped forward, blocking their path. “I’ll take her,” he said. “I do believe I'm perfectly capable of escorting our fearless Artemis to safety.”

His smile was all charm and edges. “After all, we can't have her collapsing dramatically without a proper audience, can we?”

Halsin's eyes narrowed slightly—not with anger, but with the patient wariness of someone watching a snake coil. “This isn't a performance, Astarion.”

“Oh, but isn't everything?” Astarion's laugh was light, almost musical. “Besides, I promise to resist the urge to let her trip. Mostly.”

“Your concern is... touching,” I managed weakly.

“Don't mistake self-interest for sentimentality, darling,” Astarion replied, though his arm slipped around me with surprising gentleness. "I simply can't have you dying before you've outlived your usefulness to me.”

Halsin watched this exchange with a peculiar expression of his. "See that you don't let your particular hungers complicate her recovery.”

Astarion's smile turned razor-thin. “My, my. Such dark thoughts. Whatever could you mean by that?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do I?” Astarion's grip on me tightened protectively, belying his casual tone.

I was too tired to think about any of it, too tired to do anything but lean into Astarion’s arms and let him guide me, the world around us blurring, fading, until there was nothing left but the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart, and the soft, soothing darkness that finally, finally swallowed me whole.

Chapter Text

Consciousness returned like a tide—slowly, then all at once. The world reassembled itself in fragments: wooden beams overhead, the earthy scent of healing herbs, and a persistent ache that ran through my body like cracks in old stone. My throat felt raw, my limbs heavy as lead.

The grove. We'd made it back.

I tried to shift, and immediately regretted it as fire shot through my side.

“Ah, there she is,” came a familiar voice, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “The hero awakens. Do try not to tear yourself open again, darling—blood is so terribly difficult to get out of these sheets.”

My vision focused to find Astarion lounging in a chair beside the bed with the casual elegance of a cat in a sunbeam. He was studying his nails with apparent fascination, but I caught the way his eyes flicked to me, sharp and assessing.

“Astarion?” My voice came out as barely more than a croak. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping vigil over you, of course.” His tone was light, almost mocking, but something flickered across his features too quickly to catch. “Someone had to ensure you didn’t expire in your sleep. Think of the paperwork.”

I managed a weak laugh, which earned me one of his razor-sharp smiles. “How long was I out?”

“Oh, only a few hours. Nothing too dramatic, I’m afraid. Though you did give our druid friend quite the fright—all that fussing and fretting. Honestly, you’d think he’d never seen someone collapse from blood loss before.” Astarion waved a dismissive hand. “I assured him you were far too stubborn to die from something so pedestrian.”

Despite everything, I found myself smiling. “Your confidence in me is... touching.”

“Well, someone had to make sure you didn’t slip away while we weren’t looking,” he said with forced lightness, though something flickered behind his eyes. “Can’t have our illustrious leader abandoning us for whatever lies beyond, can we? Terribly inconsiderate.”

“Right. Usefulness.” I tried to sit up again, slower this time, and he was there immediately—hands cool and steady as they helped ease me upright. The gesture was so at odds with his casual words that it left me momentarily speechless.

He noticed my stare and withdrew his hands quickly, settling back with renewed nonchalance. “Can’t have you falling over again. The others would never let me hear the end of it.”

“The others?”

“Mmm, yes. Gale’s been pacing holes in the floor, muttering about healing potions. Shadowheart’s been radiating disapproval at anyone who breathes too loudly. And our beloved druid...” His smile turned sharp. “Well, he’s been hovering like a mother hen with particularly impressive biceps.”

There was something in his tone—not quite jealousy, but close to it. Before I could examine that thought too closely, he continued.

“But enough about our merry band of misfits. You gave us quite the performance out there.” His red eyes studied me with predatory focus. “Throwing yourself at those goblins like you had nothing to lose. Magnificent and utterly mad.”

Heat crept up my neck. “I was doing what needed to be done.”

“Oh, I’m not criticizing, darling. Far from it.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s fascinating, really. The way you court death so casually. As if you’re trying to prove something.”

“Prove what?”

His head tilted, considering. “That you’re worth saving, perhaps? That you deserve to take up space in this miserable world?” His smile turned almost sad. “Or maybe you’re simply addicted to the thrill of cheating death. I do understand the appeal.”

The words hit closer to home than I cared to admit. “Is that your professional opinion, Doctor Astarion?”

“Oh, I’m hardly qualified to analyze anyone’s mental state,” he said with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m just... observant. It’s a survival skill.”

We sat in silence for a moment, and I found myself studying his face—the sharp angles, the way shadows played across his pale skin. There was something unguarded in his expression, a crack in his usual armor.

“Why did you stay?” I asked quietly. “Really?”

For the first time since I’d known him, Astarion seemed at a loss for words. His mouth opened, closed, then curved into a self-deprecating smile. “Would you believe morbid curiosity?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Difficult crowd.” He stood abruptly, pacing to the small window. “Perhaps I wanted to be the first to hear your dying words. Imagine the material—‘Last words of a hero: surprisingly boring.’”

“Astarion.”

He stilled, shoulders tense. “You know, most people would simply accept a charming deflection and move on.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he said softly, still facing away. “You’re really not, are you?”

When he turned back, his mask was firmly in place, but I’d seen beneath it—just for a moment. “Well, this has been delightfully maudlin, but I believe there’s a celebration brewing. Something about ‘heroic deeds’ and ‘not being murdered by goblins.’ The tieflings are positively beside themselves with joy.”

“A party?”

“Mmm. Wine, song, terrible dancing—the works. Quite the production for a group that was ready to be slaughtered yesterday.” His smile turned wicked. “I do hope you’re feeling up to it. It would be such a shame to waste all that adoration on a sickbed.”

Despite my exhaustion, I felt a spark of anticipation. After everything we’d been through, maybe a celebration was exactly what we needed.

“Think you can manage to stay upright long enough for a toast?” Astarion asked, extending his hand with theatrical gallantry.

I took it, his skin cool against my palm. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

Chapter Text

As we stepped towards our camp, the cool night air washed over me, a welcome relief after the stifling heat inside. I could hear the distant murmur of voices, the crackling of a campfire, but Astarion didn’t lead me toward the sound. Instead, he veered off to the side, guiding me away from the main path, toward a small, secluded alcove shaded by the overhang of a rocky outcrop. The firelight barely reached this far, leaving us in a soft, quiet darkness.

“I thought you wanted to join the celebration?” I asked, glancing at him curiously. “You know, toasting to our victory.”

“Oh please, the party will be absolutely dreadful,” he said with a dismissive wave, though there was a playful glint in his eyes. “All that earnest gratitude and heartfelt speeches. Ghastly. Besides, we'll join them eventually. For now, let's savor some civilized company.”

Before I could respond, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, dark bottle. He turned it over in his hands, the glass catching the faint light, and raised an eyebrow at me. “Care to indulge?”

I recognize the bottle; He had offered it to me before when I was having a rough night, his way of trying to lift my spirits.

I took it once again, the liquid was sharp and burning, and I grimaced as it went down, but it was better than nothing. “Is this your idea of a celebration?” I asked, passing the bottle back to him. “Sneaking off and drinking in the dark?”

He took a sip, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “Oh, darling, there’s no need to be so sour about it. I’m simply making the most of an opportunity.” He leaned back against the rock, stretching his legs out in front of him, his posture lazy and relaxed. “There’s something to be said for a little privacy, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, but I felt myself relaxing too, the ache in my side dulling with the warmth of the drink. “You mean you’d rather not have to share your wine with anyone else.”

“That too,” he said, chuckling. “But mostly, you’re different when it’s just the two of us, you know.”

“Am I?” I asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Mm, less guarded,” he said, his voice softening. “Not entirely, of course. You still have your defenses. Quite impressive ones, actually. But occasionally you let them slip just enough to keep me guessing. And I do so enjoy a mystery.”

He shifted closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were savoring each inch of distance closed between us. His knee pressed against mine, lingering just a bit too long to be accidental. One hand came to rest on the rock behind me, trapping me in a casual but unmistakably intimate way, his fingers tracing idle, featherlight patterns along my arm. I felt his other hand drift to my hip, fingertips pressing just enough to send a small thrill through me. He tilted his head, leaning in, his gaze flicking to my lips with a look that was equal parts invitation and challenge.

It was so easy to be drawn in, to forget for a moment what I knew about him—about his charm, the practiced way he used it to pull others in, only to keep them at arm’s length when it suited him. I caught the faintest smirk on his lips, that spark of calculation in his eyes. I knew this game of his, and I knew the answer he was hoping for.

And to be frank, it would have been easy to let him; that was how he operated, after all. But I reached out, gently placing my hand on his, stilling his subtle advance. “You don’t have to do that,” I said softly, meeting his gaze. “Not with me.”

His eyes flashed with genuine surprise, as if I'd spoken in a foreign tongue. The practiced seduction faltered for just a heartbeat before his mask snapped back into place, letting out a short, airy laugh, brittle around the edges.

“Oh? And what am I doing?” his voice laced with silk and venom. He drew himself up, slipping back into the easy, graceful arrogance he wore like armor. “Really, darling, I think you’re rather overestimating yourself.” he scoffed, his gaze darting to the side as though my words were just a passing inconvenience.

But I didn’t let go of his hand, my grip gentle yet firm. I met his eyes without flinching, and as I held his gaze, I saw his confidence waver, just a fraction. “I’m not here because of what you can offer me, Astarion,” I said, my voice soft but steady. “I’m here because I want to be. Just this. It's enough.”

He stilled, his hand tense beneath mine, as if debating whether to pull away or lean in. The forced smile faded, and he looked at me in silence. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked… trapped, like he’d been caught in a snare he hadn’t anticipated.

“I’m not—” He began to say something, but cut himself off, his mouth snapping shut, like he didn't know what else to say . His eyes narrowed, irritation flashing across his face, though I could tell it was directed more at himself than at me. The silence stretched, and he finally let out a reluctant sigh, some of the tension in his shoulders softening.

“Let's forget about that.” he murmured, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful, though he tried to keep a playful edge. “You know, in two centuries, I don't think anyone has ever told me what I 'don't have to do.' ” His tone was light, mocking, but beneath it, I could see it: an almost imperceptible relief. For all his pretense, there was a flicker of something genuine, almost grateful, even if he wouldn’t admit it. “How refreshingly... naive of you.”

But true to form, he quickly masked it, pulling his hand back and leaning back with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

“Fine, then,” he continued, huffing, but his voice had lost its usual venom. “If that’s what you want—just sitting here, basking in the glow of mutual company like some sentimental idiot—then who am I to argue?”

He glanced away, the faintest hint of a blush coloring his cheeks before he masked it with a lazy, sardonic grin. It was a rare glimpse—a flash of something raw and unguarded—and in that brief moment, I felt I was closer to the real Astarion than ever before.

We sat there for a while, passing the bottle back and forth, the night stretching out around us, quiet and endless. I could still hear the distant sounds of laughter, the crackling of the campfire, but it felt like they belonged to a different world, far away from this little pocket of solitude we’d carved out for ourselves.

Eventually, Astarion looked at me, his eyes glinting with a familiar, playful mischief. “You know, our adoring public is still waiting. They'll be devastated if their heroes don't grace them with an appearance. Think of all those disappointed faces.”

I smiled, feeling a strange warmth in my chest, a quiet, contented feeling I hadn’t had in a long time. “Maybe they can wait a little longer,” I said, and for once, I didn’t feel the need to rush, to move on to the next thing. “I’m not quite ready to leave yet.”

Astarion’s lips curved into a slow, lazy grin, and he raised the bottle in a mock toast. “To stolen moments, then. And to keeping everyone guessing.”

“To stolen moments,” I echoed.

Chapter Text

The celebration was in full swing, with laughter, music, and the rich aroma of roasting meats filling the night air. Our camp was transformed, lit up with warm lanterns and the glow of campfires. Tieflings mingled in high spirits, sharing drinks and stories, their faces a blend of relief and joy. After all they’d been through, it felt like the night itself was exhaling, releasing a tension that had bound them all.

I moved through the crowd, letting the sounds and sights wash over me. Here and there, I caught glimpses of my companions, each of them relaxed in their own way. Wyll was laughing heartily with a group of tiefling children, recounting one of his many stories. Karlach was arm-wrestling Halsin, roaring with laughter every time he tried—and failed—to best her.

As I wandered, I found Gale nursing a goblet of wine, his expression thoughtful. “Ah, Artemis,” he greeted, raising his glass. “Quite the night, isn’t it?”

“It really is,” I replied, smiling as I joined him. “Feels like a proper victory, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, his gaze distant. “Victory, yes. Though these days, I find myself wondering more about what comes after victory.” He gave a half-smile, a bit of sadness in his eyes. “But tonight… tonight, I think we can all just be. No calculations, no strategies. Just good company and good wine.” Was he worrying about his orb?

I raised my own mug in a mock toast, hoping to distract him. “To good wine, then.”

From across the fire, Lae'zel raised her voice. “Enjoy your revels while you can. Danger can strike at any time.” But even she seemed somewhat relaxed, her usually tense posture softened, her gaze scanning the crowd, alert but not on edge.

“You know Lae'zel, sometimes you have the edginess of a teenager.”

I gained a chuckle from Gale and heard only a “Tsk.” from her before Lae'zel walked towards Freya.

Just then, I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned to see Alfira, her face alight with excitement as she looked up at me. “You’re Artemis, aren’t you?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.

I smiled, trying to hide how thrilled I was to meet her in person. “I am! And you’re Alfira.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You… you know me?”

“Oh, well,” I stammered, quickly covering. “I’ve heard about you from the others. I hear you’re a gifted bard.”

She flushed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, I do try. Music has always been a part of me. There’s just something about it, isn’t there? How it fills the silence, how it makes you feel…”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I replied, nodding. “Music is like… magic, in its own way.”

Alfira’s eyes lit up. “Do you sing, then?”

“Only when I’m alone,” I admitted with a laugh. “And, well… mostly in the bath. My singing voice isn’t exactly what you’d call… passable.”

Alfira scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. “Nonsense! With a speaking voice like yours—smooth as butter, if I may say—you’d make a wonderful singer. Come on, sing with me! Just one song.”

“Oh, no, I really don’t—” I started to protest, but she was already tuning her lute, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Oh, hush,” she teased. “You give me a beat, and I’ll play whatever you know, so you can sing along. Music’s meant to be shared, not hidden away!”

Ugh, I hated to be put in the spot like this. I was especially embarrased to sing in front of other people, even though it was just Alfira (and Gale kinda standing next to us). Feeling a bit bashful but emboldened by the spirit of the evening, the alcohol, and not wanting to dampen Alfiras good mood, I tapped out a simple beat, something that felt familiar and easy. Alfira listened, nodding to the rhythm, her fingers dancing over the lute as she picked up the tune.

I took a deep breath and began to sing, as quietly as possible so the others wouldn't hear.

It was a song I knew well, a tune that had always lifted my spirits when I needed it most.

As I sang, my voice grew stronger, filling the night air around us. To my surprise, I didn’t sound half-bad—in fact, I managed to hit every note with ease. The melody came naturally, the rhythm almost instinctual, like something deep within me knew exactly where to go. I could feel Alfira’s approving smile even without looking at her.

When we finished, Alfira grinned at me, her eyes twinkling. “See? I knew you had it in you. A bit of courage, that’s all it takes.”

“It’s strange,” I murmured, more to myself than to her. “I never thought I could… sing like that.”

I blinked, a sudden realization dawning. Singing had never felt this… easy. This right. Almost as if—

“Well, you just did,” Alfira laughed, giving her lute a triumphant strum. “Maybe there’s a bit of a bard in you after all.”

Her words clicked into place, and it hit me: in this world, where magic and fate intertwined, perhaps I wasn’t just playing a part. Just as the others had their abilities—magic, strength, skills honed by lives I couldn’t fully understand—I, too, had been given something. A class. A calling. The skills and spirit of a bard.

The realization left me breathless.

Of all things, a bard? 

I laughed abou the sheer irony.  “Thank you, Alfira. That… was fun. And enlightening.”

“You’re welcome. And if you ever want a lesson or two…” She winked, strumming a final playful chord before wandering off, leaving me feeling lighter than I had in days.

As I moved back towards the campfire, Shadowheart intercepted me, a slight smirk playing on her lips. “Did I just see you singing, Artemis?” she teased, eyebrow raised.

“Hardly,” I replied with a shrug, though I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. “I might’ve hummed… a little.”

“Well, it’s about time you relaxed,” she said, nudging me gently.

“How about you? I haven't seen you mingle much, nor joining the others in a dance. Not much of a dancer, huh?”

Shadowheart’s lips curled into a faint smile. “I prefer to watch. But who knows, a few more drinks, and I might be convinced otherwise.”

“Now that’s something I’d like to see,” I said, laughing as I imagined it. “Shadowheart, breaking into a jig. The world wouldn’t know what hit it.”

The half-elf chuckled softly, her dark eyes glinting. “Maybe you will, one day. Though, if I recall, you aren’t exactly the most coordinated yourself.”

Before I could protest, I felt a familiar presence at my side. Astarion had appeared, his movements quiet as always, slipping in beside me like a shadow. “Our dear Artemis,” he drawled, flashing me a playful grin. “Singing, laughing… what’s next? Seducing a tiefling-boy?”

“Don’t tempt me,” I retorted, trying to match his tone.

He chuckled, leaning in slightly, his voice low. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare, darling. But if you do decide to do so, well… I’ll be sure to watch.”

As the evening wore on, our group gradually gathered together, each of us relaxing in our own ways. Wyll offered me another cup of wine, his face warm with a genuine smile. “To our victory,” he toasted, lifting his cup. 

As the conversation continued, we drifted into lighter topics—Wyll sharing stories of his escapades, Lae'zel boasting about the goblins she’d cleaved in two, and even Gale waxing poetic about the stars above us. At some point, Karlach leaned forward, curiosity lighting up her eyes. “You know, Artemis, we’ve been together a while now… but I don’t think any of us actually know much about you. What was your life like before all of… this?”

I hesitated, caught off guard. The truth about where I came from wasn’t something I could explain, not without revealing everything. But as they all watched me, genuine interest in their eyes, I realized I could give them something, a glimpse of the person I was—before the body possesion, before all of this.

“Well,” I began slowly, searching for the right words. “I led a quiet life, mostly. Nothing like this, I assure you. No goblins, no magic, no… vampires, obviously.”

Astarion snorted, pretending to look offended. “Obviously.”

Shadowheart tilted her head, watching me closely. “A quiet life, hm? What was it you did?”

“Not adventuring,” I said with a small laugh. “I spent most of my days working, meeting friends and, well… I suppose I always had an interest in people, in understanding them. But this… this is all new to me.” I gestured to the campfire, the laughing tieflings, the companions around me. “Where I'm from, there are only humans. We might not have spells, beasts and other supernatural things… But I believe we are far more advanced when it comes to technology.”

Before anyone had a chance to say something, a sudden chill snuffed out the warmth, as though a shadow had passed over the moon.

Then, from the edges of the firelight, a figure emerged.

She was striking—impossible to ignore. Short, fiery-red hair tucked neatly behind pointed ears, her skin an unnatural, icy blue that contrasted with purplish lips and coal-black eyes speckled with flecks of fire. She wore a simple but elegant blue dress, cinched by a gilded belt that gleamed under the firelight. Four horns rose from her brow, adding to her sinister allure, and the wings at her back, leathery and immense, unfurled just slightly, casting a dark, flickering shadow.

Mizora.

Chapter Text

The tieflings froze, their joy dampened by terror as her gaze fell upon Wyll. She smirked, a twisted satisfaction glinting in her eyes as she sauntered forward, one hand resting on her hip.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite aspiring hero.” Her voice was as smooth as silk, laced with something sharp and dangerous. She took her time, circling Wyll as if he were a prize on display. “But we have a problem, don’t we, Wyll?”

Wyll’s jaw clenched, but he stood his ground, refusing to flinch under her scrutiny. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mizora.”

“Oh, don’t play coy.” Mizora’s grin widened, revealing a hint of fang. “You breached our pact, darling. You were supposed to kill Karlach, and yet here she is—alive and kicking.” She gestured to Karlach, her voice dripping with mock dismay. “Very disappointing.”

Anger flared in Karlach’s eyes, and she took a step forward, fists clenched. “How about you crawl back to whatever hell you came from, Mizora?” Her voice was low, dangerous. “Last I checked, Zariel doesn’t have the time for puppets who can’t get their hands dirty.”

Mizora’s eyes narrowed, her smile twisting into something darker. “Oh, I remember you, Karlach. Zariel’s little pawn in the Blood War. Funny, I always thought you’d end up as just another cog in her infernal machine.” She leaned closer, her voice a low hiss. “How’s that rebellious streak working out for you?”

I felt my own blood simmer at the sight of her. I knew Mizora all too well from playing the game, her manipulative charm and casual cruelty. But here, witnessing it firsthand, feeling the chill of her presence, I found myself almost paralyzed. Why now? Why didn’t she show up sooner?

Mizora turned back to Wyll, as if she hadn’t a care in the world for Karlach’s venomous glare. “You were given power, Wyll, a way to end your pact. But now? Now you’ve wasted it.” She snapped her fingers, and the air around Wyll shimmered with dark magic, a sickly green and black aura, mixed with flames wrapping around him.

His eyes widened in horror as blackened, twisted horns sprouted from his head, curling menacingly as his eye flared with a faint, crimson glow as Mizora’s spell took hold, reshaping him, punishing him.

“No,” he whispered, stumbling back, his voice thick with desperation. “No, this isn’t—this can’t be—”

But Mizora just laughed, the sound harsh and grating. “Oh, darling, it very much is. You made a pact, and now you’ve breached it. This is the price of failure.”

I clenched my fists, a mix of fury and helplessness roiling inside me. I should do something. There has to be something I can do! But I knew, deep down, that Mizora’s power was far beyond anything I could challenge right now. And even if I intervened, who knows what the consequences would be if we stray too far for the plot? But maybe, I thought, the the woudn't be consequences? What if ... 

Wyll staggered back, hands clawing at his own skin, as though trying to peel away the changes, to strip himself from the devilish features that now marked him. I could see the shame, the agony in his eyes, and my heart twisted in my chest. This isn’t fair. He doesn’t deserve this.

Karlach’s voice cut through the horror, her tone raw with contempt. “You think this is power, Mizora? You think this is anything more than petty torment? This is why you’ll never be more than a second-rate minion.”

Mizora’s eyes flared, but she maintained her smug grin. “Second-rate? Oh, Karlach, you’re as charmingly naive as ever.” She straightened, casting a final, dismissive glance at Wyll. “Enjoy your new… look.” Her eyes gleamed with sadistic delight. “It suits you.”

And with that, she vanished, dissolving into a swirl of dark, crackling energy, leaving only the faint, acrid smell of brimstone in her wake.

The crowd remained silent, staring at Wyll with a mixture of pity and fear. His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed, as though he were trying to shrink away from the horrified gazes.

I moved to his side, reaching out, not entirely sure what to say, but needing him to know he wasn’t alone in this. But Wyll flinched away, his face tight with barely-contained anguish. “Don’t,” he said quietly, his voice shaking. “Just… don’t.”

I took a step back, nodding slightly, respecting his need for space. But my heart ached, my mind racing with guilt and frustration. If only I could find a way to help him lift his pain right now ... If only I were stronger than this.

After a long silence, Karlach stepped forward, her eyes still blazing with defiance. She raised her hand to place it on his shoulder, but stopped before she could do so. “Wyll, don’t let her win. You’re still you. Devil or not, you’re still the Blade of Frontiers. And you’re still part of this team.”

He looked up at her, the faintest glimmer of gratitude in his eyes, though his expression remained haunted. “It’s hard to feel like the Blade of anything when I look like this,” he muttered bitterly, glancing down at his twisted hands.

Karlach’s gaze softened, showing her gentleness beneath her fierce exterior. “I know it’s hell. Believe me, I’ve lived it too.” She paused, her eyes flickering with memories of her own time under Zariel’s command. “But we don’t have to stay what they try to make us. There’s always a choice—even if it’s a hard one.”

Wyll swallowed, nodding, though the weight of what had happened seemed to press down on him like a heavy shroud. He disappeared from the sight, hiding himself in his tent. 

The rest of us shared a glance, each of us feeling the loss of something sacred—the illusion that we could protect each other from the reach of the darker forces that bound us. And in that quiet, broken moment, I made a silent vow to myself. Whatever it takes, Mizora Raphael, and every other bastard ... will not have the final word.

Chapter Text

The morning light crept over the treetops, soft and hesitant, as if even the sun felt the gravity of the day to come. Shadows stretched across our camp, and the air was damp and still, a stark contrast to last night’s revelry. I shifted carefully, touching the spot on my side where Shadowheart’s magic had stitched me back together. The wound was gone, but a dull ache lingered—a phantom reminder of the night’s close calls and the blood we’d shed just to make it here.

My thoughts turned to Wyll. His haunted expression after Mizora’s appearance was burned into my memory, the resignation in his eyes as her words condemned him to a devil’s fate. Her taunting smile lingered, too, like a brand on my mind, a bitter reminder of just how powerless I’d felt to protect him.

I was pulled from my thoughts by a gentle clearing of a throat. Shadowheart stood before me, her face calm, unreadable as always. “How’s the side?” she asked, her tone almost matter-of-fact, though I caught a flicker of genuine concern in her gaze.

“Good, thanks to you,” I replied, giving her a nod. “Precise as always.” I tried to smile, but it felt hollow. Everything from last night still weighed too heavily on me; even the air felt thick with it.

Shadowheart gave a slight nod, seeming to understand, and glanced around the camp. “Freya and Halsin went to the grove at dawn,” she said, her voice low. “They should be back any moment.”

One by one, the others began to gather. Astarion arrived first, with an elegance that seemed incongruous given the dark circles under his eyes. He offered me a small, knowing smile, one that softened ever so slightly when his gaze lingered on my side. Karlach followed, looking more weary than usual, her fire dimmed but not extinguished, while Gale and Wyll joined in silence, each of them carrying their own exhaustion. Wyll kept to himself, his eyes distant, as if haunted by what his future might hold.

Soon, Halsin and Freya approached from the grove. Halsin’s broad shoulders bore the weight of solemnity as he joined the circle, glancing around at each of us before he spoke.

“We face a difficult path,” he began, his voice low but resonant. “The Grove is safe, but the tadpoles... I am afraid I cannot help you with those.” He sighed, a weary sadness in his expression. “If you are to rid yourselves of them, the journey to Moonrise Towers is inevitable. But to reach it, you’ll have to cross the Shadow-Cursed Lands.”

He laid out the options, voice steady but grave. “The Mountain Pass is one way—a longer, more winding route, but it will bring you deeper into the curse’s territory before you reach Moonrise. Or, if you dare, the Underdark could bypass some of the shadows… though it comes with its own dangers.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. Each path was as treacherous as the other, with unknowns at every turn.

“Seems we’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” Astarion remarked, his eyes glinting with a mix of irony and grim amusement. He glanced at me, his gaze lingering, as if he might say something more—but before he could, Lae’zel stepped forward, her stance taut with urgency.

“I’ll not waste another second on this folly,” she interrupted, her voice laced with the familiar steel of her githyanki resolve. Her hand rested on the hilt of her blade, her golden eyes alight with fervor. “We must go to Crèche Y'llek. My kin,”—she glanced briefly at Freya, her expression softening for the barest second—“our kin have the means to purify us from these parasites. There, I will finally be rid of this wretched tadpole.”

Her gaze was fierce, her conviction ironclad. But the thought of entering Crèche Y'llek filled me with unease. Deep within githyanki territory, surrounded by hostile warriors who would see us as intruders—it was a risk, and not a small one.

Gale stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps her Crèche does hold answers we could use. Though it’s hardly a detour without danger.”

There was a pause as we all considered it, the weight of our predicament settling heavily on each of us. Finally, Freya gave a nod. “Then it’s decided. We go to Crèche Y'llek first.”

---

The mountain path wound high and narrow, flanked by jagged cliffs and deep ravines that seemed to stretch endlessly below us. Hours passed, the silence broken only by the crunch of our footsteps and the occasional murmur of conversation.

It was late afternoon when we stumbled upon the bodies.

They lay scattered across the path like abandoned dolls, the harsh mountain air lending an eerie stillness to the scene. Karlach knelt down beside one of the corpses, her expression a mix of sympathy and anger as she examined the wounds. “Looks like they didn’t stand a chance,” she muttered, glancing up at the rest of us.

Astarion’s gaze was distant as he looked over the corpses, his mouth set in a grim line. “Not just any ambush,” he observed quietly. “This was precise. Professional.”

Then, a flicker of movement caught my eye up ahead, down of the cliff. A group of githyanki soldiers stood there, clad in their polished armor, their red eyes scanning the horizon. At the head of the group was an imposing figure—a githyanki knight with a commanding presence, the unmistakable bearing of a leader. Kith’rak Voss.

I knew that ultimately, he was on our side in the game. But right now, we had to play like we didn't know anything. I mean the others really didn't, except for me and Freya, after letting her know about a potential confrontation. 

Leae’zel’s breath caught beside me. Before I could react, she took a bold step forward, her expression one of unrestrained determination.

“Lae’zel, wait!” I reached out, managing to grasp her arm. Freya moved in beside me, helping me steady her.

Lae’zel’s eyes flashed with anger. “Release me! Kith’rak Voss is one of our greatest warriors—he may know what we must do to purify ourselves!” Her voice was fierce, her gaze locked onto Voss as if he were a lifeline. But beneath the fervor, I could sense her desperation—a deep, unyielding need to be rid of the tadpole that bound them all.

Freya’s grip on Lae’zel’s arm was gentle but firm. “Storming in will do no good,” she said, her voice soft but resolute. “We can’t afford to draw their attention like this, Lae’zel. Not without a plan.”

“Lae’zel, think carefully,” I warned under my breath, feeling her resolve coil like a spring. “If they see us as enemies, we’ll be dead in seconds.”

But she didn’t turn or acknowledge my words. She drew herself up, shoulders squared, and then, with a deadly calm, she began to descend the path toward them.

Astarion raised a brow, muttering under his breath, “Well, there goes our discretion. Shall we follow?”

With little choice, the rest of us trailed after Lae’zel, our steps slow and cautious, our hands straying instinctively to our weapons. As we approached, one of the githyanki soldiers spotted us, drawing his sword with a swift, silent motion. A second later, Voss turned, his gaze sharpening like a predator who’d scented fresh prey.

“State your business,” he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. His piercing gaze swept over each of us in turn before settling on Lae’zel and Freya with a flicker of interest. “You wear the mark of Vlaakith’s kin.”

Lae’zel dropped to one knee in a rare display of humility. “Kith'rak Voss,” she said, her voice carrying the reverence reserved for a legend. “I am Lae’zel, daughter of Gith and a loyal servant of Vlaakith. I seek entrance to Crèche Y'llek.”

Voss studied her with cool detachment, though something in his expression softened ever so slightly.

“You travel with outsiders,” he noted, his gaze narrowing in suspicion. “Tell me, Lae’zel, what business would one of Vlaakith’s chosen have in the company of such… misfits?”

Lae’zel didn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with iron determination. “These ‘outsiders’ are temporary allies,” she said, her voice steady. “They have… proven useful.” Her tone was dismissive, almost contemptuous, as if distancing herself from us even as we stood beside her.

I saw a flicker of irritation cross Astarion’s face, though he held his tongue.

Voss’s eyes glinted with interest, and he took a step forward, looming over her. “Useful, you say? Does that mean you have come across it?”

Lae’zel’s expression remained impassive, though I caught the faintest hint of tension in her eyes. “Come across… what, exactly?” she asked carefully, matching his gaze.

“The Mysterious Artefact,” Voss replied, his voice a razor’s edge. “The weapon we could wield against the Illithid scourge. It is rumored to be within these lands, a tool of unfathomable power.”

Shadowheart shifted uncomfortably.

Lae’zel’s expression remained impassive, but I could see the flicker of recognition in her eyes. For the love of god Lae'zel, please don't be dumb and play along.

Without missing a beat, she bowed her head respectfully. “I have heard whispers of such an object, but I have not seen it myself. However, my… allies and I could help searching for it.”

His suspicion lingered, his gaze shifting to the rest of us with clear distrust. “And you travel with these… lesser beings, searching for a weapon of untold power? Explain yourself.”

Lae’zel’s gaze was unwavering, her voice smooth. “My loyalty lies with Vlaakith and our people. These allies are merely a means to an end, like I said. If the Artefact can be used against the Illithid menace, then I would see it in the hands of my kin, and only my kin. I am willing to assist in locating it—on the condition that I and my allies may enter the Crèche to purify ourselves of these parasites.”

Voss’s expression shifted, a calculating glint in his eyes. He seemed to consider her words carefully, though the tension remained taut, like a string ready to snap. Behind him, the other githyanki soldiers kept their swords raised, watching us with lethal focus.

“I will allow you to enter Crèche Y'llek,” Voss said finally, though his voice held a warning edge. “But know this: if I discover any treachery, or if I find that you have lied to me about the Artefact, Vlaakith’s wrath will be the least of your worries.”

Lae’zel inclined her head respectfully. “You have my word, Kith'rak Voss.”

Voss gestured for his soldiers to lower their weapons, his gaze cold as it swept over the rest of us.

With that, he turned around, flying away on his dragon and his troops following him. Lae’zel rose to her feet, her face still set in that mask of cool resolve, though I could see the tension lining her mouth, the strain in her posture.

I moved closer to Lae’zel, keeping my voice low. “Do you realize how close that was?”

She spared me a brief, unreadable glance. “I have no need of your lectures,” she said coolly. “The Kith'rak suspects nothing, and now we have access to the Crèche.”

Chapter Text

With Kith’rak Voss and his patrol fading into the distance, the silence hung heavy in the air, each of us weighed down. It was as if the presence of the Artefact gnawed at Lae'zel's thoughts, an itch that only grew as we continued walking. Finally, she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

She stopped abruptly, turning to face Shadowheart, her voice cold as iron. “You carry something that does not belong to you.”

Shadowheart paused, her hand instinctively tightening around the strap of her bag. She tilted her head, a calm defiance in her gaze. “The Artefact was found by me. I’ve kept it safe, and I’m perfectly capable of continuing to do so.”

“That object belongs with my people,” Lae’zel snapped, her eyes blazing. “Hand it over.”

Shadowheart’s lips curled into a smirk. “Oh, yes, and I’m sure your people would just let us stroll right in with it, wouldn’t they?” She took a step back, keeping her voice steady, her tone taunting. “Besides, what makes you think it’s safer in your hands?”

A spark of anger flashed in Lae’zel’s eyes, and in a blur of movement, she lunged forward. Shadowheart barely had time to react as Lae’zel tackled her, driving her into the ground with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. Dust rose around them as they hit the ground, Lae’zel’s knee pinning Shadowheart’s shoulder to the dirt.

“Give it to me!” Lae’zel’s voice was low, laced with fury. She reached for Shadowheart’s bag, her hand hovering near the Artefact, as if merely touching it would dispel some of the anger coiled inside her.

Shadowheart twisted beneath her, her face contorted in rage. “Get off me, you zealot!” With a quick, desperate move, she drew her dagger, bringing it up to Lae’zel’s throat, the edge glinting inches from her skin. “I am not some object for you to control.”

A tense silence hung between them, both unwilling to yield, neither showing a shred of fear. Lae’zel’s grip tightened, but she didn’t move, her expression a mix of contempt and grudging respect for Shadowheart’s defiance.

Before it could escalate further, Freya stepped in, her voice calm but firm. “Enough! Both of you!” She placed a hand on Lae’zel’s shoulder, pulling her back just enough to give Shadowheart some breathing room. “This isn’t the time, nor the place, to be tearing each other apart.”

Lae’zel’s gaze flicked to Freya, her jaw clenched tightly, but she slowly loosened her grip, pushing herself back just an inch. Shadowheart didn’t lower her dagger, but her breathing steadied, her eyes still locked on Lae’zel.

Freya looked between them, her tone quiet but insistent. “We have come this far together. The Artefact stays in our possession, under everyone’s watch. Agreed?”

Shadowheart hesitated, her eyes narrowing as she glanced between Freya and Lae’zel. She finally lowered her dagger, slipping it back into its sheath. “Agreed. For now.” Her voice was tight, laced with a simmering distrust that hadn’t eased in the slightest.

Lae’zel glared at her but rose to her feet, brushing dirt from her armor. “This Artefact is a tool, and it will serve the githyanki’s purpose. But…” She turned to Freya, a hint of restraint in her voice. “For now, I will abide by your judgment.”

Astarion strolled up, an amused glint in his eye. He clapped his hands slowly, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Oh, well done, ladies,” he drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Such a heartwarming display of teamwork and camaraderie. Truly, it brings a tear to my eye.”

He paused, glancing at Shadowheart and then back to Lae’zel. “You know, if we survive this little jaunt to the Crèche, perhaps we should consider a new line of work. I hear there’s a vacancy in the ‘knife-to-the-throat’ industry. The two of you would make quite the dynamic duo.”

Shadowheart shot him a withering glare, and Lae’zel’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but Astarion only raised his hands in mock surrender, feigning innocence. “What? I’m just saying, it’s delightful to see such… passion in our little group. Reminds me of my family, really. Though they were generally better dressed.”

Freya shot him a warning look, but Astarion only shrugged, undeterred. “Fine, fine, I’ll be good.” He winked at Shadowheart. “Just let me know if you ever want someone less… brutish to hold your satchel. I’m positively marvelous at keeping things safe.”

Lae’zel’s hand twitched toward her weapon, and Astarion took an exaggerated step back. “Ah, ah, no need to get feisty,” he said with a grin. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

Shadowheart sighed and rolled her eyes, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. Even Lae’zel’s expression softened, if only a fraction.

With the tension broken, they all began to move forward again, Astarion’s snicker echoing softly behind them.

---

As we reached the peak, the world seemed to open before us, sprawling out in a tapestry of shadowed forests, winding rivers, the monastery and sunlit valleys. The jagged cliffs framed the landscape like a natural amphitheater. For a brief moment, the group seemed to forget their fatigue, standing in silent awe of the view.

“It’s… stunning,” I breathed, letting the cool wind lift strands of my hair. I took a step forward, close to the edge, feeling the thrill of height under my feet.

“Careful,” Gale murmured, eyeing me with a wry smile. “I’d hate to have to catch you if you get too inspired by the scenery.”

I chuckled, about to reassure him, when the ground beneath me shifted—loose gravel tumbling away, followed by a sudden, stomach-dropping plunge as my foot slipped.

Before I could cry out, my hands scrabbled for purchase, fingers digging into the crumbling stone. The world lurched, and for a heart-stopping second, I dangled over the edge, the sheer drop stretching down into darkness below.

“Artemis!” Gale’s voice was sharp, and then his hand shot out, gripping my wrist just as I began to slip further. His grip was firm, unwavering, and with a powerful tug, he hauled me back to solid ground. My legs wobbled as I regained my balance, breathless and rattled.

“I… guess I owe you one,” I managed, still shaken.

Gale gave me a crooked grin. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll add it to your tab.”

The group decided to take a small break from walking and sat near the cliff (this time from a safe distance) to eat and stretch legs.

I let out a huff of sigh, though my thoughts lingered on the last battle. I turned towards Gale. “You know, speaking of strange debts… there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

Gale raised an eyebrow, his eyes glittering with interest. “Oh? I’m all ears.”

“In that last fight, against Ragzlin… I felt something odd happen. You know how I’m suprisingly… resistant to necrotic damage?”

“Yes,” he replied, nodding. “A rare gift, especially among mortals. I assumed it was innate.”

“That’s the thing,” I said, hesitating. “This time, it didn’t just feel like resistance. When he came at me, I… I think I actually channeled that energy somehow, almost like a spell. It wasn’t just protecting me—it lashed out at him.”

Gale’s expression shifted from casual curiosity to intense focus. He studied me with that mage’s gaze, piercing but still tinged with a hint of excitement. “That sounds like necromantic energy manipulation. But if you’re not trained in necromancy… could it be that you’re drawing on some other source?”

“I thought of that,” I admitted, crossing my arms and glancing out over the cliff edge. “But it doesn’t quite add up. I’ve never used necromancy before, and as far as I know, there’s nothing in her background that would explain it. At least nothing I'm aware of.”

Gale rubbed his chin thoughtfully, gears turning behind his eyes. “Magic is a strange and winding river. Sometimes it flows in unexpected ways—latent abilities, ancient lineages, or even unknowing pacts. But the fact that you could channel necrotic energy as an offensive force… well, that’s highly unusual.”

“I was hoping you might be able to help me figure it out,” I said, turning to face him. “If this power is something I can call upon, I want to learn how to use it intentionally. Imagine the edge it could give us in a fight.”

A slow, delighted grin spread across Gale’s face. “A request to tinker with mysterious magic? Now you’re speaking my language. I’d be honored to help.”

“You think you could teach me how to harness it?” I asked, genuinely hopeful. “To channel this power in a way that I can control?”

He spread his hands, an amused glint in his eye. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taught someone to wield magic, but this will be a unique challenge. Your immunity to necrotic energy is one thing, but turning it outward? I’d wager that requires a very delicate touch—and perhaps a bit of experimentation.”

“Experimental magic? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” I smirked, only half joking.

He chuckled. “Magic is always dangerous. And yet here we are, courting it as if it were a common pastime.” He studied me for a moment, his gaze turning serious. “If we do this, it will require trust—on both our parts. And patience. You’ll need to be prepared for some… strange side effects, especially if this magic isn’t coming from an ordinary source.”

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his words. “I understand. But I’m willing to try. Whatever this power is, I’d rather it be an asset than a wild card I can’t control.”

“Spoken like a true mage in the making,” he said with a grin. “We’ll start with the basics and see where your limits lie. First, I’ll help you identify the sensation of the energy itself—how to call it forth without the pressure of battle. Once you’ve mastered that… well, who knows what you might be able to accomplish.”

For a moment, I almost felt excited. Gale’s enthusiasm was contagious, and the idea of wielding such power with purpose was… intoxicating. But a sliver of uncertainty remained, nestled deep within me.

“If this power is some kind of… curse, or something darker, you’ll tell me, right?”

Gale’s gaze softened, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder. “You have my word. Whatever secrets we uncover, we’ll face them together.”

I nodded, feeling the first flicker of hope. For all the dangers ahead, maybe this was one thing I could finally get a handle on.

Chapter Text

As we approached the crèche, the path narrowed, lined by jagged stone outcrops and twisted roots clawing their way out of the earth. The air grew colder, sharper, carrying with it an unexpected chill that bit through my skin. I shivered, pulling my cloak tighter around my shoulders, though the cold wasn’t the kind that could be warded off with fabric.

A prickle started at the base of my neck, crawling its way down my spine like icy fingertips trailing along my skin. I brushed at the back of my neck absently, as if there was something there, but my fingers met only the cool touch of my own hair.

I took another step forward, and suddenly, the world seemed to quiet around me. The crunch of gravel underfoot and the murmur of my companions’ voices faded, replaced by a suffocating silence, thick and expectant. I stopped, glancing around, but the others were still walking, their expressions undisturbed. My pulse quickened as a faint sound drifted to me, barely more than a breath on the wind.

“Please…”

The word was distant, fragile, and gone almost as soon as it reached me, like a thread slipping through my fingers. I froze, heart stuttering in my chest, straining to hear it again, to make sure I hadn’t imagined it. But there was only the mountain breeze, stirring the leaves in dry, brittle whispers.

I let out a slow, shaky breath and took another step, trying to shake off the unease clawing at me. But just as I began to move, the voice returned, faint and broken, like it was struggling to reach me through some unseen barrier.

“… mercy… please…”

The plea wove through the air, twisting around me, fragile but laced with a raw, aching pain. My heart pounded, each beat echoing in my ears as the voice ebbed and surged, growing louder, then fading, like waves crashing against a distant shore.

I stopped again, feeling my skin prickle with goosebumps, the fine hairs on my arms standing on end. I took in a slow breath, trying to ground myself, but the air here felt wrong—heavy and cold, carrying with it the unmistakable taste of old, lingering sorrow. I could feel it settling over me, a dense weight pressing down, filling my lungs with the faint tang of something… ancient. Something lost.

I glanced around, searching for any sign that my companions had noticed the shift, but they continued walking, oblivious to the strange chill and the whispers that seemed to echo from nowhere. I blinked, disoriented, trying to clear my head, but the voice called out again, this time closer, tangled with desperation.

“… don't… please stop…”

The words twisted around me, fragmented and overlapping, their raw emotion sinking into my bones. It wasn’t just a voice—it was a chorus of voices, tangled together in pain and pleading, calling out as though their final moments were trapped here, replaying in an endless, tortured loop.

My heart raced, and I wrapped my arms around myself as the chill seeped deeper, pressing into my chest like ice. The voices grew louder, filling the silence, each one a whisper of agony and fear, desperate for release. I could feel them brushing against my mind, their emotions flooding into me, a torrent of helplessness and horror, as if I were glimpsing the last moments of lives stolen too soon.

I stumbled, reaching out to steady myself against a rock as a new whisper cut through the din, clearer and sharper than the others.

“… they came… no dawn… please…”

The words struck me like a cold blade, and I felt a sudden, inexplicable grief welling up inside me. It wasn’t my own—it was theirs, spilling over and bleeding into me, filling me with an aching sorrow that clenched tight around my heart.

A hand touched my shoulder, jolting me from the trance, and I turned to see Karlach watching me with narrowed eyes, her expression flickering between curiosity and concern.

"Are you all right?” she asked, her voice cutting through the strange, spectral whispers.

I blinked, trying to shake off the lingering echoes. “Y-Yeah.” I managed, though my voice sounded faint and uncertain, even to my own ears. “Just… felt something strange.”

Her gaze lingered on me, doubtful, as if she could sense the lie beneath my words. But before she could press further, I took a steadying breath and forced myself to move forward, ignoring the shiver that refused to leave me.

As we continued toward the crèche, the whispers faded, slipping back into silence, though the cold never quite left.

As we neared the main doors of the crèche, I felt a mounting dread. This place was tainted by death and desecration, the air thick with sorrow and violence, and I sensed that it wasn’t simply an enemy fortress. It was a monument to conquest and cruelty.

I turned to Freya, catching her attention with a nod. “Before we go in… there’s something I need to tell you.”

She raised an eyebrow, curiosity replacing her usual wariness. “What is it?”

I glanced at the heavy stone doors, then back to her. “I know this used to be a temple—a monastery dedicated to Lathander. But there’s more than just rubble and relics left behind. A weapon—a relic they called the Blood of Lathander.”

At the mention of it, a flicker of understanding passed over Freya’s face. “The Blood of Lathander… I’ve heard stories of it. It’s said to be a weapon of holy power, used to fight darkness.”

A thrill of anticipation rushed through me. “I know how to get it. It could give us an edge against the githyanki. Maybe even turn the tide in the battles to come.”

Chapter Text

After we obtained the weapon, we entered Crèche Y'llek and received instructions to seek out Ghustil Stornugoss for purification.

"Before we go there, we should head to the classroom first," I whispered to Freya, glancing down the shadowed corridor that led deeper into the crèche. "It's important. We might be able to save a life… and learn something crucial."

Freya nodded, her gaze steady. She could sense the tension in my voice, though I hadn’t given her the full reason for this detour. As we moved toward the north corridor, my chest tightened with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. I knew what we’d find there—a harsh, unforgiving scene—but I needed to see it, to understand the true nature of this place that Lae’zel considered home.

The classroom lay beyond a set of heavy, iron doors, slightly ajar. From within, muffled voices drifted out: gruff, commanding tones undercut by the occasional yelp or muffled cry. I exchanged a glance with Freya, her eyes narrowing in quiet apprehension. Gently, I pushed the door open, revealing the dimly lit chamber beyond.

Behind me, Astarion muttered, “A classroom? Filled with githyanki children, no less. How charming.” Shadowheart merely cast him a glare, the tension in her posture mirroring my own.

The room was stark and severe, like everything else in the crèche. A sunken sparring ground dominated the center, ringed by shallow steps leading up to a narrow gallery along the north wall. Curtains hung loosely around the perimeter, half-drawn, casting shifting shadows across the stone floor. Children—young, wiry githyanki—stood in scattered clusters around the pit, their faces impassive, watching the scene below with rigid attention.

At the center of the sunken area stood Sa'varsh Kethk, the instructor, a tall, intimidating figure with a hardened, expressionless face. His eyes were sharp as blades, slicing through the silence as he directed his ire at a young trainee—Varrl, I gathered from the murmurs of the others. Varrl was barely out of childhood, his form lean and unsteady, his face battered and bruised. He was on his knees, panting, while Kethk circled him like a predator.

Kethk’s voice cut through the air, harsh and cold. "You are weak, Varrl. Unworthy. I would sooner see you cast into the Void than bring shame to your kin. Stand up."

Varrl staggered to his feet, swaying as he tried to raise his fists in a fighting stance. His body bore the marks of recent strikes, bruises blooming along his arms and jaw. He was trembling, whether from pain or fear, I couldn't tell. The other youths watched in silence, their faces masks of indifference, as though they’d long since learned to suppress any sign of empathy.

Karlach’s fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tight. “Doesn’t seem much like ‘teaching’ to me,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. A muscle in her jaw twitched, as though it was taking all her restraint not to jump into the ring.

Freya’s eyes flicked to me, concern shadowing her gaze. She opened her mouth to say something, but I shook my head slightly. I needed to understand what was happening here first—and to see if there was any chance to intervene without blowing our cover.

Kethk’s boot lashed out, catching Varrl in the stomach, and the boy doubled over, gasping for air as he crumpled to the ground.

"Again," Kethk spat, crossing his arms. "Stand."

Varrl struggled, his hands pressing into the cold stone as he forced himself upright, his face contorted with pain. The other students looked on, their expressions blank, their eyes fixed forward in perfect obedience.

Watching this, a chill ran through me. I knew the githyanki were relentless in their training, but this felt more like punishment than instruction. The words what I heard earlier echoed in my mind—mercy… please… stop—and I felt a wave of nausea roll over me. I couldn’t shake the sense that I was standing among something eerie, that the agony of this place had somehow seeped into its very walls.

Freya leaned close, her voice barely a whisper. “Artemis, what are we doing here? Do you really think there’s a life to save?”

"Yes," I murmured, though I felt a stab of doubt. "At least, I hope so."

Gale leaned closer to Wyll, murmuring under his breath, “Can you imagine growing up in a place like this? No wonder they’re all… well, like Lae’zel.”

Wyll shot him a look, but said nothing, his eyes fixed on Varrl’s trembling form. The normally defiant set of his shoulders softened just slightly.

My focus drifted back to Kethk, who was watching Varrl with a mix of disdain and impatience. There was no compassion in his gaze—only disappointment, as though Varrl’s pain was a mere inconvenience, a waste of his time.

I took a breath, my hands tightening into fists. There was something deeply wrong here, a sickness that ran through the entire crèche. These children were being molded into soldiers, stripped of any vulnerability, any "humanity" they might have had (I don't think I can call githyanki humans, but it's an analogy).

If we didn’t do something, this would be the fate that awaited each of them.

“Should we stop him?” Freya asked, her voice taut. “Or… at least, find a way to help?”

I glanced at her, then back at the scene below, where Varrl was barely standing, swaying on his feet, his gaze downcast. My mind raced, calculating risks, considering options. If I challenged Kethk, it would blow our cover immediately. But if I did nothing, then I was as complicit as every other silent observer in this room. And we needed the book from him. The least thing I wanted was getting it out of his corpse.

A sudden thought crossed my mind. We didn’t need to save everyone here, and we certainly couldn’t dismantle the crèche’s brutal practices in one day. But, we could reach one of them. And maybe, that would be enough to spark something in the others.

“Wait here,” I whispered to Freya, then took a step forward, clearing my throat to draw Kethk’s attention.

Kethk’s gaze snapped to me, cold and assessing. “You. Outsider. What business do you have interrupting my lesson?”

Halsin, standing just behind me, cleared his throat lightly and whispered, “Careful, Artemis. Githyanki are notorious for being… prickly when it comes to authority.”

I met his stare, feigning confidence. “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help noticing the strength of your students,” I said, glancing at Varrl, who was still trembling, on the verge of collapsing. “Though some of them seem… held back by their injuries. Surely, a strong teacher would value a capable soldier over a broken one?”

A flicker of something crossed Kethk’s expression—contempt, perhaps, but tinged with a hint of intrigue. He looked me over, as if trying to decipher my intentions.

Behind me, Lae’zel tensed, a subtle sneer curling her lip. “They are githyanki, not soft-hearted humans, Artemis,” she muttered. “To coddle them would be to insult them.”

Despite her words, she didn’t move to stop me, her gaze flickering between Kethk and Varrl, as though she, too, were weighing her loyalty against her pride.

“Strength comes from hardship,” he replied, his tone dismissive. “Only those who survive their suffering will become true warriors. The weak do not belong among Vlaakith’s chosen.”

I nodded slowly, keeping my voice measured. “True, but even the most hardened soldier needs guidance to reach their full potential. Perhaps… a new approach might benefit them?”

It was a gamble, and I could feel Freya’s anxious gaze on my back. Kethk’s eyes narrowed as he studied me, clearly considering the challenge in my words. He straightened, glancing down at Varrl, then back at the other students.

“Very well,” he said at last, a sneer curling his lips. “If you think you know better, then by all means. Show me what you would teach them.”

Astarion leaned closer to Gale, a smirk tugging at his lips. “This should be entertaining. Artemis versus a githyanki drill sergeant. Any bets?”

Gale shot him a warning look, though his own lips curved in a slight smile. “Let’s just say I’d wager she’s more resourceful than he’s expecting.”

As I stepped into the ring, I felt the weight of my companions’ eyes on me. I could sense their tension, their unspoken support—and somewhere, beneath it all, the silent echoes of the suffering souls that still haunted this place. I had no idea how I would handle Kethk’s challenge, but I knew that, if nothing else, I had to try.

Chapter Text

The moment I stepped into the ring, Kethk moved with the speed of a viper. He lunged before I’d even settled into a stance, his blade slicing into my shoulder with a sharp, burning pain. I staggered back, clutching the wound, feeling the hot rush of blood between my fingers.

“Foolish,” Kethk sneered, circling me. “You’re unworthy of this fight. Githyanki strength would crush you before you even realized you’d been tested.”

I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the pain. My companions were tense at the edges of the ring, hands already on the hilts of their weapons. Shadowheart’s eyes were fixed on me, concern shadowing her gaze, while Astarion muttered, “Wasn’t expecting a bloodbath quite this early in the day…”

Karlach, fists clenched, growled, “We should step in.”

But I held up a hand, signaling them to stay back. I had to do this myself.

Closing my eyes, I tried to summon the strange, necrotic magic that had saved me before, that flicker of cold, consuming power deep inside me. I focused on the memory of it, like Gale told me to, the way it felt like a surge of dark heat, something unnatural and fierce. I could almost feel it now, hovering at the edges of my mind like a shadow—but when I tried to channel it, to shape it, the magic slipped through my grasp like sand.

Kethk’s blade struck again, this time catching me across the ribs. I gasped, doubling over as pain spread in jagged waves. The taste of copper filled my mouth. A distant, irritated sigh escaped Gale. “By Mystra, she’s going to get killed…”

But as I straightened, something shifted. My senses sharpened, as if a door within me had swung open. The air turned frigid, and a low whisper coiled through my mind, something familiar yet distant. I couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear: pain, fury, resentment. It thrummed with an intensity that drowned out the sound of my companions, even the heavy breath of Kethk as he prepared to strike again.

“Stop,” I murmured, the word coming from somewhere deeper than my own voice. “You don’t have to do this.” My gaze locked onto Kethk’s, and a flicker of hesitation crossed his face. But this time, the whispers surged, a chorus of faint, desperate voices echoing in my ears.

Killed us… torments them…

The voices grew louder, laced with anger and longing. I could feel them pressing against my mind, pulling me deeper into their emotions until it felt like they were part of me.

As I opened my mouth to speak, the words came unbidden. “You’ve had enough, haven’t you?” I said, addressing the students standing around the edges of the ring. “Look at him. Look at what he’s done to you.” My voice was quiet, barely audible, but I could see something flicker in the eyes of the students—the githyanki youths who watched with wary, downcast gazes, fists clenched.

“What… what are you doing?” Shadowheart hissed, her voice tense.

But I ignored her. The whispers had built into a crescendo, and I could feel them pouring through me, twisting my words with their cold fury. “He’s a tyrant,” I continued, each word dripping with venom that wasn’t entirely my own. “Why do you let him control you? Why do you suffer under him?”

Kethk’s eyes narrowed as he realized what was happening. He turned on the students, pointing a finger at them. “Do not listen to her!” he barked, voice cracking. “She is an outsider—”

A low growl rumbled from one of the youths. Another clenched their fist, gaze darkening. Varrl, the youth Kethk had kicked and humiliated just moments ago, was the first to step forward, a bitter resolve hardening in his expression.

“Enough,” Varrl said, his voice barely more than a whisper, but filled with a chilling certainty. “We won’t endure this anymore.”

Before Kethk could react, Varrl lunged at him, followed by two of the other youths. In an instant, the quiet tension erupted into violence as the students attacked their teacher, a swift and ruthless onslaught driven by years of resentment. Kethk staggered back, blocking one strike, then another, but he was outnumbered.

Wyll raised an eyebrow, a genuine bewildered look on his face. “Did she just ... talk the students into murdering their own teacher?”

“Not the kind I’d expected…” murmured Gale, his voice a mix of fascination and unease.

Karlach, unable to look away from the unfolding chaos, muttered, “Hell’s bells… This is definitely not normal.”

Kethk’s cries of rage and pain mingled with the echoes of the whispers in my mind. Even as the students turned against him, I could still hear the tortured voices, some fading, but others lingering, pulling at me with fragments of grief and anger. My head felt like it was splitting in two, a pulsing ache building as if the whispers wanted to take over completely.

“Artemis,” Freya’s voice cut through the haze, grounding me, drawing me back from the edge. “This isn’t you. Pull back. Let them go.”

I blinked, the world snapping into sharp focus as I shook off the whispers. Kethk had fallen to his knees, bloodied and gasping, barely holding off the students’ relentless strikes. I took a step back, my heart hammering as I forced the whispers to retreat, burying them in the back of my mind.

Chapter Text

The sound of Kethk’s death was still echoing in my ears. My side throbbed, the wound from his blade seeping blood and staining my tunic. Each step sent a sharp pang through me, but I forced myself to stay upright.

I couldn't hear the whispers anymore but I still felt them present somehow—fractured murmurs crawling along the edges of my thoughts. They weren’t like before. They were just… there. Lingering. Unshakable.

“Stop,” Shadowheart’s voice cut through the haze like a whip. She stepped in front of me, her eyes narrowing. “You’re bleeding through your bandages.”

I forced a weak grin. “Oops?”

Shadowheart’s eyes narrowed. “Don't oops-me. You’re limping, and you look like you’re about to keel over. Sit.”

Karlach folded her arms, her expression one of both exasperation and concern. “C’mon, Artemis. You’ve already taken the hero moment—don’t ruin it by passing out like a fool.”

I sighed, relenting as I slumped onto a nearby stone. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and the pain was making itself known in full force. Shadowheart knelt beside me, muttering under her breath as she peeled back the fabric of my tunic to inspect the wound.

“Idiot,” she said with a huff, her tone hovering between frustration and worry. “You should’ve let one of us deal with him. You didn’t have to—”

“I had to step in,” I interrupted quietly. “Varrl wouldn’t have lasted a second against him.”

Shadowheart rolled her eyes but said nothing, her hands already glowing with divine light. The warmth of her healing magic seeped into my skin, and the stabbing pain dulled, replaced by a soothing, tingling sensation. My breath hitched as the wound began to close, and for a brief moment, the tension in my chest eased.

“You’ve got a death wish,” she said as the glow faded, her tone lighter but no less scolding.

“Only on special occasions,” I replied, mustering a faint smirk.

“Lucky me. I get to keep patching you up for all of them.” She stood, brushing her hands off. “There. You’ll live to make more reckless decisions. Again.”

Before I could rise, Varrl stepped forward hesitantly, his movements stiff and uncertain. His eyes darted between me and the others, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I…” His voice wavered, barely audible at first. He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I owe you.”

I shook my head. “You don’t owe me anything—”

“If you hadn’t stepped in, I’d be dead,” he said, louder this time, though the tremor in his voice remained.

“You would’ve,” Shadowheart muttered, though I caught the faintest twitch of a smirk at the corner of her lips.

I tried to brush it off. “I couldn’t just stand there—”

Varrl cut me off, his gaze snapping back to mine. “You… you remind me of someone. Someone I… admire.”

That gave me pause. “Who?”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking nervously to Lae’zel and Freya before settling back on me. His next words came quietly, like a confession. “The Prince of the Comet.”

Ah. Orpheus. I remind him of Orpheus? Good joke.

Lae’zel let out an audible groan. “Fairy tales. Nothing more. You shame yourself by invoking his name.”

Wyll raised an eyebrow. “Who’s the Prince of the Comet?”

“A hero,” Varrl said, his voice growing steadier as he spoke. “Orpheus himself.”

Lae’zel crossed her arms, glaring at him. “A convenient myth for the weak to cling to.”

But Varrl ignored her, his focus locked on me and Freya. “Orpheus was the True Heir. The Prince of the Comet. He led his Honor Guard into battle atop his red dragon, shaking the heavens with their fury. He sought to end Vlaakith’s tyranny and claim his rightful place as ruler.”

Halsin frowned. “You mean Vlaakith… the one you all follow?”

Varrl’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice tinged with guilt. “She stole her power from Gith herself. Orpheus sought to bring honor back to our people, to free us from her corruption.”

“And?” Gale pressed, his voice soft but insistent.

Varrl’s expression darkened. “He failed. Vlaakith’s knights betrayed him. Mighty Voss, the Jhe’stil Kith’rak, turned the tide against him. The astral sky burned with dragonfire. When the ash cleared… Orpheus was gone.”

Freya tilted her head, studying Varrl. “And you see her in him?” She gestured toward me.

Varrl shrugged, his expression conflicted. “Not exactly. It’s not just what she did—it’s how. Orpheus… he protected those who couldn’t protect themselves. Even when it cost him dearly. She…” He paused, searching for the words. “She’s like that.”

“Touching,” Astarion drawled, his lips curling into a sly grin. “But let’s not inflate her ego too much. She might start believing she’s destined for greatness.”

I shot him a sharp glance, although with the corners of my lips slightly turned upwards—and he smirked back, pleased with himself.

“Enough,” Lae’zel snapped, her tone harsh. “Orpheus is dead. Vlaakith rules. That is our way.”

Varrl fished something out of his pocket—a small, smooth disc etched with intricate patterns and unfamiliar writing. He handed it to Freya.

“What’s this?” Karlach asked.

“A relic,” Varrl said. “It tells his story.” He hesitated, glancing at Lae’zel before adding, “Keep it. Perhaps it will help you understand.”

Freya’s fingers tightened around the disc, and she glanced at me, her expression unreadable.

“Perhaps it will,” she murmured.

---

The path through the crèche was eerily quiet, the stone corridors seeming to absorb sound rather than echo it back.

“Still wobbling about like a newborn deer?” Astarion's voice carried that familiar mocking lilt, though he kept pace beside me with unusual patience.

I sighed, pressing a hand briefly to my side. “I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded. It’ll pass.”

“Hm.” His crimson gaze flicked over me, sharp and assessing. “Right before you collapse in a rather spectacular heap, I imagine. Do try to aim for something soft when you inevitably keel over—blood stains are so difficult to get out of stone.”

“I'm not going to collapse,” I muttered, though even I could hear how unconvincing I sounded.

“No?” He arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Darling, you have the most charming habit of hurling yourself headfirst into danger at every opportunity. It's almost like you're trying to get yourself killed. Which, between you and me, seems rather wasteful when I've put so much effort into keeping you breathing.”

I caught something flickering behind his theatrical disdain—was that actual worry? From Astarion?

“Maybe I am doing it on purpose,” I said, half-joking. “I do like keeping you on your toes,”

He chuckled, low and rich. “How wonderfully reckless of you. Though I do hope you'll manage to stay vertical until we're done with Lae'zel's little githyanki adventure. It would be terribly embarrassing if you swooned right in front of the warrior githyanki. They might think we're all as delicate as we look.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my lips.

Ahead of us, the conversation shifted.

“This Zaith’isk,” Gale began, his voice laced with caution. “We’re really going to trust a githyanki relic to solve our little tadpole problem? It seems… reckless.”

“It is no mere relic,” Lae’zel shot back sharply, her posture rigid. “It is a tool—a gift from Vlaakith herself. You question it because you do not understand it. You cannot understand it.”

Halsin, walking behind her, folded his arms, his calm demeanor undercut by a faint edge of disapproval. “Forgive me, Lae’zel, but placing such faith in Vlaakith’s ‘gift’—or anything tied to her—feels… precarious at best. This reeks of danger.”

“Danger is irrelevant,” Lae’zel snapped, the words almost a growl. “This is necessary. I will endure, and it will prove its strength.”

Halsin’s brow furrowed, his gaze steady but thoughtful. “Necessary for you, perhaps. But as for me, my path lies in healing and protecting those we strive to save, not gambling on untested magic.” He turned toward me, his gaze softening as he took in my pale face and sluggish steps. “And as for you, Artemis—you should return to camp with me. Your wounds may be healed, but you’re clearly in no condition to fight if battle finds us again.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the weight of his concern—and the truth in his words—kept the words at bay.

Before I could gather a response, Freya stepped beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder. “He’s right, you know.” Her tone was firm but understanding, and she leaned in slightly to meet my gaze. “Rest, Artemis. We can handle whatever comes next.”

She hesitated for a moment, then leaned closer to whisper in my ear. “You’ve told me enough. We’ll use it to our advantage.”

I wanted to protest, to tell her I could push through, but exhaustion clung to me like a shadow. The confrontation with Kethk had taken more out of me than I cared to admit. Freya’s logic was sound—even if I hated to admit it.

With a defeated nod, I turned to Halsin. “Okay. I’ll head back with you.”

Halsin inclined his head in approval, his calm presence a quiet reassurance. “A wise choice. You’ll be stronger for it.”

As we moved toward the exit of the crèche, the others pressed on ahead. Freya gave me one last glance over her shoulder, a faint smile of encouragement that I wasn’t entirely sure I believed.

Even as the heavy stone doors of the crèche loomed closer, unease twisted in my gut. My steps faltered for a brief moment, the tension I had tried to shake clinging stubbornly. 

Chapter Text

Halsin knelt a short distance away, carefully stirring a small pot of herbal tea over the fire. His movements were slow and deliberate, his presence as steady as the earth beneath us. We hadn’t spoken much since we left the crèche, but the quiet between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt… grounding.

“You’re quiet,” he said eventually, his deep voice a gentle rumble, like distant thunder rolling through a valley.

I glanced up, my thoughts still tangled and raw. “Just… thinking,” I admitted.

He gave a small, encouraging nod and leaned back on his heels, waiting patiently for me to continue. That was the thing about Halsin—he didn’t press or demand. He just gave you space, like sunlight coaxing life from shadowed ground.

“I heard something,” I finally said, my fingers tracing absent patterns on the stone beside me. “Back in the crèche. Whispers. Voices. But they weren’t—” I paused, struggling to explain. “They weren’t from the githyanki. At least, I don’t think so. They felt… different.”

Halsin’s brow furrowed, and he tilted his head, studying me closely. “Different how?”

I hesitated, feeling foolish as I tried to put the sensation into words. “They were faint, like fractured murmurs, barely there. But they wouldn’t leave me. Even now, I feel them—lingering at the edges of my thoughts.”

Halsin set the pot aside and moved closer, his expression calm but intent. “Whispers can mean many things,” he said, voice low but steady. “In a place like that, where so much death and sorrow lingers, it’s possible you heard echoes—spirits, perhaps, of those who lived and died there. The monks, slaughtered by the githyanki. Their grief or pain might still bind them.”

“Spirits, huh?” I echoed, the word sinking heavy into me. It sent a shiver crawling up my spine. “So I’m not losing my mind?”

He smiled gently, the curve of it soft and reassuring. “No. You are perceptive—more than you may realize. The dead have ways of reaching out to those who are willing to listen.”

I let out a shaky breath, my shoulders relaxing slightly. “I didn’t think githyanki would care about leaving spirits behind.”

“Even the strongest leave scars upon the world,” Halsin said, his gaze distant for a moment. “The monks may have been slaughtered, but their pain endures. Like a wound that never fully healed. It is no small thing to walk among such echoes.”

When I was younger, the thought of spirits would have thrilled me. I had devoured books about the supernatural as a teenager, dreamed of walking between worlds and speaking with the dead. I spent countless nights staring into mirrors, daring ghostly presences to appear, aching to uncover some hidden power only I could wield.

But now?

Now, the idea twisted in my stomach. There was no thrill in it, no fascination—only unease. If this was some kind of “gift,” Penelope had, it felt less like a blessing and more like a tether, pulling me toward something darker, heavier. Was this something I could live with? Something I even wanted to live with, even temporarily? Or would it consume me, piece by piece, until there was nothing left?

I glanced sideways at Halsin as he walked beside me, his calm presence a steadying force against the storm inside my head. His suggestion that the whispers were spirits—a sorrowful echo of those who had died in the crèche—had struck a chord in me. It made sense, but it didn’t make it easier to bear. If anything, it only added another layer of unease.

Halsin reached over, offering me a cup of tea, his eyes warm with reassurance. I took it with a quiet thank-you and sipped, letting the warmth seep through me as I stared into the fire.

---

The group was in shambles.

Karlach paced near the fire, her infernal engine humming faintly, its fiery glow seemingly unbothered by the chaos that had unfolded. She looked outwardly unscathed, but her energy—the buoyant, unrelenting force of her—was subdued. Gale sat slumped against a tree, pale and battered, his robes streaked with soot and blood. He looked as though he’d been bled dry by magic itself, the Weave exacting a heavy toll. Wyll was perched on a nearby rock, his rapier at his side. A makeshift bandage wrapped his arm, and though his face betrayed no pain, the fine sheen of sweat on his brow told another story.

Lae’zel was pacing at the edge of the firelight, sharp and agitated, her armor stained with blood. Her fury radiated off her in waves, a coiled storm barely contained.

Freya met her glare with quiet composure, her voice steady even under the weight of Lae’zel’s rage. “The Zaith’isk was no gift. It was a trap. It doesn’t save mind flayer victims—it destroys them. Extracts their memories and kills them.”

“And you knew this?” Lae’zel snapped, her voice rising with anger. “You knew, and yet—”

“Yes,” Freya said firmly, cutting her off. “I suspected. That’s why I stopped it. I couldn’t let you—or anyone—fall victim to it.”

Lae’zel stared at her, fists clenching and unclenching. “Vlaakith’s promises…” she began, but her voice faltered. Without another word, she turned sharply and disappeared into the shadows.

Freya let out a slow breath, exhaustion tugging at the edges of her posture. She turned to me, her voice quieter now. “The Inquisitor is dead,” she said. “And the Zaith’isk… Shadowheart destroyed it. At great cost.”

My gaze shifted toward Shadowheart. She was sitting apart from the group, pale and drawn, her arm cradled close. I approached her quietly, Freya following close behind.

Shadowheart glanced up, her guarded expression softening ever so slightly. “Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It is,” I said, kneeling beside her. “Why not let Halsin heal you?”

“Because I don’t need healing,” she snapped, though there was no real force behind it. After a beat, she sighed, slumping slightly. “Freya already patched me up.”

Freya crouched beside her, resting a hand lightly on Shadowheart’s uninjured shoulder. “She saved us all,” Freya said. “Without her, the Zaith’isk would still be standing.”

Shadowheart glanced sideways at her, a flicker of gratitude in her gaze, even a small smile. “Don’t make a fuss,” she murmured. “I only did what needed to be done.”

The two of them shared a quiet moment of understanding, and I felt a small, unexpected warmth at seeing them like this—closer, perhaps, than I’d ever seen them before. Freya gave Shadowheart’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and I stood up, moving back toward the fire, leaving her to sit with Shadowheart in silence.

---

I noticed Astarion lingering at the edge of the clearing. Even in the firelight, his pallor seemed worse than usual, and every movement—when he shifted, when he turned his head—was too controlled, too deliberate.

I approached silently, not wanting to give him the chance to brush me off before I got close. When he noticed me, he straightened, his mouth pulling into a wry smile.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice smooth but lacking its usual spark. “Come to check if the local vampire is still upright? How thoughtful.”

I crossed my arms, tilting my head at him. “You’re hurt, Astarion. And don’t waste your breath trying to tell me otherwise. I can see it plain as day.”

His smirk widened, though it didn’t banish the faint tremor in his hands. “I'm simply experiencing a temporary reduction in my natural splendor. Nothing that can't be remedied with time and perhaps a good meal.”

I sighed, stepping closer. “Let me see if I can help.”

For a moment, something flickered across his face—resistance, embarrassment, or perhaps the barest trace of vulnerability. “And what would you propose, exactly?” he asked lightly. “Offer me more of your precious blood? I'm touched, truly, but I won't have you playing the martyr on my account.”

“Who said anything about blood?” I replied, pulling a small vial of healing balm from my pouch. “This will do just fine.”

He looked at the vial like it might explode in my hands, and then at me, arching a brow. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

Astarion let out a quiet, theatrical sigh and shifted so that his weight rested more heavily against the tree. “Very well. If it will ease your bleeding heart, I’ll allow it. But don’t expect tears of gratitude.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, unable to hide a small, amused smile.

He pulled off his gloves first, then began to undo the clasps of his vest with a slow deliberation that was more caution than flourish. I could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, and when he finally peeled the fabric away, my breath hitched.

The scars on his back were worse than I had imagined.

Stark and deliberate, forming a cruelly intricate design. Structured, spiraling outward in an elaborate circle of symbols and jagged lines. I stared, unable to look away. I’d known the scars would be there—but seeing them etched into his flesh, permanent and brutal, was something else entirely.

“What is it?” Astarion asked, his voice sharp, brittle.

I hesitated, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “It’s… They’re horrifying,” I said honestly. 

His gaze flicked away, something dark and haunted settling into his expression. “Cazador’s idea of a masterpiece,” he said bitterly. “A poem, etched into my back. A tribute to him and his greatness.” His voice was cold, detached, but I could hear the tension beneath it, the tightly coiled pain. “Done in one night, of course, with all the finesse of a madman determined to get it perfect. Or so he thought. I never even saw it myself. That was part of his little game. It wasn’t for me, you see—it was for him. A monument to his cruelty.”

I wanted to say something—anything—to break the awful silence that followed. The weight of his words, the casual way he spoke of such torment, was staggering. Instead, I reached for the healing balm and dipped my fingers into the cool, fragrant mixture. 

When I touched his back, he stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. Gently, I began to work the cool balm into his skin, starting at the wounds he had on his shoulders and working my way down. I tried to focus on the task, but the thought of what he must have endured—how it must have felt to be treated like a canvas for someone’s twisted artistry—made my stomach churn.

After a long moment, I found my voice. “Would you… would you want to see it? I could draw it for you. If you ever wanted to know what it looks like.”

Astarion turned slightly, glancing at me over his shoulder. His crimson eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought he might scoff or dismiss the idea outright. But instead, his expression softened, just a fraction. “Perhaps.” he said quietly. “Though I’m not sure I’d call it art worth preserving.”

“It’s not about preserving it,” I said, meeting his gaze steadily. “It’s about taking it back. Making it yours, instead of his.”

His lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You do have a knack for saying things no one else would dare. I’ll think about it.”

When I finally stepped back, the balm glistening faintly on his skin, he straightened and rolled his shoulders gingerly. “Well,” he said, his tone lighter now, though there was still a faint edge to it. “If nothing else, I suppose I should thank you for your diligence, darling.”

I smirked, slipping the balm back into my pouch. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d do this for anyone.”

His laugh was soft, almost genuine. “Of course you would.” But as I turned to leave, I thought I heard him murmur, almost too quietly to catch: “But not quite like this.”

Chapter Text

The stars hung like scattered jewels against the inky black of the night, each one seemed impossibly distant, as though the world above had no idea what we were dealing with down here. Karlach flopped down next to me with a groan loud enough to rival the fire crackling between us.

“Gods above, it feels good to sit,” she said, stretching her legs out in front of her. “I swear, my thighs are going to go on strike if we keep up this pace.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound coming out lighter than I’d felt all day. “Don’t they say hellspawn don’t get tired?” I teased.

Karlach shot me a look, feigning offense, then tapped the side of her glowing engine with a metallic clink. “This baby keeps me running, but it doesn’t stop my ass from getting sore.”

Across the fire, Shadowheart shook her head with mock exasperation. “Is there anything you can’t make into a spectacle, Karlach?”

“Not a damn thing,” Karlach shot back with a grin. “Anyway, don’t pretend you’re not just as tired. You’ve been looking ready to fall over since midday.”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow but didn’t deny it. She took a long sip from her flask instead, her movements slower than usual. I could tell she was trying to keep her guard up, but tonight… tonight felt softer somehow, the sharp edges of everything smoothed over by exhaustion and firelight.

“Where’s Freya?” I asked, glancing around the camp.

Shadowheart tilted her chin toward the shadows beyond the fire. “Making sure Lae’zel doesn’t throw herself into a fight with a tree or something.” Her lips twitched into a faint smirk.

I leaned back on my elbows, letting the heat of the fire sink into my skin. “We should drag her over here,” I said. “She could use a break.”

Karlach snorted. “You’re welcome to try. I’m not poking that particular bear tonight.”

“I already asked,” came Freya’s voice, calm and steady as she emerged from the dark. She settled into a spot beside Karlach, brushing stray leaves from her tunic. “She refused. Something about ‘a warrior’s solitude.’” Freya paused, then added dryly, “Which is ironic, considering she yelled it at me.”

I chuckled. “Sounds about right.” I looked around at the group gathered by the fire, a mix of exhaustion and camaraderie settling over us. “Maybe we can enjoy five minutes of peace.”

The quiet that followed was comfortable, broken only by the occasional crack of the fire. It felt rare, this kind of calm, and I wanted to savor it. But Karlach, never one to let a silence linger too long, leaned forward, her grin practically splitting her face.

“So, real talk,” she said, her eyes darting between the three of us. “Who’s the worst snorer in camp?”

Freya blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

“You heard me,” Karlach said, her grin widening. “Come on, we’re all thinking it. Someone’s been sawing logs loud enough to scare the wildlife.”

“Gale,” I said immediately, and Freya burst out laughing, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sound.

Shadowheart’s lips twitched. “It’s absolutely Gale.”

“Poor bastard,” Karlach said, shaking her head. “Bet he doesn’t even know. Next time, we should roll him onto his side or something.”

“Or into the river,” I added, earning another laugh from Freya.

“Remind me to stay on your good side,” Karlach said, pointing at me.

I leaned back against my pack, the warmth of the fire chasing away the evening chill. Shadows danced on the edges of our camp, and for a moment, it was easy to pretend that nothing was hunting us, that the world wasn’t on the verge of collapse. Karlach was telling some half-true story about outrunning devils in Avernus, her laughter loud and contagious, but my gaze kept drifting toward Freya.

She sat just there, legs folded neatly beneath her, her gaze fixed on the flames. There was a stillness to her that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, a quiet that didn’t match the rest of us.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I grabbed a twig and tossed it her way. Her golden eyes snapped up to meet mine.

“You’ve been quiet, Freya,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Something on your mind?”

She caught the twig midair as it slid off her lap, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “I’m just... not used to this, I suppose. Githyanki don’t exactly sit around fires sharing stories. It feels... strange. So I can understand why Lae'zel refused.”

Karlach snorted, stretching out her arms with a groan. “Yeah, no offense, but I can’t picture a bunch of Githyanki chilling out like this. Do you all just... brood in silence, or what?”

Freya tilted her head, considering. “Brooding is an apt description. Discipline and duty leave little room for camaraderie. Especially among my kind. Our kind.”

Shadowheart, who had been quiet until now, arched a brow. “And yet, here you are. Not exactly the picture of a typical Githyanki.”

I glanced between the two of them, my curiosity prickling. Freya didn’t usually talk about her past, and—if I was being honest—I’d never pressed her. A strange pang of guilt twisted in my chest. I’d made her, hadn’t I? She was a product of my choices back in a pixelated world that no longer existed. But that version of her wasn’t real. It had been easy to pick traits from a list, to tweak her appearance until she fit what I wanted, and then to drop her into the adventure without a second thought.

But this Freya—this person—wasn’t just some avatar I’d shaped. She was real, with a history I knew nothing about. A life I’d never even considered. And now, sitting across from her, I realized how little I truly knew her.

Freya’s smirk faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression. “No. I suppose I’m not a typical Githyanki. I never fit in with them—not entirely.” She hesitated, her gaze flicking to the fire as though it held the words she was searching for. “It’s... complicated.”

Karlach leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. “Complicated how? You don’t strike me as the raiding, dragon-riding, throat-slashing type.”

Freya’s gaze stayed on the fire. “That’s precisely the problem. I wasn’t... enough for them. I questioned things I shouldn’t have. Saw weakness where they demanded strength. They said I was... soft.”

“Soft?” I repeated before I could stop myself. “You? Have they met you?”

Freya glanced at me, a quiet laugh escaping her. “Soft by Githyanki standards. Weakness is defined differently among my people. To them, questioning authority is weakness. Compassion is weakness.”

My stomach twisted. I knew this, but compassion? Weakness? I thought about the way Freya fought beside us—her ferocity, her sharp mind. I couldn’t picture her as anything but strong and empathetic, and the idea that her own people saw her differently made something in me ache.

“Compassion isn’t weakness,” Karlach said firmly, her voice breaking through my thoughts. “Trust me, I’ve met plenty of hardasses in Avernus who’d sell their own mother for power. Didn’t make them strong. Just made them... hollow.”

Freya turned to her, studying her as if she were seeing Karlach for the first time. “Perhaps. But to them, I was an outlier. And outliers don’t survive long.”

Shadowheart frowned, her expression unusually soft. “But you did.”

“Barely,” Freya admitted, her voice quieter now. “It’s why I left. Why I don’t belong anywhere—not with them, not with anyone.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and raw. I looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the weight she carried. It wasn’t just her Githyanki heritage or the expectations she’d failed to meet—it was the loneliness that came with it. And I felt another pang of guilt, sharper this time. How had I never considered this before?

Karlach slapped her hand on her knee, the sound startling in the quiet. “Well, screw them. You belong here.”

Freya blinked, startled. “Do I?”

“Damn right you do,” Karlach said, grinning wide enough to rival the firelight. “We’re all misfits in this merry band of chaos. Look at us—tiefling with a death engine, cleric of a dark goddess, rogue with a smart mouth. And don’t even get me started on Lae’zel, Gale and Wyll. If we can make this work, so can you.”

I smirked, leaning back again. “She’s got a point.”

Freya’s gaze flicked between us, something softening in her expression. For the first time, she looked... lighter. “Thank you,” she said softly, and the words carried a weight that made my chest tighten.

As the conversation shifted and the fire crackled on, I couldn’t help but watch Freya out of the corner of my eye. She’d opened up more tonight than she ever had before, and it made me realize how much I’d taken for granted. She wasn’t just some character in a game anymore. She was real, and she was here, and I wanted to understand her better—not because I’d created her, but because I cared.

For the first time, I wondered what other stories she was holding back. And, for the first time, I wanted to hear them all.

Chapter Text

I woke to the soft hum of morning—birds chirping somewhere in the distance, the faint rustle of leaves overhead. The fire from the night before had burned down to embers, but the warmth still clung to the air.

Stretching, I rose from my bedroll, shaking off the remnants of a dream I couldn’t quite place. The others were stirring too, except for Gale, who was already poking at a pot of something on the fire, muttering to himself about "perfecting the ideal breakfast."

“Morning,” I said, earning a distracted wave from him.

Shadowheart was the next to rise, her hair somehow looking effortlessly neat despite having slept on the ground. Karlach followed, grinning groggily as she stretched, her muscles flexing in a way that would make most demons think twice about messing with her. Freya emerged last, her movements as quiet and deliberate as ever, but I caught the faintest smile as Karlach greeted her with a hearty, “Morning, sunshine!”

Lae’zel, of course, was already awake. She stood near the edge of the camp, her sword in hand, running through a series of precise, deliberate movements. Her face was a mask of focus, and for a moment, I envied her discipline. No wonder she was deadly in battle.

Karlach plopped down beside me, rolling her shoulders. “Think we could get her to lighten up for once?” she said, nodding toward Lae’zel.

I smirked. “Not without divine intervention, and even then, I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Karlach grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You know what? I’m feeling limber this morning. How about a little sparring match? Nothing like a friendly brawl to start the day!”

That caught Lae’zel’s attention. She turned, her yellow eyes narrowing. “A ‘friendly’ brawl?” she repeated, as if the very concept offended her.

“Yeah!” Karlach said, bouncing to her feet. “You, me, whoever else feels like getting their blood pumping. What do you say, Lae’zel? Unless you think I’m too ‘soft’ for you.”

That did it. Lae’zel sheathed her sword with a sharp snap and stalked over, her gaze predatory. “Softness has no place in battle,” she said coldly. “But if you wish to embarrass yourself, I will oblige.”

Karlach whooped, clearly thrilled. “That’s the spirit!” She looked around at the rest of us. “Anyone else? Come on, don’t let me have all the fun.”

“I’ll pass,” Shadowheart said, though there was a hint of amusement in her tone. “Even though I'd love to see her lose, I don't have all my strengh back yet. But do let me know if anyone ends up needing healing, again.”

“I’m in,” I said, standing and dusting myself off. I kind of spoke too fast before I could really think about it, my body was still sore from the fight yesterday- but the thought of working off some of this tension was too tempting to pass up. Besides, I was curious to see if I could hold my own against Lae’zel—or at least survive long enough to make it interesting.

Freya raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing, settling instead onto a nearby log to watch.

Wyll appeared beside me, grinning as he adjusted the cuff of his tunic. “Well, this ought to be entertaining. My coin’s on Karlach, but I wouldn’t put it past Lae’zel to surprise us.”

“Surprise?” Astarion chimed in from behind, stepping gracefully into the growing semicircle. “Darling, have you seen her in action? This isn’t a competition—it’s a foregone conclusion. Lae’zel has the discipline of a thousand drills on her side.” He flicked an imaginary speck of dirt from his sleeve. “But Karlach will make it entertaining, no doubt. You, on the other hand, won't last longer than a minute.”

I smirked as I glanced at them both. “You two sound awfully invested for spectators.”

“Merely appreciating the finer things in life,” Astarion said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Combat is its own art form, after all.”

We cleared a small area near the edge of the camp, marking a rough circle in the dirt. Karlach stepped in first, cracking her knuckles as she faced Lae’zel. “Ready to dance, Githyanki?”

Lae’zel didn’t respond. She simply drew her sword and took up a defensive stance, her movements fluid and precise.

The fight was, unsurprisingly, brutal. Karlach charged in with her usual reckless enthusiasm, throwing wild, powerful punches that could probably flatten a tree. But Lae’zel was faster. She ducked and weaved, her blade striking out in controlled, deliberate arcs. She wasn’t aiming to hurt, but it was clear she was holding back for Karlach’s sake.

Still, Karlach held her own, laughing even as she narrowly dodged a swipe that would’ve left a nasty bruise. “Not bad,” she said, grinning. “But I’m just getting started.”

The match ended when Lae’zel disarmed her with a well-timed maneuver, sending Karlach’s improvised weapon—a sturdy branch—flying across the clearing. Karlach threw up her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, you win. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“You’re already on my bad side,” Lae’zel replied coolly, though there was a faint glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes.

Then it was my turn.

Ugh, why did I agree to do this again? That was a dumb decision.

Stepping into the circle, I felt a nervous flutter in my chest. I’d fought alongside Lae’zel plenty of times, but facing her one-on-one was another matter entirely. Still, I wasn’t about to back down—not with everyone watching. That would be too embarassing. 

Lae’zel regarded me with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. “Are you sure about this, Artemis?” she asked. “I will not go easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” I said, drawing my dagger. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first few exchanges were a blur. Lae’zel came at me fast, her sword a silver streak in the morning light. I barely managed to block her strikes, my heart pounding in my ears as I dodged and countered. She was stronger, faster, and more skilled—but I had something she didn’t: unpredictability.

“You fight with hesitation,” Lae’zel said, circling me. “You think too much. It will get you killed.”

“Or it’ll keep me alive,” I shot back, feinting to the left before lunging to the right. She blocked me easily, but I caught a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Small victories.

The fight ended when she swept my legs out from under me, sending me sprawling in the dirt. Before I could react, her blade was at my throat, the edge gleaming ominously.

“Yield,” she said, her voice calm but commanding.

I raised my hands in surrender, breathing hard. “At least I managed two minutes.” I said, sending a satisfying look to Astarion who replied with a smirk on his face.

She stepped back, offering me a hand. I hesitated for a moment before taking it, letting her pull me to my feet.

“You’re not entirely hopeless,” she said, and though her tone was dry, I thought I saw the faintest hint of a smile.

“High praise,” I said, brushing dirt off my clothes. “Coming from you.”

As the others laughed and joked about the matches, I looked at Lae’zel. There was something about the way she moved, the intensity of her focus—it was both intimidating and admirable.

Later, as the camp settled back into its usual rhythm, I approached her. “You know,” I started, “you could stand to ease up a little. Not everything has to be life or death.”

She regarded me with a raised brow. “Ease up? Do you think the world will show us mercy because that?”

“No,” I admitted. “But we’re not in the middle of a battlefield right now. Maybe it’s okay to let your guard down once in a while.”

Lae’zel was silent for a moment, her gaze drifting to the horizon. “A warrior who lets her guard down is a warrior who dies,” she said finally. But there was something in her tone—an uncertainty I hadn’t heard before.

“Well,” I said with a grin, “good thing you’ve got all of us watching your back, then.”

She didn’t respond, but I thought I saw the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in her expression before she turned and walked away.

Chapter Text

Freya unrolled a map she’d found back in the crèche, spreading it over a flat rock. Her movements were brisk and efficient, the dark circles beneath her eyes almost entirely gone now. I admired her focus sometimes—she always seemed so... put together. Even when we’d been in shambles, she’d carried herself with quiet resolve, like a steel blade sheathed in silk. I envied that about her.

Meanwhile, my own head felt like a whirlwind. The choices before us weren’t just tactical—they were existential. Every decision carried weight, consequences. 

“There are two potential routes to the Shadowcursed lands, as Halsin described. The first is through Rosymorn Monastery Trail, which leads to the bridge crossing into the cursed forest. The second...” She paused, her gaze flicking briefly toward me. “The second is the Underdark.”

“The monastery path,” Wyll interjected, stepping forward as if he could deflect the mere mention of the Underdark. “It’s the logical choice. Direct, relatively less perilous, and... well, above ground. I, for one, wouldn’t mind avoiding another brush with the delightful denizens of that place.”

“Logical?” Lae’zel repeated, her tone sharp enough to cut steel. She leaned forward, the morning sun gleaming off her armored shoulders. “Direct paths are often the most obvious—and the most dangerous. I suggest we go below. The Underdark is treacherous, yes, but it offers concealment. No githyanki patrols will follow us there.”

Karlach made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “No patrols, sure. But what about the big-ass spiders? Or worse? You really want to risk running into a mind flayer nest? Or some other... horrors down there?”

“Creatures are but one of many obstacles,” Lae’zel said crisply, her jaw set. “And I am more than capable of handling them.”

Karlach grinned, leaning in with her elbows on her knees. “And the spiders? You gonna wrestle those too, tough girl?”

Shadowheart rolled her eyes, her voice dry as ash. “I hate to agree with Lae’zel, but she has a point. The githyanki presence is growing in the pass. If we want to avoid a fight, the Underdark might be the lesser evil.”

I let their arguments wash over me, staring down at the map but not really seeing it. Normally, I’d have had an answer—a plan. I’d been here before, hadn’t I? I’d walked these routes, climbed these peaks, crossed that bridge. But this wasn’t the same. The stakes weren’t theoretical. The Shadowcursed lands weren’t just pixels or scripted events anymore—they were real. Real dangers, real consequences.

Freya’s voice broke through the debate, calm and measured as ever. “We’ll take the monastery path,” she said, her eyes scanning the group. “It’s a risk, yes, but it’s the lesser one. The bridge is the most direct route, and we don’t know for certain if the githyanki are guarding it. We’ll scout first—if the patrols are too heavy, we’ll reevaluate.”

Lae’zel bristled, her lips pressing into a thin line, but she didn’t argue. Gale, on the other hand, looked downright relieved. Freya folded the map with a sharp nod, her decision final. Just like that, our course was set.

---

The climb up the monastery trail was grueling but familiar in a way that tugged at the edges of my memory. The air grew thinner as we ascended, the chill biting at my skin even though the sun blazed bright overhead. Karlach marched ahead, her energy unflagging as she cracked jokes to fill the silence. They didn’t land as well as usual, but I appreciated the effort.

When we finally reached the ridge, my relief at seeing the Shadowcursed lands stretched out below us was short-lived. My stomach dropped as soon as my eyes locked onto the bridge—or rather, what was left of it.

The stone crossing was gone.

“What the hell?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them, my voice nearly lost to the sharp mountain wind. I stepped forward, staring at the jagged remains of what had once been a sturdy passage. Half of it had crumbled into the chasm below, while the rest leaned at a precarious angle, as if it could collapse at any moment.

“This... wasn’t supposed to happen,” I murmured, the words more to myself than anyone else.

Freya glanced at me sharply, her brow furrowing. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice low, meant only for me.

I hesitated, my thoughts racing. “I mean it doesn’t make sense. This bridge—it should’ve been intact. Passable. Something’s not right.”

Karlach whistled low as she peered over the edge. “So, we sure as hell can't pass here. Any bright ideas, anyone?”

I opened my mouth, ready to spit out some kind of answer, but nothing came. This was wrong. The world—the game—had always followed certain patterns, certain rules. Deviations happened, sure, but this? This wasn’t just a detour. This was a rewrite.

“Raphael,” I muttered under my breath, my gaze drifting to the horizon. My chest tightened as I thought back to my last meeting with the devil. He’d wanted me to steer the group toward the Underdark, hadn’t he? Lay a trap. Maybe this was his doing.

“We’ll... figure it out,” Gale said, stepping in with forced confidence.

Lae’zel’s scoff was loud enough to echo. “This is why I suggested the Underdark. We wasted time.”

“Well, okay, smartass,” Astarion snapped, stepping in with an exasperated roll of his eyes. “But we still need to find a way into the Underdark. Or were you planning to sprout wings and fly us to the Shadowcursed lands?”

The group’s frustration was mounting, voices overlapping as they threw out ideas and counterarguments. I felt the pressure building in my chest until it finally broke.

“I—uh—I might know a way to get us there,” I said, louder than I’d intended. The group fell silent, their attention snapping to me.

I winced. “It does include spiders though. A lot of spiders. Like... a lot of spiders.”

Karlach groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Of course it does.”

Chapter Text

Shadowheart knelt by the edge of the well, murmuring a soft prayer to Shar. Her dark hair caught the fading sunlight, but the gesture felt less like an act of faith and more like a warding against whatever awaited us below.

“This is the way?” Karlach asked, hands on her hips, her fiery mane catching the light like a beacon. She eyed the well with open suspicion. “Doesn’t exactly scream ‘spider nest.’”

“That’s the point,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. “They like their dens hidden. Dark, damp places where they can trap the unwary.”

Karlach shuddered. “Lovely.”

Wyll gave a grim nod. “The Whispering Depths. I’ve heard tales—most of them bad. If we’re going down there, we’ll need to keep our wits sharp and our weapons sharper.”

Lae’zel’s scowl deepened. “We descend, we kill what lurks, and we move on. Simple as that.”

“Right,” Gale said, adjusting the clasp of his robe as though it were armor. “Because plunging into an uncharted, spider-infested abyss without proper discussion has always worked out so well for adventurers in the past.”

Astarion smirked, leaning lazily against the well. “If you’re frightened, dear Gale, you can always wait up here. Perhaps knit us a scarf for when we return.”

“Enough,” Freya snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the growing tension. “We need focus, not bickering. We descend together, or not at all.”

There was a begrudging silence as everyone took their positions.

I adjusted the straps of my pack, my heart thrumming with a nervous energy I couldn’t quite shake. It wasn’t just the spiders—though the idea of facing swarms of skittering legs made my skin crawl.

And then there was the fact that this place wasn’t supposed to be a priority. We should’ve been crossing a bridge into the Shadowcursed lands, not climbing down into a nightmare because the world had shifted beneath my feet. Again.

“Ready?” I asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

Shadowheart gave a terse nod, securing her shield. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

I took the lead, gripping the rope and starting the descent. The others followed one by one, the sound of their boots against the stone walls echoing faintly. The deeper we went, the colder it became, the light from above shrinking to a distant pinprick.

The smell hit me first—wet earth, rotting vegetation, and something else, something acrid and metallic that made my stomach churn.

“Charming place,” Astarion muttered, his voice unnervingly close behind me. “Are we quite certain this is worth it?”

“Unless you’ve found another route to the Shadowcursed lands that I don’t know about, then yes,” I shot back.

We reached the bottom sooner than I expected, landing on uneven stone slick with moss and moisture. I stepped aside to make room for the others, scanning the dimly lit cavern as they joined me.

The walls were jagged and damp, carved by centuries of slow erosion. Faint streams of water trickled down, pooling in shallow depressions that reflected the flicker of torchlight like shards of broken glass.

“Everyone stay close,” Freya said, her voice echoing softly in the vastness. “These tunnels seem easy to get lost in.”

Freya moved ahead, her staff drawn and her eyes scanning the darkness like a predator hunting for signs of danger. She seemed calm—focused—but I caught the slight tension in her jaw.

Halsin’s voice rumbled through the tension, grounding us for a moment. “Be wary. This is not merely a den of spiders—it is a nest of the Shadow’s whispers.”

I glanced at him. His broad frame seemed almost too large for the confined space, and yet he moved with a quiet grace, his staff a natural extension of himself.

Karlach gave him a sidelong look. “So, uh, any druid tricks that might make the spiders... less bitey?”

Halsin’s lips curved into a faint smile. “No.”

It wasn’t long before we heard it: the faint skittering of legs on stone, a sound that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.

As we pressed on, the group’s unease began to boil over.

“How exactly did you know about this well leading to the Underdark, Artemis?” Shadowheart asked, her tone casual but her sharp gaze giving her away. “It’s not exactly common knowledge.”

I hesitated, my mind racing for an answer. Telling them the truth—wasn’t an option.

“I overheard... Aunty Ethel,” I said, the lie forming quickly. “Back in the grove, when she didn’t think I was listening. She mentioned it in passing—something about an old access point to the Underdark hidden in the village.”

Wyll raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “And you just happened to remember that detail now?”

“I thought it was worth checking out,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “We’re short on options, and... well, here we are.”

Halsin’s piercing gaze shifted to me, and for a moment, I wondered if he could sense the half-truth buried in my words. But he said nothing, merely nodding as if accepting my explanation at face value.

“Well,” Astarion drawled, breaking the tension with his usual smirk. “Let’s all thank dear Aunty Ethel for her delightful contribution to our current predicament. I’m sure she meant it with all the best intentions.”

“Can we just keep moving?” Karlach grumbled, tightening her grip on her axe. “I don’t care how we found this place—just that we survive it.”

Gale held up a hand, a faint orb of light appearing at his fingertips to push back the encroaching shadows. The orb illuminated a mass of webbing strung between the walls like a grotesque tapestry. It glistened in the dim light, and something about it made my chest tighten.

“This is wrong,” Wyll said, his voice tight. “They’re going to find us.”

“Let them try,” Lae’zel snapped. “They will find no easy prey here.”

Still, we moved forward cautiously, the tension between us rising with every step. The skittering grew louder, more frequent, until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

“We need to find a defensible position,” Freya said, her voice clipped. “If they attack us in the open like this—”

“They won’t get the chance,” Shadowheart interrupted, trying to project more confidence than she felt. But even as she spoke, I could feel it—the creeping dread that something was about to happen.

We turned a corner and found ourselves in a larger chamber, the ceiling disappearing into darkness above. Webbing stretched across every surface, thick and glistening.

And then, from the shadows, came the first spider.

Its legs was moving with an eerie precision, each joint clicking faintly against the stone. I froze for a heartbeat, nausea rising in my throat. Back in my world, spiders had always been a source of mild revulsion—tiny, skittering things that didn’t belong in the corners of my room, let alone my thoughts. I didn’t fear them, not really, but the way they moved, the way their eyes glittered like dark beads, always left me unsettled.

But this ? This was something else entirely.

The creature was massive, its body a grotesque combination of armor-like chitin and twitching hairs that caught the dim light of the cavern. Its legs alone were as long as I was tall, moving in a way that was too smooth, too alien. Its mandibles clicked together, the sound like nails tapping against glass, and for a horrifying moment, I swore I could see venom glistening at the tips.

My skin crawled, every instinct in me screaming that this thing didn’t just not belong —it was wrong on a fundamental level. A predator born of shadows and nightmares, designed to hunt creatures like me .

I gripped my dagger tighter, forcing myself to breathe. This wasn’t the first time I’d faced something awful in this world, and it wouldn’t be the last. But spiders the size of wagons? That was something my imagination had never prepared me for.

“Nope,” I muttered under my breath, shaking off the crawling sensation prickling at my spine. “I already didn’t like you back when you were the size of a quarter. This is overkill.”

Karlach glanced at me, her expression caught between a grin and a grimace. “What’s the matter? Don’t like your new eight-legged friends?”

I shot her a look, managing a wry smile despite the bile rising in my throat. “I liked them a lot better when I could step on them, not the other way around.”

Shadowheart’s voice was dry as she unsheathed her blade. “Well, lucky for you, stepping on these would take more than a boot. Ready to move?”

I nodded, trying to push past the disgust. Ready or not, these monsters weren’t going to kill themselves.

Chapter Text

The first spider erupted from the shadows like a living nightmare given form, its chitinous legs spanning wider than a wagon wheel, mandibles clicking with the rhythm of death itself. The cavern exploded into chaos—steel singing against carapace, flames dancing across chitin, the wet sound of ichor splashing against stone. Karlach's greataxe cleaved through the creature's front leg with a sound like splintering bone. Ichor—thick, black, reeking of decay—sprayed across the cavern floor in arterial spurts.

The spider's response was immediate and terrifying. Instead of retreating, it reared back on its remaining legs, towering above us like some primordial deity of hunger and hate. Its mandibles opened wide enough to swallow a man's head, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth glistening with venom. 

“Gale, left flank!” Freya shouted, lunging forward to intercept the spider’s retaliation. her staff already moving in the intricate patterns of spellwork. The weapon caught the flickering light of Gale's conjured orb,

“I’m on it!” Gale's response crackled with arcane energy as he thrust his hand forward, fingers splayed wide. The firebolt that erupted from his palm was a comet of pure destruction, trailing sparks and fury as it screamed through the fetid air. It struck the spider's bloated abdomen with the sound of thunder, flames washing over its surface like liquid sunlight. For one heartbeat, the cavern blazed with orange light, shadows dancing like demons across the web-covered walls.

But the creature was far from finished.

“Duck!” My shout tore from my throat as I drew and released in one fluid motion, the arrow singing through the air to bury itself just above the monster's cluster of eyes. Black ichor wept from the wound, but the creature barely faltered.

Shadowheart moved swiftly, her shield raised to block the spider’s next strike. “Legs first, then the body!”

Lightning crackled between her fingers, building to a crescendo before lashing out in a brilliant arc that left afterimages burned across my vision. “Astarion, you could join the fun anytime now!”

“Oh, I’m quite busy over here,” Astarion quipped from the edge of the fray, where he was fending off a smaller spider that had scuttled down from the webs above. He spun deftly, his daggers flashing as he carved through the creature’s underbelly with surgical precision. “But don’t let me stop you from being a hero!”

The constant chittering of the spiders reverberated through the cavern, mingling with the grunts of effort and the sharp ring of steel meeting carapace. For every blow we landed, the spiders seemed to retaliate twice as hard, their numbers multiplying as if summoned by the noise of the struggle.

And then it happened.

A massive spider, larger than the rest, descended from the webbing above, its sheer bulk shaking the ground as it landed in our midst. Its legs fanned out, blocking any chance of retreat, and its glossy black eyes glinted with eerie intelligence. It moved with terrifying speed, lunging first at Karlach, who barely had time to raise her axe in defense.

“Karlach, look out!” Freya cried, rushing to intercept. She shot a ray of frost at the spider’s side, drawing its attention for a split second, but it was enough for the creature to change its target. Its pincers snapped dangerously close to her arm, forcing her to backpedal.

And then, with a speed that defied its size, one of its legs shot out, striking Freya square in the chest. She flew backward, landing hard against the cavern floor, and before anyone could react, the spider pounced, its spindly legs wrapping around her prone form.

“Freya!” I screamed, my bow already drawn. I fired an arrow, the shot burying itself deep into the spider’s abdomen, but it didn’t release her. Instead, it began to climb, dragging her into the labyrinth of webs above.

“Let me go you disgusting abomination!” Freya snarled, twisting in the creature’s grasp as she tried to free herself.

Shadowheart's guiding bolt streaked through the fetid air like a fallen star, radiant energy searing into the spider's side with the power of divine wrath. The creature's shriek of pain and rage filled the cavern, but still it climbed, its movement becoming jerky but no less determined.

Chaos doubled as another nightmare materialized from the shadows—slightly smaller than the first but no less deadly. It slammed into Gale like a battering ram, sending the wizard sprawling across the rocky floor. Before he could recover, before he could cast so much as a cantrip, chitinous legs wrapped around him with the inexorable grip of fate itself.

“Gale!” Karlach roared, charging toward him with her axe raised. But the spider scuttled backward, dragging Gale along the ground as it retreated toward the shadows. Gale's orb of light flickered wildly, casting manic shadows that turned the chamber into a kaleidoscope of nightmare.

“Get off me!” Gale's indignant shout would have been almost comical under other circumstances. He tried to weave a spell, his hands moving in the complex patterns of high magic, but the spider's mandibles snapped inches from his face, forcing him to abandon arcane theory for the more immediate art of not dying. “This is highly undignified!”

“Freya! Gale!” My voice cracked as I stared helplessly at the webbed canopy above, where Freya’s struggling form was barely visible. The two spiders disappeared into the darkness, their prey in tow, leaving us surrounded by a deafening silence.

“No!” I surged forward, my bow trembling in my hands as I nocked another arrow. But before I could fire, Lae’zel grabbed my arm and yanked me back.

My body moved without conscious thought, bow rising, arrow nocked, fury and desperation driving me forward into the killing zone. But before I could loose the shot, Lae'zel's hand clamped around my arm with crushing force, yanking me back from the edge of disaster. “Stop,” The single word carried the finality of a judge's gavel. “Rush in blindly and you'll join them as decorations in their web. We need strategy, not foolish heroics.”

Her words stung, but she wasn’t wrong. My chest heaved as I forced myself to breathe, the crushing weight of failure settling over me like a boulder.

“Where would they take them?” I asked.

Wyll swallowed hard, his gaze darting upward. “The nest, probably.” he said, his voice tight. “They use them to store prey. Somewhere high up, where they can... feed.”

“Well, then,” Astarion drawled, brushing a speck of ichor from his sleeve. “Shall we crash their little dinner party before our friends become the main course?”

“Not helpful,” But his flippant tone was exactly what I needed to shock my paralyzed mind back into motion. I turned to Halsin, who had been fighting with the quiet efficiency of a force of nature throughout the entire chaotic battle. “Halsin. You’ve dealt with creatures like this before. Do you know how they operate?”

Halsin nodded grimly, his expression somber. “They’ll take them to a central nest. Somewhere secure, where the webs are thickest. If we hurry, we can reach them before...” He trailed off, his meaning clear.

Karlach's growl rumbled like distant thunder, her knuckles popping as her grip tightened on her axe handle. “Then let’s go. I didn’t come all this way to lose them.”

Was this my fault? I’d brought us here. I’d said we’d be fine. Now, two of us were gone, and the rest of us were plunging deeper into the nightmare to get them back.

I shook my head. This wasn’t the time for doubt. For Freya and Gale’s sake, I had to pull myself together. I tightened my grip on my bow, the weight of it grounding me as we plunged further into the depths. 

I'd be damned if I'd let a pack of overgrown spiders steal away the people I cared about.

Chapter Text

Silvery threads stretched across the darkness, each strand catching the sickly phosphorescent glow that seeped from fungal growths clinging to the walls. It made my skin crawl with primitive warning.

“Lae'zel.” My voice came out as barely more than a whisper, but in this tomb of web and shadow, it might as well have been a shout. “Watch your—”

“I am watching” Her amber eyes blazed as she whirled to face me, each word dripping with the kind of contempt that could flay skin from bone. “Perhaps you should focus on leading us somewhere other than our deaths.”

The barb hit its mark. Heat flashed through my chest—part shame, part fury—but I swallowed both and forced my gaze back to the labyrinth ahead. The webs weren't just obstacles; they were a network, a communication system that would broadcast our every mistake to whatever lurked in the depths.

Focus, I commanded myself. Freya and Gale are counting on you.

“We should abandon them.” Lae'zel's declaration cut through the oppressive silence like a blade through flesh. She planted herself directly in my path, feet spread wide, hand resting on her sword hilt with casual menace. “Every heartbeat we waste in this tomb brings us closer to joining them as decorations.”

The temperature in the cavern seemed to spike as Karlach stepped forward. When she spoke, her voice carried the low, dangerous rumble of barely leashed volcanic fury. “We don't leave people behind.”

“Fools rush toward death with arms spread wide in welcome.” Lae'zel turned to face Karlach without so much as a flinch, though the tiefling towered over her and literally blazed with barely contained rage. “If your precious Freya and Gale still draw breath, they are nothing more than bait dangling from hooks. Walk into this trap, and we all die screaming.”

The silence that followed felt like standing in the eye of a storm—deceptively calm but crackling with the promise of violence. I could see Karlach's hands clenching into fists, flames dancing between her knuckles. Lae'zel's grip on her sword tightened incrementally. One word, one wrong breath, and they'd tear each other apart while our friends hung dying in cocoons above us.

“Enough.” Halsin's voice rolled through the cavern with the authority of ancient forests. He moved between the two women like a mountain reshaping itself, his presence so commanding that even Lae'zel took an involuntary step back. “I have walked paths darker than this one, faced choices that would break lesser souls. And I know this truth as surely as I know the sun will rise: when we abandon our own, we become the very monsters we fight.” His steady gaze settled on Lae'zel with the weight of centuries. “Choose that path if you must, but you choose it alone.”

Lae'zel's mouth compressed into a thin line that could have cut glass, but for once, she held her tongue. My throat felt like sandpaper as I scrambled for some plan, any plan that would keep us moving forward without watching my companions tear each other apart.

A soft scraping sound made us all freeze—the whisper of chitin on stone, coming from somewhere deep in the web-shrouded darkness above.

Wyll crouched near the cavern's web-choked entrance, his movements fluid and deliberate as he studied the intricate patterns with a tracker's eye. “These aren't random,” he murmured, running his fingers dangerously close to a strand that thrummed with subtle tension. “Some are vibrating—something's moving deeper in the nest. Something large.”

My blood turned to ice water as I followed his gaze to where the thicker strands disappeared into impenetrable shadow. There—a barely perceptible movement, something being dragged along the web highways with purposeful intent.

“They’re being dragged,” I realized, following his gaze to where the thicker strands disappeared into shadow.

“Then we follow,” Halsin murmured, “but not as warriors. If we wake the nest, they’ll swarm us before we can draw breath.”

Shadowheart nodded grimly, her pale fingers already weaving preparation spells in the air around her. “Stealth is our only prayer now. One careless touch, one vibration too strong, and we'll be wrapped in silk before we can scream.”

Even Lae'zel seemed to grasp the brutal mathematics of our situation. Her scowl deepened as she reluctantly loosened her sword in its sheath—not drawing it, but ensuring she could if needed. Subtlety might not be her preferred language, but she was fluent enough when survival demanded it.

I drew the group closer, my voice dropping to barely more than a breath. “The main strands are highways. They'll lead us to the nest's heart, but they're also the most dangerous. No sudden movements. No weight on the smaller threads. And if something goes wrong...” I met each pair of eyes in turn, seeing my own grim determination reflected back. “We improvise.”

“Marvelous," Astarion drawled, though his usual smirk couldn't quite hide the tension coiling through his shoulders. “And here I thought we were just going for a pleasant evening stroll.”

Shadowheart's warning look could have frozen flame. “Save the commentary for when we're not one mistake away from becoming spider food.”

We began our descent into the web's heart, each step a calculated risk that sent phantom tingles up my spine. The strands beneath our feet had the disturbing give of something almost organic, and more than once I caught myself holding my breath as a particularly thick cable swayed under our collective weight.

Karlach, despite her size, moved with surprising grace. Her eyes found mine at every decision point, seeking guidance, offering support, radiating a steady confidence that became my anchor in the sea of creeping dread.

The deeper we ventured, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. Webs layered upon webs created a three-dimensional maze that seemed to shift and breathe in my peripheral vision. In one shadow-choked alcove, something that might once have been human hung wrapped and desiccated—a warning, a promise, a glimpse of our own potential fate.

I forced my gaze away before the image could burrow too deep into my mind. Not now. Not when there's still time.

A groan echoed from somewhere ahead—soft, pained, unmistakably alive. We all froze as Halsin raised his hand, every muscle in our group coiling tight with sudden hope and terror.

There it was again—faint as a whisper but carrying the weight of everything we'd risked to get here.

Shadowheart's lips formed a single, silent word: “Freya.”

Wyll's arm extended upward, pointing to where a cocoon hung partially hidden among a dense cluster of support strands. It swayed gently with each breath of whoever was trapped inside, suspended over a chasm that disappeared into darkness below. Getting to her would mean crossing an unstable bridge of webbing that looked like it might collapse under the weight of a determined thought.

“I’ll go,”  The words left my mouth before I could think them through properly.

Lae'zel's hand clamped onto my arm with crushing force, her expression making her opinion clearer than any words could have managed. Her amber eyes held a mixture of incredulity and something that might have been concern—though she'd probably gut me for suggesting it.

“She’s absolutely right, you know,” Astarion's infuriating smirk managed to be both reassuring and insulting simultaneously.  “You’re many things, darling, but graceful isn’t one of them.”

Heat rose in my cheeks despite everything. “Fine. You go.”

Astarion gave an exaggerated bow before melting into the shadows. Watching him move was like observing liquid mercury—every step perfectly placed, every motion flowing seamlessly into the next. His daggers appeared in his hands as if by magic, their edges gleaming dully in the dim light.

The rest of us waited in suffocating silence, every second stretching like hours. Above us, the soft skittering of multiple legs on silk sent ice shooting through my veins. I caught Karlach's eye and found strength in her steady nod, her confidence becoming a lifeline against the rising tide of helpless terror.

Astarion reached the cocoon and began his delicate work, each cut precise and surgical. The cocoon swayed with his movements, sending ripples through the web network that made my stomach clench with anticipatory dread.

Then I saw them.

Two massive spiders clung to the cavern ceiling directly above him, their bodies easily the size of hunting hounds. Their legs twitched with predatory interest as they sensed the disturbance below, compound eyes glittering like malevolent stars in the phosphorescent gloom.

“Stop,” The word escaped me as barely more than a breath, but somehow Astarion heard it.

He froze instantly, following my terrified gaze upward. His jaw tightened as he spotted the threat, but his hands remained surgeon-steady. He leaned closer to the cocoon, whispered something I couldn't hear, then resumed cutting with even greater care.

The cocoon sagged as the last strands parted with the softest whisper of sound, revealing Freya's pale, unconscious face. Astarion caught her before she could fall, his arms wrapping around her with surprising gentleness despite the awkward angle and deadly circumstances.

Now, I mouthed, gesturing him back toward us.

His retreat was a masterpiece of controlled tension. The spiders above remained motionless, fooled by the careful rhythm of his movements into believing nothing significant had changed.

When he finally reached us, Karlach immediately gathered Freya into her arms with infinite care, her flames dimming to barely more than a warm glow. “Hey there,” she whispered, her voice thick with relief. “We’ve got you now.”

Freya's eyes fluttered open like butterfly wings, and despite everything—the webs, the spiders, the mortal danger surrounding us on all sides—she managed a weak smile that hit me like sunlight after endless storm. “About time. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“Never,” Shadowheart murmured, quickly checking her for injuries. “But save your strength. We’re not out of this yet.”

Halsin's grim expression pulled my attention toward the nest's dark heart, where another cocoon was being dragged steadily deeper into shadow. Gale. Time was bleeding away like water through a sieve.

As we pressed deeper into the spiders’ domain, the temperature dropped and the webs grew so thick they seemed to pulse with their own malevolent life. The fungal glow cast everything in sickly green hues, and the silence felt alive with threat.
Every instinct screamed at me to hurry, to run, to abandon stealth for desperate speed—but haste would kill us all. 

Ahead, something moved in the darkness—something large and hungry and waiting.

We couldn't afford even one mistake.

And time was running out.

Chapter Text

At the chamber's heart sat a throne of woven death, and upon it lounged the Spider Matriarch.

She was magnificent in her horror—a creature that transcended mere predator and entered the realm of living myth. Where her offspring had been the size of hunting hounds or draft horses, she dwarfed them all, her sleek obsidian body stretching nearly twenty feet from mandible to spinnerets. Eight eyes like polished black mirrors caught what little phosphorescent light filtered through the chamber, reflecting it back as fragments of cold starlight. She sat motionless as carved stone, but there was something in that stillness that was worse than any movement.

Suspended high above her throne of silk and shadow, Gale's cocoon swayed gently in the stagnant air like a grotesque pendulum marking the seconds until his death.

We crouched in the darkness at the chamber's edge, pressed against walls slick with moisture and something that might have been blood. The weight of the Matriarch's presence seemed to press down on us from all sides, and the silence was absolute except for the occasional soft clicking of chitin against web.

“There,” I whispered, pointing to a thick web-covered pathway that curved around the chamber. It led toward the edge of a deep chasm—the only visible escape route. “That’s where we need to go. But first... we free Gale.”

My gaze returned to Gale's cocoon, and the smaller spider that crouched beside it like a faithful servant. The creature was methodically adding layers to the silk prison, its spindly legs working with the focused precision of a craftsman perfecting his masterpiece. Each additional strand brought Gale closer to suffocation, closer to becoming another desiccated trophy in this charnel house of silk.

“And how do you propose we get to him without becoming her next meal?” Astarion asked, his voice dry but hushed, his eyes locked on the Matriarch.

I followed his gaze to the smaller spider maintaining Gale's prison. The creature was perhaps the size of a large dog, its movements causing barely perceptible tremors in the web network.

“We could take it out,” I said, my voice low but certain. “But quietly. One clean kill before it can alert the queen.”

Lae’zel scoffed softly. “Delicate work is for cowards and embalmers. Better to strike hard and let the gods sort the consequences.”

“No,” Halsin said firmly. “The Matriarch has ruled this domain for decades, perhaps centuries. She knows every vibration, every disturbance in her web. The moment she senses genuine threat, she'll move faster than thought itself. Our only advantage is that she doesn't see us as a danger—yet.”

Karlach clenched her fists, her tail flicking in frustration. “Alright. But the second things go south, I’m burning her eight-legged ass.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Wyll muttered, gripping his rapier tightly. “Stick to the shadows. Stay low. We’ll take the smaller one out together.”

The group began to move, each step across the sticky webbing sending faint vibrations outward. My heart pounded in my chest as we approached, the creature growing larger and more grotesque with every step. The sound of its work—wet clicks and soft tearing noises—painted vivid pictures in my mind of what it was doing to him.

Halsin raised his hand, fingers spelling out our plan in the silent language of hunters. He would create a distraction, drawing the spider's attention long enough for Karlach and Lae'zel to free Gale. If something went wrong, Wyll would provide backup while the rest of us prepared for the Matriarch's inevitable response.

“I should be the one to lure it,” Astarion whispered, his lips curling into a faint smile. 

“No,” I cut in. “We don’t need it lured far. Halsin can hold its attention. We need speed, not a chase.”

Astarion's eye roll was barely visible in the dim light, but he fell silent, his daggers sliding into his hands with the whisper of steel against leather.

Halsin moved first, each step deliberate and measured as he positioned himself on the thicker strands where Gale's captor worked. His staff touched the web with the gentlest pressure—a tap so soft it might have been imagined, but loud enough to reach the spider's sensitive hearing.

The creature's reaction was immediate and terrifying. Its head snapped toward the sound with mechanical precision, compound eyes glittering like fragments of night sky as they locked onto Halsin's position. The spider rose slightly on its legs, body language shifting from methodical worker to alert predator in the span of a heartbeat.

Halsin took a slow, deliberate step backward, drawing the creature away from Gale's cocoon with the patient skill of someone who had lured countless predators into traps over the centuries.

The spider hissed—a sound like steam escaping from a kettle—and rose higher, torn between investigating the disturbance and maintaining its vigil over its prize.

“Now,” I whispered, nudging Karlach and Lae’zel forward.

The two warriors moved in tandem. Lae’zel’s blade was the first to strike, cutting through the thick strands of webbing binding Gale. Karlach followed, her strong arms ripping at the silk with a precision that belied her strength.

The spider, sensing the disturbance, hissed louder and lunged for Halsin, but he was ready. He slammed the butt of his staff into the ground, sending a burst of magic that disoriented the creature. It skittered back, momentarily dazed.

“Almost there,” Karlach grunted, her muscles straining as she tore the last strands of webbing. Gale’s limp form sagged, and Lae’zel caught him, slinging his unconscious body over her shoulder without hesitation.

But the spider recovered faster than any of us had anticipated. Its screech of rage and alarm split the air like breaking glass, legs windmilling frantically as it turned toward the source of the theft with single-minded fury.

“Kill it!” I hissed, nocking an arrow.

Astarion was faster. He darted forward, his daggers gleaming as he struck the spider’s underside with surgical precision. Its death scream cut off mid-note as it collapsed, legs folding beneath it like a house of cards in a hurricane.

But the damage was done. Above us, the massive web network began to vibrate like a struck tuning fork, carrying the spider's final cry to every corner of the chamber. The silence that followed felt like the held breath before an avalanche.

The Matriarch stirred.

It started as barely perceptible movement: a slight shift in the angle of her massive head, the faintest twitching of legs that could crush a man's skull like an eggshell. But there was something hypnotically terrible about watching that mountain of chitin and ancient hunger slowly come alive, like observing the awakening of some primordial god.

“Move!” Wyll whispered harshly, and the group began to retreat, sticking to the shadows as the Matriarch’s massive form began to descend.

We had made it perhaps halfway across the chamber when I saw it—a faint purple glow nestled beneath a cluster of smaller webs like a jewel in a crown of thorns. The light pulsed with an unnatural rhythm that spoke of arcane power and forbidden knowledge, and my stomach twisted with sudden recognition.

The key for the Book of Thay.

I stopped dead, my companions moving ahead while my eyes remained fixed on that cursed purple glow. It was so close—perhaps twenty feet away, nestled in what looked like a shrine of webbing near the Matriarch's perch. I didn't need it now, might never need it at all, but the thought of leaving it behind, of letting such power slip through my fingers when it was within reach, ate at me like acid.

I glanced at the others, then at the stone. If I was quick, I could grab it before anyone noticed.

“What are you doing?” Astarion had doubled back, his pale eyes wide with disbelief as he realized I wasn't following. “Please tell me you're not considering what I think you're considering.”

“Just go,” I whispered, my tone sharper than I intended. “I’ll catch up.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he hissed, but when I made no move to follow, he cursed in elvish and reluctantly continued toward the others.

I crept toward the stone, each step sending shivers down my spine. The Matriarch’s enormous form loomed overhead, her legs twitching faintly as if in a dream. The stone was embedded in the silk, glowing faintly. I reached out, my fingers brushing its surface—

A sudden, low hiss froze me in place.

I looked up through the web framework to find eight obsidian mirrors reflecting my image back at me, each one a window into alien intelligence that had been watching, waiting, measuring my greed with patience.

“Fuck,” I whispered to myself, my fingers tearing the stone free from its silken prison in a moment of desperate determination. The vibrations rippled outward like waves in a pond, and the Matriarch's hiss deepened into something that felt like cosmic disapproval made audible.

I scrambled backward, clutching the stone to my chest as her enormous body began to descend further, her legs moving with terrifying precision.

“Artemis!” Karlach's harsh whisper reached my ears, and I turned to see the others already gathered near the edge of the chasm.

No time.

I bolted across the web platform, the sticky strands clinging to my boots as I raced toward my companions. Behind me, smaller spiders began emerging from hidden alcoves, their legs clicking a staccato rhythm of approaching death as they moved to intercept me.

“Run, damn it!” Karlach yelled, her voice no longer a whisper.

I reached the group just as the first spider lunged. Karlach’s axe flashed as she cleaved through its legs, sending its body tumbling into the abyss.

We reached the edge of the chasm together, the faint bioluminescent glow from fungal colonies far below painting our faces in sickly green light.

“Se neme !” Halsin shouted and the familiar shimmer of feather fall magic enveloped us like a gentle embrace. We leaped into the void as one: Lae'zel cradling Gale's unconscious form, Freya clinging to Shadowheart, the rest of us trusting in magic and momentum to carry us to safety.

The world transformed into weightless poetry as we fell, the air rushing past us in a surreal ballet of descent. Above, the Matriarch's massive form appeared at the chasm's edge,

As we landed softly on the earthy floor below, I collapsed to my knees, clutching the stone tightly.

Chapter Text

“What in the nine hells were you thinking?” Astarion’s voice lashed out, cutting through the heavy silence. I flinched, looking up to see his crimson eyes blazing with a mix of anger and disbelief. His pristine composure, usually so unshakable, was splintering at the edges.

The purple stone felt like molten lead in my pocket, its cursed weight seeming to grow heavier with each passing second. My throat worked soundlessly for a moment before I managed to force words past the knot of guilt and terror lodged there.

“I... I don’t know,” The words came out as barely more than a whisper, hollow and pathetic even to my own ears. It was the truth, but honesty only made the confession feel more damning.

“You don’t know?” His laugh was sharp and humorless, like the crack of a whip.

Lae’zel’s growl cut him off, but not in my defense. Her amber eyes burned with fury as she strode forward, her blade still drawn and glinting in the dim fungal light. “Do you comprehend the magnitude of your foolishness? Your stupidity could have painted these walls with our blood. My life is not a game piece to be wagered on your momentary whims, istik.”

I could feel myself shrinking under her withering gaze, the stone in my pocket seeming to burn against my skin like a brand of shame. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, though it felt pitifully inadequate. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t think,” she snarled, her voice low and venomous. “In the creché, such 'choice' would earn you a blade between the ribs.”

“Not now.” Halsin’s voice broke through the rising tension. His hand rested on the hilt of his staff as he scanned the cavern, his hazel eyes flicking to the shadows. “We are not safe yet. Save your recriminations for when we're not standing in a tomb filled with things that want to devour us.”

His words stilled the others, but they did little to quell the storm of emotions swirling around me. Astarion’s glare lingered, and Lae’zel’s scowl deepened as she reluctantly sheathed her sword. Even Shadowheart, who usually tempered Lae’zel’s sharper edges, looked at me with a rare hint of disappointment.

I stared down at my trembling hands, trying to ignore the way the cursed stone seemed to pulse in my pocket like a second heartbeat. Part of me—a treacherous, whisering part—still insisted that I'd made the right choice, that the power contained in that artifact would somehow justify the risk I'd forced on my companions. But that certainty did nothing to ease the crushing weight of guilt that sat on my chest like a stone gargoyle.

“Are you coming, or do you plan to wallow in self-pity until the spiders regroup and finish what they started?” Astarion's voice snapped me back to the present, tinged with irritation but carrying an undercurrent of something that might have been concern. He stood a few paces ahead, hands planted on his hips, elegant features twisted into an expression of exasperated worry that he probably thought he was hiding better than he actually was.

Before I could formulate a response, the cavern's oppressive silence shattered like a dropped mirror.

Thud.

The sound echoed through the chamber with the finality of a death knell—heavy, deliberate, accompanied by the scrape of something massive moving across stone. 

Thud.

We froze as one, every muscle in our collective bodies coiling tight with sudden, primitive terror. This wasn't the skittering of spider legs or the wet sounds of things that crawled through darkness—this was something that walked upright.

Shadowheart pulled Freya closer against her side, the cleric's exhausted form trembling with the aftereffects of her ordeal in the spider's web. Lae'zel adjusted Gale's unconscious weight on her shoulder, the wizard's head lolling with each small movement, and I could see the strain in her jaw as she calculated how much his dead weight would slow us in a fight.

Thud. Thud.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, accompanied now by the sound of steady, measured breathing that seemed to fill the entire cavern with the promise of violence. 

Emerging from the shadows ahead was a hulking creature, its towering form backlit by the faint glow of bioluminescent fungi. It was a Minotaur, its massive frame rippling with muscle and its horns gleaming like polished ivory. Its hooves struck the stone floor with a weight that made my teeth clench. Even from this distance, I could see the faint red glow of its eyes as it scanned the cavern, snorting out thick clouds of breath into the chilly air.

My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was certain the creature must be able to hear it. The Minotaur’s head swung in our direction, and I swore I could feel the heat of its gaze, even though it didn’t seem to see us yet. Not yet.

“Move,” I mouthed, barely audible. My trembling hand pointed toward a narrow crack in the cavern wall, a fissure that might be wide enough for us to squeeze through if we could reach it without being seen. It was perhaps thirty feet away, but it might as well have been thirty miles with that creature standing between us and escape.

Karlach led the way, moving as quietly as someone her size could, her heavy boots a muted thud against the stone. Shadowheart followed, half-carrying Freya, who tried to lift her feet but stumbled more than once, her exhaustion evident. Lae’zel brought up the rear, her jaw clenched as she adjusted Gale’s weight on her shoulder, the wizard stirring faintly but still unable to walk on his own. The others followed silently.

Shadowheart followed close behind, half-carrying Freya's exhausted form. The cleric's legs trembled with each step. She stumbled once, her boot scraping against stone with a sound like breaking bones, and we all froze as the Minotaur's head snapped toward the noise. Lae'zel brought up the rear, Gale's unconscious weight making even her usually fluid movements awkward and labored. The wizard stirred faintly against her shoulder, a soft groan escaping his lips that made my stomach clench with terror. If he woke now, if he made any significant sound, we were all dead.

I stayed in the middle of our desperate procession, my bow drawn and an arrow nocked, though I harbored no illusions about what a single shaft could do against that mountain of muscle and horn. My hands shook with barely contained adrenaline as we crept forward

The Minotaur lifted its massive head, nostrils flaring as it tasted the air like a wine connoisseur sampling a vintage. It took a ponderous step closer, hooves cracking the stone beneath them with impacts that sent vibrations through my bones. The cavern suddenly felt claustrophobic, its walls pressing in as the creature's bulk filled my vision.

We're not going to make it, I thought with crystalline clarity. It's going to smell us, hear us, see us, and then we're going to die screaming in this hole in the ground.

“Keep going,” Wyll hissed, barely daring to breathe.

We were halfway to the crevice when Gale let out a faint groan. The Minotaur’s head snapped up, its eyes locking in our direction. My stomach dropped through the floor as I watched muscles bunch beneath its hide, preparing for the charge that would turn us all into broken meat and splintered bone.

Lae’zel swore under her breath, shifting Gale higher on her shoulder. “Faster,” she growled.

“We’ll never outrun it,” Shadowheart whispered, her voice tight with the strain of supporting Freya's stumbling form.

I glanced back at the Minotaur. The horns that had seemed merely intimidating from a distance now looked like siege weapons designed specifically for punching holes in human torsos. Its hooves struck the ground in a steady, hypnotic rhythm that spoke of approaching doom with mathematical certainty. “Just get to the crevice,” I said, forcing the words out through my clenched teeth.

For one heart-stopping moment I thought it might have lost interest, but then it let out another growl—louder this time, hungrier—and began moving toward us with the inexorable patience of something that knew its prey had nowhere to run.

The distance to safety stretched before us like an impossible chasm. Ten feet. Five. My lungs burned as I held my breath, certain that even the sound of my breathing would trigger the creature's final charge.

Then, at the last possible second, something shifted in the darkness behind the Minotaur. Its massive head turned sharply, distracted by some sound or scent that drew its attention away from our desperate flight. I didn't waste time wondering what had saved us—I simply grabbed the gift the gods had offered and ran with it.

“Go!” Halsin hushed urgently. The passage was barely wide enough for Karlach's shoulders, the rough stone scraping against armor and exposed skin as we squeezed through like rats fleeing a sinking ship. I could hear the Minotaur's footsteps echoing behind us, growing fainter but never quite disappearing entirely, a reminder that death had let us slip through its fingers by the narrowest of margins.

When we finally emerged into another cavern, I collapsed against the nearest wall, my breath coming in ragged gasps that sounded like sobs. The others were silent, their faces pale as bone in the fungal gloom, each one processing how close we'd come to joining the countless other victims that littered these underground charnel houses.

“That was too close,” Shadowheart murmured, adjusting Freya against her side.

“Closer than I’d like,” Karlach agreed, her voice rough. She glanced back at the crevice, her grip on her axe tightening. “Let’s hope it doesn’t follow us.”

Chapter Text

The deeper we ventured, the colder it became—not the crisp bite of a mountain wind but a damp, oppressive chill that seemed to seep through my armor and gnaw at my bones. My breath fogged faintly in the gloom, and the thought of falling into one of the still, icy pools we passed sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. Yet for all its discomfort, the Underdark held a strange, alien beauty. The fungi glowed softly in hues of green and blue, their light spilling over jagged formations and fractured crystal veins, painting the cavern walls with otherworldly patterns. Pools of water gleamed like liquid silver, their stillness undisturbed by time or touch.

It was a place that might lull someone into thinking it was serene, even magical—until they noticed the shadows that moved where they shouldn’t, or the silence that pressed too heavily, too completely, against the senses. I forced myself to focus, scanning the cavern ahead for signs of danger. But the sheer scale of this place was overwhelming. The caverns stretched endlessly, vast and unknowable, with jagged stalactites clawing down from above and tunnels that twisted upon themselves in an impossible labyrinth.

For all its vastness, the weight of the Underdark was crushing. I could feel it in my chest—the weight of stone and earth, an entire world balanced precariously above us. Every step felt heavier, every breath harder.

Ahead of me, Lae’zel stopped suddenly, drawing me out of my thoughts with a sharp intake of breath. She knelt near a jagged outcrop, brushing away dirt and moss with a kind of deliberate care that was unusual for her. Something metallic gleamed faintly in the blue-green glow of the fungi.

“Lae’zel?” I asked, taking a cautious step forward.

She remained motionless as carved marble, her powerful frame hunched over something that glinted in the fungal gloom. Her gloved fingers—usually so quick to violence, so eager to grip sword hilts—moved with surprising reverence across the object's surface, tracing its edges like a mother caressing a sleeping child's face. “A karach blade fragment,” she murmured, her voice low. “A weapon of my people. Ancient. Shattered. Its presence in this forsaken place...”

The others drifted closer like moths drawn to flame, curiosity overriding caution despite the palpable tension radiating from Lae'zel's rigid posture. She stood slowly, her expression unreadable, though tension radiated from her.

“It’s from your people?” I asked softly. In all our time together, Lae'zel had spoken little of her past, her culture, the astral plane she'd left behind. Now, faced with this fragment of her heritage, she seemed suddenly fragile in a way that had nothing to do with physical weakness.

She gave a sharp nod, her jaw tightening. “Yes. Githyanki craftsmanship. This shard once belonged to a warrior—a sa'varsh—one who died with blade in hand.” Her expression darkened. “I must investigate. It could hold answers—or a warning.”

Freya raised an eyebrow. “Actually, the craftsmanship suggests githzerai origin. The geometric patterns along the fuller, the distinctive tang construction—”

“It does not belong to the githzerai.” The words erupted from Lae'zel with volcanic fury. “Do not dare to mistake the work of my people for those silver-sworn mlar.”

Before Freya could say more, Shadowheart frowned and cut in: “We don't have time to chase every mysterious artifact the Underdark decides to dangle in front of us.” She took moment and sighed dramatically: “Need I remind you that we barely escaped the spider's nest with our lives intact? Our friends were nearly turned into desiccated decorations, and you want to go hunting for more trouble? Oh, and let's not forget the fucking Minotaur roaming these grounds.”

“Spoken like a true coward,” Lae’zel snapped, stepping forward. “This is more than some trinket for your amusement, Sharran. If my kin walk these tunnels, they must be found and dealt with according to the ancient codes.”

“It’s not about courage; it’s about common sense,” Shadowheart shot back, her own considerable temper finally kindling. “Something your people apparently bred out in favor of suicidal honor complexes.”

Lae’zel rounded on her, teeth bared. “Do not presume to lecture me about what matters. You know nothing of duty. Nothing of honor. Nothing of the bonds that tie warrior to warrior across the endless void.”

Before the argument could spiral further, Wyll stepped between them, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. “Hey, you two. Cut it.” His voice was calm but firm. He turned to Lae’zel. “I understand why this matters to you,” he said. “But if we split up now, we’ll all be vulnerable. We need to stay together—and if this is as important as it seems, we’ll come back when we’re ready. You have my word.”

For a moment, I thought she’d refuse. Her jaw clenched, and her eyes flashed with frustration. But then, slowly, she stepped back and some of the rage bleeding out of her features. “You had better keep that word, Blade of Frontiers,” she said, her voice low but heavy with meaning. “I will remember this promise when the stars grow cold and the planes shift. I will hold you responsible—not just for the delay, but for what we may lose by waiting.”

Wyll nodded solemnly, meeting her blazing gaze without wavering. “I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Lae'zel. Your trust isn't given lightly, and I won't treat it as such.”

The karach blade fragment glinted one last time in the fungal light as Lae'zel reluctantly tucked it away, but I could see the way her fingers lingered on its surface; a warrior's farewell to a piece of her heritage that would have to wait for proper mourning. When she finally turned to follow, her shoulders were hunched, her movements less rigid than usual. I didn’t press her, but the image of her—so tightly wound yet quietly shaken—lingered in my mind.

Chapter Text

My own footsteps felt too loud as they echoed against the cavern walls, and every stray sound—a drip of water, the skitter of distant creatures—made my pulse quicken. I glanced upward at the dark, jagged ceiling high above, and a fleeting sense of unease rippled through me. The stone felt alive, watching, waiting.

“Careful here,” Wyll murmured from ahead, his voice low but steady as he gestured toward the slick, uneven rocks beneath our feet. The group adjusted their pace, moving cautiously, but my attention lingered on the faint hum of tension in the air. It felt like the world was holding its breath.

And then I heard it—a faint, ominous groan from above.

At first, I thought I’d imagined it. But then the sound deepened, a low, guttural rumble that vibrated through the ground beneath me. My chest tightened as my gaze shot upward, searching the jagged ceiling for the source of the noise. Small stones began to dislodge, clattering down like tiny warnings. I froze, my stomach twisting in dread as I realized what was about to happen.

“Artemis, move!”

Astarion’s voice was shrill, cutting through the haze of my panic. But I didn’t react fast enough—my body felt heavy, my feet rooted to the spot as I stared, transfixed, at the massive slab of rock breaking loose from the ceiling. Time seemed to slow, the roar of stone grinding against stone filling my ears as the boulder hurtled downward, shattering into jagged shards mid-fall.

Before I could even gasp, something slammed into me—hard. Astarion’s weight collided with mine, and the force of his shove sent me stumbling sideways. My shoulder struck the rough wall, and pain flared along my side as I hit the ground. The air whooshed from my lungs, and for a moment, all I could hear was the deafening crash of stone smashing against stone. Dust exploded outward in a choking cloud, filling the cavern with an acrid, suffocating haze.

The world tilted sickeningly as I pushed myself up on trembling arms, my vision swimming with spots of darkness that threatened to drag me into unconsciousness.

Through the haze of settling debris, I saw him. Astarion crouched among the rubble like a broken, his white hair now streaked with grime and dust that turned it the color of old bone. A thin ribbon of crimson traced its way down from a shallow gash above his left eyebrow, the blood stark as paint against his skin. But it was his eyes that stopped my breath entirely; those burning ruby orbs that swept over me with an intensity that felt like being flayed alive.

“Astarion!” His name tore from my throat as I stumbled to my feet, my legs betraying me with their weakness. The world lurched around me, but I fought through the vertigo, driven by the sight of him hurt and bleeding among the stones. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, though I caught the hairline fracture in his voice; a tremor that spoke of pain held at bay through sheer stubborn will. He cradled his left arm against his chest with the careful tenderness of someone trying not to aggravate an injury that was probably worse than he wanted to admit. Despite the brittleness of his tone, his gaze remained fixed on me with an intensity that made my chest tight, something that looked suspiciously like the kind of worry he'd die before acknowledging aloud.

“You’re bleeding,”  I pressed, my voice rough with dust and emotion.

The weight of what had just happened began to sink in. If he hadn't moved, if he hadn't seen the danger and reacted with that inhuman vampire speed—I would be nothing more than a red stain beneath tons of fallen stone. The thought made my throat close up, made my hands shake with delayed shock and wickedly, something warmer, more dangerous than gratitude. 

“It’s nothing,”  The dismissal came too quickly, too practiced, accompanied by an attempt to straighten himself that ended in a barely suppressed wince. He turned his attention to brushing dirt from his sleeves with the fastidious care of someone desperately trying to maintain dignity in the face of near-disaster. “Merely a scratch. I've had worse from particularly aggressive dinner guests.”

“You didn’t have to—”  I started, but the words withered and died when I saw his expression change. He looked like terror and relief and a dozen other emotions he'd rather die again than name. Then he caught himself, the walls slamming back into place so fast I almost wondered if I'd imagined that moment of vulnerability.

“What, save your delightfully oblivious neck? You, my dear, are going to be the death of me if you don't learn to occasionally glance upward when walking through collapsing ruins” He attempted to shift his weight, but his posture remained tense, his injured arm held stiffly at his side. “Dead companions are terribly bad for morale, you know. Let’s just focus on getting out of here before this charming little death trap decides to finish what it started. And do try to watch where you're going this time, won't you? I'd hate to make a habit of playing the hero—it's so exhausting.”

“Astarion—”

“Darling,” he interrupted, the endearment slipping from his lips with a hint of exasperation. “Truly, I’ll survive. This?” He gestured vaguely to his arm, though his movements were careful. “This is nothing. Vampires are notoriously resilient.”

Despite his bravado, his eyes told a different story entirely. 

“Everyone all right?” Karlach’s voice rang out, drawing both of our attention. She stood a short distance away, her broad frame outlined against the swirling dust, her expression tinged with worry.

Astarion gave a brisk nod and started walking, brushing past me without another word. His steps were measured, his shoulders set, but I noticed the slight stiffness in his stride, the way his fingers flexed and curled around nothing at his side. He was trying to act unaffected, but the cracks in his composure were there if you knew where to look.

Chapter Text

We’d managed to find a small hollow beneath a rocky overhang, tucked just out of sight. It wasn’t much, but it was the closest thing we’d had to safety in days. The faint, eerie glow of the fungal growths around us painted the cavern walls in shades of pale blue and green, their light too dim to feel comforting.

I couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at me since the rockfall. The image of Astarion shoving me out of the way, the sharp crack of stone hitting him instead, kept replaying in my mind. I wanted to check on him, to make sure he was really all right—but for now, I decided to give him space, though the heaviness in my chest refused to ease.

I looked at Shadowheart and Halsin who were tending to Freya and Gale, the former still weak and the latter barely stirring, while Karlach sat a few paces away, sharpening her axe in slow, deliberate strokes. The scrape of stone on metal was the only real sound—everything else was just the muted drip of water and the oppressive, heavy silence of the Underdark.

But it was Lae'zel who drew my attention like a lodestone draws iron.

The githyanki warrior sat apart from the rest of our makeshift camp, her back turned to the flickering light of our small fire as if she could physically distance herself from the warmth and companionship it represented. Her shoulders were rigid as steel, locked in a posture that spoke of internal battles being fought with the same vicious intensity she brought to physical combat. In her hands, she clutched the disc we'd found—the artifact bearing Orpheus's image—with such force that her knuckles had gone white as bone beneath her gloves.

The ancient runes carved into the disc's surface pulsed with a faint, otherworldly light that seemed to echo the rhythm of her breathing, as if the artifact was somehow synchronized with her heartbeat. She hadn't spoken since we'd made camp, hadn't acknowledged any of us, hadn't done anything but stare at that cursed piece of metal as if it held the secrets of the universe—or perhaps the keys to her own damnation.

I hesitated, watching her from the fire. Lae’zel wasn’t the easiest person to approach on a good day, and right now? She looked like she was one wrong word away from tearing someone apart. But there was also something in the way she held herself, something in the barely perceptible tremor in her hands, that made my chest tighten with recognition. This wasn't anger—or at least, not the clean, simple fury that usually drove her. 

I grabbed my water skin, more for something to do with my hands than out of any real thirst, and approached slowly. I stopped a few feet away, close enough to speak without raising my voice but far enough that she wouldn't feel cornered. “Mind if I sit?”

Her head snapped around, her amber eyes narrowing on me like daggers. “If you've come to bother me with your soft-skin platitudes and empty comfort, save your breath. I have no need of your pity or your naive attempts at understanding.”

I'd weathered Lae'zel's verbal storms before, had learned to read the currents beneath her caustic exterior. This time, the barbs felt different—less like weapons meant to wound and more like walls built to protect. “No I- I just thought... maybe you’d want to talk.”

She scoffed, sharp and bitter. “Talk. That is what you soft-skins do, is it not? Spill your thoughts like blood and expect it to heal your wounds.”

I didn't rise to the bait. Instead, I lowered myself into a careful crouch, maintaining that crucial distance while making myself less imposing. “Sometimes, yeah. But I’ve seen you—seen how you hold onto things. If this didn’t matter, you would have thrown it into the nearest chasm by now and never looked back.”

Her jaw worked silently, muscles bunching and releasing as she ground her teeth. For a moment, I thought she might dismiss me entirely, might retreat further into that fortress of solitude she'd built around herself. But her fingers shifted on the disc's surface, her gaze flickering to it before darting away like someone touching a hot coal.

“It is nothing,” she said finally, though her voice lacked conviction.

I tilted my head. “I don't believe that.”

Her eyes snapped back to me with renewed fire, but now I could see the fear lurking beneath the flames. “Do not presume to understand me, outsider. You cannot begin to grasp what it means to serve Vlaakith with absolute devotion, to dedicate every breath to her glory, to surrender every dream and desire and fragment of personal will on the altar of her magnificence. To abandon all else in service to something greater than yourself.”

The words came out in a torrent, as if some dam had finally burst inside her. But beneath the familiar rhetoric, I heard a note of desperate pleading, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as me.

“I'm not pretending to understand your culture or your queen,” I said softly. “But I do know what it's like to feel torn between what you've always believed and what you're starting to discover about yourself. That kind of conflict... it's not weakness, Lae'zel. It's growth.”

Her scowl deepened, her grip on the disc loosening just slightly. “I do not feel 'torn,'” she spat, but the words sounded hollow. “I am githyanki. My purpose is clear as starlight, my will unbreakable as astral silver. I do not question. I do not doubt. I simply am.”

“Being strong doesn't mean you can't start questioning things,” I said, keeping my tone even. “In fact, I'd argue it takes more strength to examine your beliefs than to blindly follow them. And it's okay to feel confused when everything you thought you knew starts shifting beneath your feet.”

She bristled like a cornered animal, every line of her body radiating defensive aggression. “I have no need of your pity.”

Oh jesus fucking Christ, she's a hard nut to crack.

“I don’t pity you,”  I said, putting as much conviction into the words as I could manage. “But I do respect you. More than that—I admire you. And I think you're strong enough to admit when something's weighing on your heart, strong enough to face whatever truths that disc represents.”

Lae'zel's breathing was carefully controlled, each inhale and exhale measured as if she was using the rhythm to keep herself anchored. Her amber eyes searched my face, looking for deception, for mockery, for any sign that this was some elaborate trap designed to expose her vulnerability.

Finally, slowly, her posture began to ease. The rigid line of her spine softened incrementally, and she let out a sharp breath through her nose—not quite a sigh, but close enough to suggest that some internal pressure had been released.

She turned the artifact over in her hands, her movements gentle now, almost reverent. The disc caught the fungal light and threw it back in patterns that seemed to shift and dance across her features, painting her face in alternating shadows and illumination.

“This is a piece of home,” she said finally, her voice quieter. “And yet... the content feels foreign to me now. Uncertain. Like looking at a familiar face that has somehow become a stranger's. I do not know if I am discovering truth, or if I have simply failed in some fundamental way that corrupts everything I touch.”

“You're just figuring things out. And that's... that's actually incredibly brave. Plus, you can always count on us for help.”

A voice spoke from behind us. “She’s right, you know.”

I glanced back to see Wyll standing a short distance away, his hands clasped loosely behind his back in that unconscious nobleman's pose he'd never quite managed to shake. His expression was kind but serious. He stepped forward slowly, giving Lae'zel plenty of space and time to object if she wanted him to leave. When she didn't, he continued closer, moving with the careful precision.

“I know what it’s like,” he said, “to feel like your identity is slipping through your fingers. To wonder if you’re losing yourself in something bigger.”

Lae'zel's eyes narrowed, but there was curiosity there now along with the suspicion. “You compare your soft human struggles to the trials of a githyanki warrior?”

“Yes,” Wyll said simply. “I am ‘the Blade of Frontiers,’ a title I wear like armor. It defines every choice I make, every breath I draw, every dream I dare to dream. But when I made my pact with Mizora...” He paused, old pain flickering across his features like shadows cast by flame. “I thought I was trading one form of purpose for another, one identity for something even grander. But instead, I just felt... hollow. Like I'd carved out everything that made me me and filled the space with someone else's expectations.”

Lae'zel stared at him, her expression unreadable but no longer actively hostile. “And what did you do?” The question came out barely above a whisper, as if she was afraid of what the answer might reveal about her own situation.

“I listened,” Wyll said, gesturing toward the campfire. “To them. To the people who saw past the titles and the legends and the grand gestures, who reminded me that underneath all the armor and magic and heroic posturing, I was still just... Wyll. Flawed, confused, sometimes frightened Wyll, but real in a way that no legendary persona could ever be.”

Lae’zel’s gaze flicked between Wyll and me, something softening in her eyes. Finally, she gave a short, sharp nod. The gesture was small, barely perceptible, but it carried more weight than any grand speech. “You speak wisely. Both of you.”

I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, warm and genuine despite everything we'd been through. “We’re here if you ever want to talk. Even if it's just to call us soft-skins again and remind us of our numerous shortcomings.”

For the first time since we'd made camp, Lae'zel's mouth quirked upward in what might generously be called a smile. It was small, fleeting, gone almost before it appeared, but it transformed her entire face for that brief moment—making her look less like a weapon and more like the young woman she actually was beneath all that armor and attitude.

“Do not tempt me.”

Chapter Text

Later, as the others drifted into uneasy sleep, I found Astarion at the edge of the cavern, a pale sentinel against the dark stone. The fungal glow caught in the white of his shirt and turned his silver hair to moonlight, but he stood motionless as carved marble, staring into the void beyond our meager light.

Everything about his stillness felt wrong. This was Astarion—all wit and restless energy, fingers that drummed against his thighs and eyes that never stopped cataloguing escape routes. But now?

His shoulders shifted, the faintest roll of tension. “Ah, Artemis,” he replied, his tone polished but oddly flat. “Come to admire the view? I'm afraid it's rather lacking in dramatic vistas.”

“No,” I said, stepping closer. “Just... checking in on you.”

He glanced at me then, crimson eyes reflecting the dim phosphorescence like trapped fire. “How touching.”

I sighed, crossing my arms. “Thank you. For earlier, when you pushed me out of the way. I might not be standing here if you hadn't.”

His hand moved in a dismissive wave, gaze already drifting back to the darkness. “Oh please. I simply couldn't bear the thought of scraping you off the cavern floor. Think of the mess.”

“Don’t do that,” I said gently, stepping closer until I could see the way his fingers trembled at his sides. “Don’t make it smaller than it was. You put my safety above your own, Astarion. That’s not nothing.”

His jaw worked silently, muscles jumping under skin. Those restless fingers curled into fists, then released, then curled again—a tell he probably didn't even realize he had.

“It was instinct,” he said at last, his voice quieter. “I didn’t think.”

“That doesn’t make it any less meaningful.” 

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “How wonderfully naive you are.”

When I didn't rise to the bait, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, that carefully cultivated poise cracking at the edges. The mask was slipping, and we both knew it.

“It’s rather inconvenient, really,”  he admitted, so quiet I had to strain to hear him. “I've spent years perfecting the art of self-preservation. It's kept me alive when nothing else would.”

I studied him carefully, noting the way his shoulders were tense, how he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “And now?” I asked.

That made him flinch. It was subtle, just the barest twitch of his jaw, but I saw it. His hands stilled, and for a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.

“Now I seem to have developed the most irritating habit of caring whether you live or die,” he said finally. The words were low, clipped, like he hated admitting them. “It's terribly annoying.”

I took a step closer, closing the distance between us. “You’re allowed to care, you know,”

He turned then, his gaze intense and almost accusatory. “Caring is a liability, darling. It’s dangerous. It makes you vulnerable. And vulnerability—” He voice was laced with bitterness, shaking his head. “I’ve spent centuries ensuring I would never feel that again.”

“And yet,” I said quietly, holding his gaze, “you do.”

Something shattered in his expression. The careful mask fell away completely, leaving behind something so raw and frightened it made my heart ache. This wasn't the controlled, calculating vampire I'd grown used to—this was someone terrified of his own feelings, of what it meant to let another person matter.

I reached up without thinking, my fingers brushing the silver curl that had fallen across his forehead.

He went absolutely still under my touch, his eyes widening as my thumb traced the sharp line of his cheekbone. He didn't pull away. Didn't make a joke or deflect with cruelty. He just stood there, leaning almost imperceptibly into my palm like a man dying of thirst who'd found water.

His gaze dropped to my mouth, and the air between us seemed to thicken. He swayed forward—just barely, just enough that I could feel his breath ghost across my lips. His eyes searched my face like he was memorizing it, like he was trying to find the courage to close that last impossible inch.

But then he wrenched himself back, the spell breaking so abruptly I almost stumbled. He turned away, rebuilding his walls in real time.

“Careful, my dear,” he said, voice light but brittle as spun glass. “You’ll make me think you actually like me.”

Despite the rejection, the fear, the walls slamming back into place—I smiled. “Maybe I do.”

That gave him pause. His shoulders tensed, and for a split second, I thought he might turn back. But he didn’t. Instead, he tilted his head toward the darkness, his tone once again laced with feigned indifference.

“Get some rest, Artemis,” he said. “I’ll keep watch.”

I lingered for a moment, watching him. There was so much I wanted to say, so much I wanted to ask. But I knew better than to push. Instead, I nodded and stepped back, letting him keep his distance.

I turned and walked back toward the dying embers of our fire, acutely aware of his presence behind me. Just before I settled down to rest, I glanced back one more time.

He stood exactly where I'd left him, pale and still as a ghost. But something in his posture had shifted. As if admitting the truth, even to himself, had loosened something that had been wound too tight for far too long.

Chapter Text

The camp stirred with the slow, quiet energy of a group trying to ignore its collective exhaustion. The Underdark was studded with dimly glowing fungi that painted the space in shades of pale blue and green. Despite its fragile beauty, I felt no comfort here.

I sat alone at the edge of the camp, staring into the flickering fire. The warmth barely reached me; it was as though the cold of this place had seeped into my very bones. I twisted the stone in my hands, its edges biting into my palm, and wondered—again—what had possessed me to grab it.

The others were scattered about, tending to weapons, checking supplies, or speaking in hushed tones. Astarion was farther off, his back to the group, and I caught myself watching him more often than I should. Our moment from last night lingered like a ghost. The way he had looked at me—open, unguarded—should have made me feel closer to him. Instead, it left a knot in my chest.

Because it couldn’t mean anything.

I sighed, lowering the stone and pressing the heel of my hand against my temple. This place... this world... it was swallowing me whole. Every decision felt like a weight, every choice pulling me further from who I thought I was. And Astarion? He was a distraction I couldn’t afford.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The truth was crueler, cutting deeper: even if we survived this, even if we defeated the Absolute and somehow made it out of this hellhole, I wasn’t staying. I couldn’t stay.

My home was far from here, in a world none of them could ever know or touch. The thought should have been grounding, a reminder of my purpose, but instead, it hollowed me out. If I left—or if I died—it would mean leaving all of this behind. Leaving them behind.

And wasn’t that the cruelest joke of all? To find bonds here, fragile and fleeting, only to have them ripped away when it was over?

My throat tightened as a wave of homesickness struck me—fierce, raw, and unexpected. It was different from the dull ache that had been my constant companion since arriving here. This was sharper, deeper, like a blade twisted inside my heart. I closed my eyes, gripping the stone tighter as if it could anchor me, but it didn’t help. Instead, the grief seemed to rise up and out of me, spilling over in a way I couldn’t control.

I could still see my home: warm sunlight through the kitchen window, the quiet hum of the city outside, the familiar weight of the life I’d lost. I could almost hear the voices of the people I loved, laughing, talking... calling my name.

My chest ached, and for a moment, it felt as though I couldn’t breathe. The grief wasn’t just inside me—it was around me, suffocating, alive in some inexplicable way.

I didn’t realize my shoulders had started to shake until I felt a hand on my arm.

“Hey there, soldier.” Karlach’s voice was soft, careful, as though she were afraid she might startle me. I looked up sharply, brushing a hand over my face, but it was no use—tears were already running down my cheeks.

Her expression crumpled with concern as she dropped to her knees beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “Fuck, Artemis, what’s eating at you? Talk to me.”

I tried to respond, to wave her off, but my throat felt too tight. They tangled up with everything I'd been shoving down, everything I'd been too afraid to admit even to myself. Karlach waited. No jokes, no attempts to lighten the mood—just solid, patient presence beside me.

Finally, the dam broke. “I don’t belong here,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Gods, Karlach, I'm so lost. I don't fit anywhere. Not here, not with all of you brave, capable people who actually know what they're doing” My words spilled out, faster now, tumbling over each other. “I want to go home, but I don't even know if home exists anymore, if I'll ever see it again, and I'm so fucking scared—” My voice cracked, barely finishing. “I'm scared I'm going to die down here. Or worse, that I'll survive and drag everyone else down with me.”

Karlach didn't rush to fill the silence. She just shifted closer.

“You know what?” she said softly, her voice like a low hum, soothing and strong all at once. “You're allowed to be scared shitless. Anyone with a working brain cell would be, running around the bloody Underdark fighting gods know what else.”

I sniffled, looking down at my hands. “But it's more than that. I feel like... like I'm playing pretend. Like everyone's going to figure out I don't actually know what I'm doing and—”

“Oi, stop it right there.” Karlach's interruption was gentle but firm. She ducked her head to catch my eyes, those flame-bright irises holding mine steady. “You want to know a secret? None of us have a bloody clue what we're doing half the time. You think I woke up in Avernus with some grand plan? Hell no. Most days I was just trying to survive, stumbling forward and hoping I don’t screw things up too badly.”

I glanced at her, startled by the admission. She grinned, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Like, look at Gale for example. Man's got more magic in his pinky than most wizards manage in a lifetime, but he's still figuring out how not to explode himself. Or Astarion? He acts like he's got everything sorted, but he's terrified of his own shadow half the time.”

Despite everything, I felt my mouth twitch at that. “He'd hate hearing you say that.”

“Damn right he would.” Karlach's grin was fierce and warm. “Point is, we're all just making it up as we go along. The difference is, we're doing it together.”

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to so badly it hurt. But the fear was still there, cold and heavy in my chest. “What if I can't get back? What if none of this matters in the end?”

Karlach's expression softened. Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Then we make it matter, right here, right now. Every moment we get, every person we save, every time we choose to keep fighting instead of giving up—that matters.” 

The knot in my chest loosened slightly, enough to let me take a shaky breath. “I just... I don't feel strong enough for this.” 

“Strong enough?” Karlach let out a huff of disbelief. “You kidding me? You care so fucking much about everyone around you that it hurts to watch sometimes. You throw yourself between us and danger without thinking twice. That's not weakness, soldier—that's the strongest damn thing I know.”

Karlach turned her eyes towards camp. “And on the days when you can't find that strength? We'll carry you. That's what this raggedy bunch of misfits is for.”

The words unlocked something in me, a small flicker of hope that I hadn’t realized I’d lost. I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

We sat there for a while, the fire crackling softly in the background. For the first time in what felt like days, I felt the weight on my chest ease—just a little.

Chapter Text

After I was done bawling my eyes, I wasn't really sure what to do with myself. I busied myself with checking supplies, walking around, practising my magic with Gale. At one point, I looked around and saw Astarion, as he crouched by the edge of the camp. He hadn’t said much all morning. No playful jabs, no exaggerated complaints. Just quiet, methodical movements that somehow felt louder than words.

At one point, he stood, brushing his hands off against his trousers, and turned just slightly. His eyes met mine—an unguarded flicker of crimson, soft and searching before they snapped away too quickly. I wasn’t sure if I imagined it, but it left a hollow feeling in my chest.

When his voice finally broke the silence, it startled me.

“Are we moving soon?” The words were practical, neutral. But the slight edge in his tone betrayed him.

I nodded. “I think so.”

In the quiet moments, I caught glimpses of something he couldn’t quite hide. The way his gaze lingered a moment too long when he thought no one was watching. The brief pause in his step when I adjusted my hair, as if catching a memory he wasn’t ready for.

It was like standing in the shadow of a door left ajar, catching fleeting glimpses of light but never enough to reach through.

I needed a distraction. My gaze drifted toward Freya, who was perched on a mossy rock near the edge of the campsite. Her journal rested on her lap, and she scribbled furiously, her expression a curious mix of concentration and delight. Shadowheart was a few feet away, absently sharpening her spear, the rhythmic scrape of steel on stone punctuating the stillness.

Taking a steadying breath, I adjusted my pack and headed toward them. Freya looked up as I approached, her pen pausing mid-stroke.

“Artemis! Just the person I need,” she said, grinning broadly. She waved me over with an ink-stained hand. “Tell me, what’s your professional opinion on glowing mushrooms? Edible or deadly?”

“Freya…” Shadowheart sighed without looking up from her spear. Her tone was dry but laced with amusement. “Are we still on this?”

“Yes, we are,” Freya replied with mock indignation. “This is important research, Shadowheart. I could be on the verge of a culinary breakthrough.”

I arched an eyebrow, glancing at the glowing fungi clustered against the nearby rock wall. Their faint blue-green light was otherworldly, beautiful, but also distinctly… suspicious. “I’d guess deadly. Probably hallucinogenic, if you’re lucky.”

Freya groaned dramatically, slumping against her rock. “That’s what I was afraid of. And here I was, dreaming of turning them into a signature dish for my future tavern.”

Shadowheart finally looked up, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Your tavern? Didn't know you want to give Gale competition for cooking. What would you even call it? ‘Freya’s Last Mistake’?”

Freya sat up straighter, clutching her journal to her chest as if mortally offended. “No, no. It would be Freya’s Fantastic Feasts. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I think it sounds like an adventurer’s cautionary tale waiting to happen.”

“Rude,” Freya said, but smiling while doing so. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent cook. My spiced boar stew is the stuff of legends.”

“Is that what you call it?” Shadowheart quipped. “I thought the ‘legendary’ part was how it managed to burn and freeze simultaneously, after you begged Gale to let you try it.”

Freya gasped, clutching her chest as though Shadowheart’s words had physically struck her. “I’ll have you know that was a one-time incident. The fire had a mind of its own!”

I laughed, the sound surprising even myself. It felt good, though—like exhaling after holding my breath for too long. For a moment, the ache in my chest eased, replaced by the warmth of their banter.

“Freya, I think I’ll pass on the mushroom stew,” I said, shaking my head. “But if you’re serious about this tavern, I’ll at least stop by—assuming I survive the first taste test.”

She grinned. “That’s all I ask.”

Chapter Text

The winding path into the heart of the myconid colony was like slipping into another world—one that felt as alive as the people walking it. The air shifted the closer we got, growing dense and thick with spores that floated lazily on unseen currents. It smelled damp, earthy, and faintly sweet, like rotting fruit mixed with moss. A faint luminescence crept along the edges of the path, where clusters of mushrooms in all shapes and sizes seemed to pulse faintly, their glow waxing and waning like a slow, steady heartbeat.

I tried to focus on the path in front of us, but my gaze kept wandering to the strange life forms that filled the cavern. Tall, spindly stalks with delicate caps swayed as if responding to our presence, and smaller clusters of fungi seemed to ripple as we passed. Occasionally, I’d hear a faint sound—like a low sigh or whisper—but when I turned to look, there was nothing there.

The closer we came to the colony’s core, the more I felt it—that faint, thrumming pressure in the back of my mind. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t natural either. Is that how the tadpole’s presence is felt by the others? It felt like an awareness pressing just on the edge of my thoughts, alien and patient, watching.

We rounded a bend, and suddenly, the cavern opened up into a vast, sprawling expanse. The sight stopped me in my tracks.

The myconid colony was enormous, an interconnected network of glowing mushrooms and fungal blooms spread across the cavern floor like a city made of organic light. Towering stalks reached up toward the cavern ceiling, their caps large enough to shield several people beneath them. Patches of smaller mushrooms grew in dense clusters, their luminescence blending together to create a dazzling, almost hypnotic effect. And in the center of it all stood the Sovereign—a massive, humanoid shape made entirely of fungal growths, its form both majestic and grotesque. Its glowing “eyes,” if you could call them that, seemed to flicker as it turned its attention toward us.

You come uninvited, a voice resonated—not in the air, but in my mind. It was deep and resonant, carrying a weight that made my stomach churn. But you carry the scent of purpose. Speak, Outlanders.

The words sent a shiver down my spine, not because of their tone but because of the way they felt—as if they weren’t spoken at all but rather planted directly into my thoughts. My companions seemed equally unsettled; even Lae’zel, normally so steadfast, had gone rigid, her hand twitching near her sword.

Freya stepped forward boots crunching softly on the mossy ground. “We mean no harm,” she said, her voice steady despite the crawling unease prickling at the back of her neck. “We seek passage through the Underdark and found our way here.”

The Sovereign tilted its massive fungal form toward her, the luminescent glow of its "eyes" flickering faintly. The thrumming presence in my mind surged, an almost suffocating pressure that pressed on my thoughts. When it spoke, the voice didn’t seem to come from the Sovereign itself but echoed deep within my skull.

Passage may be granted, it said slowly, the words heavy, deliberate. But first, you will aid us. A blight lingers near—duergar slavers have spilled blood within the Decrepit Village, slaughtering my children, my kin. They defile this place, their greed poisoning the Underdark. This circle is imperiled unless they are eradicated.

“The duergar are responsible for killing your kin?” Karlach asked, her deep voice tinged with both anger and sorrow. “Why? For what purpose?”

The Sovereign’s glowing eyes flared faintly, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of rage ripple through the connection in my mind. Their greed knows no bounds. The Decrepit Village was once a place of peace, but they turned it into a pit of despair. They seek slaves, resources, power. They would see my circle destroyed to satisfy their hunger. Rid us of this blight, and the path and treasure will be yours, the Sovereign confirmed, its voice reverberating through my skull. But be warned, Outlanders. The duergar are ruthless and cunning. They are fewer now than when they first came, but still dangerous. Their leader is cruel and powerful—a threat to you as much as to us.

Some of the group protested, but Freya agreed to help, after I told her last night that agreeing to this request would bring us an advantage in the future.

As the Sovereign’s attention shifted away, I turned to follow the others. But then, without warning, the thrumming presence in my mind surged again, sharper this time, almost invasive. I froze mid-step, a sudden chill running down my spine.

You, the Sovereign’s voice whispered directly to me, softer now but somehow more piercing. There is… something within you. A shadow buried deep. It pulses with grief, with hunger and sorrow. You carry a wound not of the flesh, yet it festers still.

I swallowed hard, my breath catching in my throat. “What do you mean?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

But the Sovereign didn’t answer immediately. The pressure in my head grew almost unbearable, as if something was trying to peel back the layers of my thoughts, exposing everything I had tried to bury. Images flickered unbidden in my mind: the faces of people I couldn’t quite remember, fragments of laughter, pain, a scream that didn’t seem entirely my own.

It clings to you, the Sovereign continued, its tone almost… curious. A fragment of death that does not rest. Beware, Outlander. This shadow may yet consume you.

“Artemis?” Karlach’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with concern. I blinked and realized she was standing beside me, her hand on my arm. The others had stopped too, their gazes fixed on me.

“I…” I shook my head, trying to clear the strange heaviness in my thoughts. “Let’s keep moving.”

Karlach frowned, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press the matter. As we turned to leave, I glanced back at the Sovereign. 

Chapter Text

When I suggested stopping at Blurg and Omeluum’s camp, I’d framed it as a tactical move—something for the group. Omeluum’s knowledge of the tadpoles was invaluable, and his ring of mind shielding could provide Freya with an added layer of protection. That was true enough, but it wasn’t the real reason.

The Sovereign’s words stuck in my chest like a splinter, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t dislodge it. I needed to know what it had meant. And Omeluum, with his eerie calm and alien intellect, might be able to help me understand what was happening. Maybe he could help me access Penelope’s memories—figure out why these strange powers and feelings kept clawing at the edges of my mind. And with that, there could be any chance I find my way back home.

The moment my eyes landed on Omeluum, my stomach churned. I had prepared myself—told myself that he was different, that he wasn’t like the others. But seeing him, a mind flayer upclose in the flesh, was something else entirely. His tentacles writhed slightly as he inclined his head in greeting, and for a heartbeat, all I could see was the horror I’d seen through a screen: creatures that enslaved, consumed, and destroyed with cold, calculated precision.

I clenched my hands into fists, the nails biting into my palms, grounding myself. He was not like the others, I reminded myself, forcing my breathing to steady. His movements were deliberate but not threatening, and there was a strange… calm about him, as though he could feel my revulsion but chose to ignore it. I swallowed hard, willing myself to meet his milky gaze. 

Freya and him talked about the tadpole, and that he could help out; but needed the ingredients from Lenore's Tower first. After their talk, the others lingered around a few feet away, giving me space. Around him, the air was thick with the scent of unfamiliar herbs and the faint hum of arcane energy. Omeluum turned toward me, his glowing eyes unblinking, and I felt a chill crawl up my spine despite the calm neutrality of his expression.

“You seek my assistance?”

I hesitated, then nodded, stepping closer. “I do. I need... I need answers.”

He gestured for me to continue, and I took a shaky breath, words tumbling out faster than I intended. I explained my whole situation; about the body possesion, the unexplained abilities, the eerie feeling that is stuck in my body, the Sovereign words ... And he listened closely.

Omeluum tilted his head, his tentacles shifting slightly. “A complex predicament,” he mused. “I've never come anything across something like this.”

His calm tone only made my desperation surge. “Can you help me?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Can you tell me what’s happening? Maybe you have some answers, or ideas?”

Omeluum studied me for a long moment, the weight of his gaze suffocating in its alien intensity. Finally, he spoke. “Your situation is unusual. If Penelope’s essence lingers within this vessel, even if her soul is in limbo, it may hold fragments of her memories, her experiences. Unlocking these could provide you with clarity—or risk overwhelming your own consciousness.”

“I'm willing to take the risk,” I said, my voice trembling. “I just—I need to know. I can’t keep going like this. Please.”

Omeluum’s glowing eyes narrowed slightly. “It may be possible to craft an elixir—one that could allow you to delve into the remnants of Penelope’s mind. However, such an endeavor is fraught with uncertainty. The memories could be fragmented, distorted... The consequences could be unpredictable.”

“I have no other choices,” I repeated, more forcefully this time. My hands were clenched at my sides, my nails biting into my palms. “I’ll have to do this.”

He inclined his head slowly. “Very well. I will begin preparations. The potion will take time to create, and I must gather rare components.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, the words barely audible. Relief mixed with fear churned in my stomach, but at least now I had a path forward.

As I stepped away, Freya looked up from where she stood nearby, her expression unreadable. I didn’t offer an explanation, and she didn’t ask for one. But as I met her gaze, I wondered if she could see the cracks forming beneath my surface—if she could sense how close I was to breaking.

Chapter Text

Freya led the way back from our meeting with Omeluum, her stride purposeful even as the rest of us trailed behind in weary silence. It was a rhythm we’d fallen into—her leading, the rest of us following. Not that I minded. Freya had a gift for making decisions when the rest of us faltered, and right now, with the weight of the Underdark pressing down on us, that decisiveness felt like a lifeline.

When we reached the central cavern of the Grotto, we slowed instinctively, forming a loose circle. The damp, glowing walls pulsed faintly with bioluminescent light, casting an otherworldly hue over the group. The air buzzed with tension—no one wanted to be the first to speak, but we all knew the next step would matter.

“We have to split up,” Freya said at last, her voice cutting cleanly through the quiet. She stood straight, arms crossed, her green eyes sharp as they swept over us. “The duergar are a threat to the myconids, but we also need to go to the Arcane Towers to gather ingredients and hopefully good loot.”

“The tower holds the most promise,” Lae’zel declared, her tone clipped and unwavering. “I will go.”

Karlach let out a short laugh, hefting her greatsword over one shoulder. “Don’t sound too excited, Lae’zel. Wouldn’t want you pulling a muscle.”

Lae’zel shot her a withering glare but, surprisingly, let the comment slide.

Freya turned to me then, her gaze lingering. “Artemis?” she asked. “What do you think?”

I hesitated, glancing down. “You’re better suited for it,” I said finally, meeting her eyes with a small, forced smile. “The myconids need someone to stay here, and we’ve still got Thulla to worry about. The antidote, the duergar… There’s plenty to do on this side.”

Freya frowned slightly but gave a short nod. “Fair enough.”

“I’ll stay too,” Wyll added. His voice was steady, but there was a tightness to his expression. “I can keep digging into the duergar situation. Someone has to make sure we’re ready before we charge in.”

Shadowheart sighed, folding her arms across her chest. “Fine. I’ll stay as well. Someone needs to keep you two from getting yourselves killed if the duergar decide to attack.”

Freya gave her a faint smile before turning her attention to Astarion. Her pause was almost imperceptible, but it was there. “Astarion, we’ll need your expertise at the tower,” she said. “If there are traps or magical wards, you’re the most likely to spot them before they turn us into ash.”

Astarion’s lips curved in a faint, sharp smile. “Well, how could I refuse? The Arcane Tower does sound rather intriguing.” His words were playful, but there was a certain distance in his tone that I couldn’t quite place.

Freya continued. “Karlach, Gale, you’re with me too. Halsin as well. If there’s anything unnatural waiting for us, we’ll need your strength.”

Karlach grinned broadly, slamming a fist against her chest. “Oh, I’m ready. Been itching for some real action.”

Freya nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the rest of us. “The rest of you, keep things steady here. Thulla needs that antidote as soon as we can get it to her, and the myconids might have more information about the duergar. Do what you can to get us a lead.”

The group began to break apart, but Astarion lingered, just for a moment. His eyes flicked toward me once—brief, fleeting—before he turned and fell into step beside Freya and Lae’zel. His movements were as smooth and deliberate as ever, but there was something guarded in the way he carried himself, something distant.

I shook it off quickly. It wasn’t the time for indulgent musings or whatever it was I couldn’t quite name. There was work to be done, and that, at least, was something solid to hold on to.

—

Wyll leaned against the cavern wall, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he spoke.

“I’ll start with the myconids here,” he said. “Someone must know more about the duergar or where they’re hiding. It’s a gamble, but if we’re going to fight them, we need more than just rumors.” His tone was calm but edged with frustration, and I didn’t blame him. 

I nodded. “That’s a good plan. The myconids are on edge, so they won’t be forthcoming about everything, but maybe they will be less guarded. Especially if you approach them first.”

He gave a faint smile, tipping an imaginary hat. “I’ll try not to scare them off.”

Shadowheart shifted her weight, her arms crossed tightly. “And what about us? What’s our next move?”

I glanced toward the big mushroom where Thulla lay. Her breathing was shallow, her skin pale and glistening with sweat. The pain had nearly overtaken her, and time wasn’t on her side. “We should start with Thulla,” I said. “The antidote might save her. If she pulls through, she could tell us more about what she saw when the duergar attacked.”

Shadowheart frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly. “We don’t have an endless supply of that antidote, Artemis. What if someone else needs it more later?”

“I know,” I said, meeting her gaze steadily. “But she’s the only one left who’s seen the duergar and survived. We need her knowledge now, not later. Giving her the antidote isn’t just about saving her—it’s about giving us a fighting chance against the ones who did this. And who knows, maybe she’ll be important later.”

Shadowheart tilted her head, studying me for a long moment. “You have a habit of doing that, you know.”

“Doing what?” I asked, though I already felt my stomach twist at her tone.

“Knowing things,” she said, her voice calm but pointed. “Things you shouldn’t. Important details that just… happen to matter later.”

I forced a laugh, hoping it sounded more casual than I felt. “I pay attention. Besides, it’s not exactly a mystery that Thulla’s the best lead we’ve got.”

She didn’t reply right away, but the weight of her gaze lingered before she finally shrugged. “If you say so.”

I turned away under the guise of checking the antidote, my hands fumbling with the small vial in my pack. Shadowheart’s comment had been too close for comfort. 

Pushing the thought aside, I straightened and gestured toward Thulla. “Let’s go,” I said. “If we can help her, we should do it now.”

Shadowheart nodded reluctantly, her expression neutral as she followed me. Wyll gave us a quick nod as he headed in the opposite direction, already scanning the faces of the myconids nearby.

I tightened my grip on the antidote as we approached Thulla.

Chapter Text

The antidote worked quickly. It was almost unsettling how swiftly Thulla’s shallow breaths deepened, the pallor of her skin receding as the restorative potion took hold. Shadowheart and I exchanged a glance, both relieved and wary.

Thulla stirred, her eyelids fluttering as she groaned softly. Her gaze was unfocused at first, but recognition quickly sharpened her expression. She told us, haltingly, about her friends—the ones still held captive. Her trembling hand hovered over the map we’d spread out on the ground, circling the location of the Decrepit Village and explaining how to reach Grymforge.

Shadowheart gave me a look, one I couldn’t quite interpret—wary, questioning—but she didn’t press me. Instead, she gently urged Thulla to rest. “We’ll discuss the details once the others get back,” she said, her tone calm but brooking no argument. Thulla nodded weakly and sank back against the rocky bedding, her exhaustion overtaking her again.

It wasn’t long before Wyll returned, his brow furrowed with thought. “Glut came to me,” he said, the words laced with caution. “He wants to join the fight against the duergar, but something about him feels… off. I think he’s after more than just revenge.”

—

The three of us gathered in a quieter corner of the Grotto, far from the bioluminescent bustle of the myconid colony. It was a little more private here.

Shadowheart leaned against an outcrop of stone, arms crossed, her expression as guarded as ever. Wyll perched on a nearby boulder, his leg drawn up, absentmindedly dragging the toe of his boot through the dirt. The silence that stretched between us felt expectant, but not entirely comfortable.

It was Shadowheart who finally broke it. “I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” she said, her tone cool but not unkind. “Messing with memories like that… it’s dangerous.”

I tried to lighten the mood with a laugh, though it felt thin. “Aw, don’t tell me you’re worried about me?”

Her sharp gaze didn’t waver, and the weight of it made me falter. The humor I’d tried to inject drained away. I let out a slow breath, forcing myself to meet her eyes. “I don’t think it’s more dangerous than not knowing, to be honest,” I said, more seriously this time. “Who knows who—or what —Penelope truly was? If I can obtain her memories, I’ll have certain answers. Maybe even a better understanding of what’s been going on.” My voice dipped, quieter now. “Especially if it gets me one step closer to going home.”

Shadowheart’s gaze stayed locked on me, heavy. “And what if these memories change you?” she asked. Her voice was measured, but there was a sharpness beneath it. “If what you learn makes you… someone else ?”

The question struck me harder than I’d anticipated, and I took a moment to collect myself. “I’ll still be me,” I said, though the words came out smaller than I intended. “At least… I think I will. But isn’t it better to know the truth, even if it’s difficult? Ignorance hasn’t exactly been a comfort.”

Her stance shifted slightly, a flicker of something softer passing through her expression before her usual guardedness returned. “Fair enough,” she said at last, though there was still a note of hesitation in her voice. “But just so we’re clear—if this goes wrong, we’ll be the ones picking up the pieces. So don’t expect me to coddle you if it blows up in your face.”

Wyll grinned faintly at that, glancing toward her. “I think you care more for her than you let on,” he said, the amusement in his tone breaking some of the tension.

Shadowheart rolled her eyes in response, but the dramatic gesture pulled a laugh from me, lightening the mood further.

Wyll leaned forward then, resting his elbows on his knees as his expression turned more thoughtful. “Okay,” he said, his voice steady. “Let’s say the potion works, and you get your answers. Then what about after? What’s the plan?”

The question caught me off guard, and for a moment, I had no answer. “I… I don’t know,” I admitted, finally. “I guess it depends on what I find out. But at least I’ll have a direction. Something solid to work from. I hope.”

Wyll nodded slowly, the flickering light from nearby fungi casting shadows across his face. 

“I’ll be fine,” I said, trying to be reassuring. “I’m stubborn like that.”

Shadowheart pushed off from the rock she’d been leaning against, brushing dust from her gloves as she straightened. “Good,” she said, her tone brisk. “Because if this potion turns your brain to mush, I’m not wasting a spell slot to fix it.”

Her words were blunt, but the faintest hint of a smirk on her lips softened the impact. I let it slide, grateful for what little levity the moment allowed.

Chapter Text

The others returned to the Grotto sometime after what passed for nightfall in the Underdark. Freya was at the head of the group, her cloak dusted with grime and her expression stoic. Yet there was a glimmer in her eye—subtle, but unmistakable—that suggested the expedition hadn’t gone entirely poorly.

Trailing behind her was Karlach, swinging her greataxe with the ease of someone who’d already told the tale in her head a dozen times. “You missed out, you lot,” she boomed, her grin wide enough to light the cavern. “Magical lights, ancient constructs trying to kill us—oh, and get this: a floating platform. Freya almost ended up as abyss decor!”

Freya shot her a sidelong glance, the barest twitch at the corner of her lips betraying her amusement. “It wasn’t that close.”

“Oh, come now,” Astarion drawled, brushing nonexistent dust from his polished armor as he strolled into view. “You practically tripped into the void before I saved you. A thank-you wouldn’t be amiss, darling.”

“Saved me?” Freya arched a brow, her voice cool. “You yelled, ‘Watch your step!’ after I’d already caught myself.”

Karlach snorted, slinging her axe over her shoulder. “He thinks yelling something vaguely helpful counts as heroics.” She turned to Astarion with mock solemnity. “The true savior of the Underdark, everyone.”

Astarion flashed her a dazzlingly insincere smile before leaning against a nearby boulder, all poise and pretense. “Don’t let the truth distract from my contributions. It ruins the mystique.”

“Enough of your theatrics,” Lae’zel said, cutting through the chatter with a sharp tone. But then, a small, sly smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Though I admit, watching Astarion try to outrun a construct was almost worth the trip.”

Gale barked a laugh. “You saw that too, huh? Like a startled cat, all elegance gone!”

Astarion straightened, his expression scandalized. “I’ll have you know I was strategically repositioning. ”

“Strategic or not,” Lae’zel replied, her eyes glinting with humor, “you still squealed like a hatchling.”

“Bold words from someone who nearly punched the floating platform controls out of frustration,” Astarion countered, his tone dripping with mockery.

Lae’zel raised her chin. “A practical test of their resilience. They passed. You did not.”

Beside her, Halsin added with a smile, “The tower’s defenses were formidable—no doubt intended to ward off intruders—but we managed well. It was... an enlightening challenge.”

“Enlightening,” Freya echoed dryly, though she didn’t argue. Instead, she strode up to me, cutting through the banter like a blade. “We found what we were looking for,” she said, pulling a small satchel from her pack.

The scent of crushed herbs and something acrid wafted from it as she handed it to me.

“Ingredients for the potion Omeluum needs,” she said, her voice quieter now. “It wasn’t easy, but we got them.”

Wyll stepped forward, his expression measured. “And the tower itself? Any signs of the Absolute?”

“None,” Freya replied grimly, the glimmer in her eye dimming. “But at least the trip wasn’t wasted. We have what we need.”

---

Omeluum worked in silence, his motions deliberate and precise. He crushed the herbs into a fine paste, mixing them with other reagents from his collection. The liquid hissed and bubbled as it came together, turning a deep, iridescent purple that shimmered in the dim light.

“This potion will allow me to sever the tadpole’s connection to the host,” Omeluum said, holding the flask up for inspection.

Freya didn’t hesitate. She took the flask from his hands and tipped it back in one swift motion, her throat working as she swallowed every drop.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then she doubled over with a sharp gasp, clutching at her head. Shadowheart took a step forward instinctively, concern flashing across her face. “Freya—”

But Freya waved her off with a trembling hand. 

“Well?” Karlach asked, her usual boisterousness tempered with unease. “Did it work?”

Freya shook her head, the movement slow. “It’s still there,” she said through gritted teeth. “I can feel it.”

Omeluum tilted his head, his voice apologetic but detached. “The potion disrupted the tadpole’s influence briefly, but it appears the connection is too deeply rooted. I am sorry, Freya.”

She turned to Omeluum, and sneakingly started: “Oh, it’s okay. But well, do you have anything else of value that could help me protect my mind?” 

She was obviously asking for The Ring of Mind Shielding . The conversation stretched into a quiet negotiation, Omeluum hesitating before finally conceding. “Very well,” he said, removing the ring from his delicate appendages. “Use it wisely. It is a tool of great power.”

Freya slipped the ring onto her finger without hesitation, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice sincere.

Now, it was my turn.

Omeluum turned his gaze toward me, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of gravity. “This potion will allow you to glimpse into memories that are not your own. Be aware—the mind is not always prepared for what it uncovers.”

“I understand,” I said, though my voice felt small.

“Good.” He handed me the flask. “Drink it all, then lie down. The effects will begin shortly. It may be disorienting, but it is important that you do not resist. Let the memories come, and they will show you what they must.”

The flask felt heavier than it should as I gripped it tightly. With a deep breath, I tipped it back, the liquid thick and metallic as it slid down my throat. It left a strange heat in its wake, spreading out like tendrils through my body.

Freya appeared at my side as I lowered the flask, sitting close enough that her shoulder brushed mine. “You don’t have to do this alone,” she murmured, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “I’ll be here. If it gets to be too much… focus on my voice.”

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. My heart raced as I lay back on the cool stone floor, the faint murmurs of the others fading into the background. I caught a glimpse of their faces—like Shadowheart’s guarded worry, Astarion’s silent steadiness, Karlach’s fidgeting energy. Even Lae’zel’s scowl seemed less severe.

As my eyes fluttered closed, the potion began its work.

Chapter Text

At first, there was only the strange, weightless sensation of falling—not a sudden drop, but a slow, inevitable descent, as if gravity had become a suggestion rather than a law. My limbs felt heavy and alien, as though they no longer belonged to me. Each breath seemed to echo in my chest, hollow and shallow, and I became acutely aware of my pulse—a steady, drumming rhythm that grew louder and louder until it filled my head. A dull pressure began to build at the base of my skull, spreading outward in throbbing waves, as though my very mind was being pried open.

The sounds of the Grotto faded into an oppressive silence, thick and stifling, wrapping around me like a shroud. My heart raced against the stillness, desperate to fill the void.

And then the first memory surfaced, unbidden and fragmented, yet unnervingly vivid.

I was walking through a grand hall, the air cool and heavy with the scent of old stone and melted wax. The vaulted ceilings stretched impossibly high above me, their arches lost in shadow, while faint beams of light filtered through stained-glass windows far too distant to make sense. My footsteps echoed faintly against the polished stone floor, but even that sound felt muted, as though the memory itself was trying to keep me from being too certain of its reality.

Tapestries hung along the walls, their intricate patterns and scenes shifting whenever I tried to focus on them, their details slipping through my mind like smoke through my fingers. Yet they stirred something deep within me—a longing to understand, to remember.

Curiosity thrummed through my veins, sharp and electric, impossible to ignore. It urged me forward, my heart quickening with an inexplicable sense of discovery. My fingertips brushed the cool stone wall as I walked, the texture grounding me in the impossibility of the moment. There was something ahead, just beyond the edge of my vision, something I needed to see. I reached out, desperate to grasp whatever it was and I saw—

The next moment came like a door slamming open, the force of it staggering.

I was standing face to face with someone, though their features were a blur, smeared and distorted as if the memory itself refused to give them form. Their presence was overwhelming, a vivid silhouette charged with emotion, and I felt anger—hot, searing, and uncontrollable—surging through me. My hands were fists, trembling with the effort of holding myself together as I shouted words I couldn’t hear.

The anger wasn’t just mine—it felt larger, heavier, as though it came from something beyond me. It burned in my chest, fierce and wild, like a storm tearing through everything in its path. The other person’s voice rose to meet mine, sharp and unyielding, their tone cutting through the haze like shards of glass, though their words slipped away the moment I tried to hold onto them. The tension between us crackled like lightning, and I could feel the weight of unspoken truths hanging in the air.

The image splintered, shattering into shards that cut at the edges of my mind, and then—silence. Silence, and the crushing weight of sadness.

It came slowly at first, creeping in like a fog, but then it hit me all at once, a tidal wave of grief that dragged me under. It was an ache so profound it felt like it might hollow me out from the inside. My chest tightened, each breath a struggle, as though the air itself had turned to lead.

There was no image this time, no scene to anchor the sorrow—just the overwhelming void of loss. Tears spilled freely down my face, hot and bitter, though I didn’t know why. The sadness was alive, coiling around me like a serpent, squeezing tighter and tighter until I thought I might break. The void whispered of emptiness, of something gone that could never be regained, and it left me gasping for air in a world that felt devoid of hope.

I barely had a moment to recover before despair struck, sharp and merciless.

Hands—cold and unrelenting—grasped at me from the darkness. They pressed against my skin, their touch suffocating. It wasn’t just violence—it was worse. The sensation burned, a searing agony that crawled through my nerves, as if the despair itself was etched into my very being. My body felt foreign, invaded, and I wanted nothing more than to escape, to tear myself free from the invisible grasp that bound me.

The despair wasn’t just an emotion—it was a fire that consumed me from the inside out, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. My breathing turned ragged, my heart pounding against the darkness as though trying to escape its cage. Every fiber of my being screamed for relief, for an end to the torment, but the hands only dragged me deeper, pulling me into the void.

And

then

I

just

screamed—

Chapter Text

The scream ripped from my throat before I could stop it—raw, primal, and endless. It wasn’t a sound I made so much as one that tore through me , clawing its way out from somewhere too deep to name. My chest burned, my throat raw and straining, but still the sound came, impossibly loud and all-consuming, like it wasn’t just me screaming but something older, something vast, using me as its voice.

The force of it reverberated through my entire body. I could feel it in my bones, vibrating like an ancient tuning fork struck with all the weight of the world. My skin prickled with cold fire, my vision swimming in a haze of tears that wouldn’t fall. My lungs ached, straining against the sound as though they might collapse under the pressure. And the air— gods , the air felt wrong, vibrating and distorted, as though the scream had bent reality itself around it.

The scream wasn’t just a sound; it was a force, invisible but brutal, tearing through the Grotto like a gale. Rocks loosened from the walls above, clattering to the ground, and the fungal glow of the myconid colony seemed to flicker and dim in response.

Around me, the group reacted instantly, though I barely noticed through the haze. Shadowheart was the closest, her hand already reaching for me to steady me or shake me back to sense, but the force of the wail hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled back, clutching her head with a sharp gasp, her lips moving but no words making it through the overwhelming noise.

Wyll shouted something—my name, maybe—but it was swallowed by the sound, his voice reduced to a faint echo. His hands pressed against his temples, and he dropped to his knees, his expression twisted in agony. Even Karlach, unshakable as she was, reeled from the force. Her infernal engine flared erratically, glowing brighter than usual as though it were responding to the scream. She staggered, her eyes wide, her axe clattering to the stone floor as she threw up an arm to shield herself.

Astarion winced, his normally poised demeanor crumbling as he hissed in pain, his sensitive hearing clearly overwhelmed. He tried to retreat, but his steps were clumsy, his balance thrown by the unnatural sound waves that seemed to warp the very air around us. Even Lae’zel—resolute and unyielding—dropped into a defensive crouch, her sword half-raised before her body convulsed in an involuntary shudder. Her eyes widened, and for a moment, there was something that looked like… fear.

Halsin stood firm, though his usually serene expression was fractured by a grimace, the sheer force of the wail clearly testing even his endurance. Gale had drawn a defensive ward around himself, its faint shimmer pulsing erratically under the strain of the unnatural scream; his eyes were wide, bewildered yet calculating. Freya, seated closest to me, didn’t flinch as much as the others. Instead, her gaze was locked on me, a flicker of anguish and helpless determination flashing across her face.

For a terrible moment, it felt like everything might unravel, like the scream was pulling the world apart at the seams. But then, just as abruptly as it started, it stopped, cutting off so sharply it left a deafening void in its wake.

I collapsed forward, trembling, my hands splayed against the cold stone floor as I gasped for air. My chest heaved with the effort, and every muscle in my body screamed in protest, as though I’d run miles without rest. My ears rang, a high, sharp pitch that made it hard to think, hard to remember where I was or what had happened.

---

The world around me was muffled, a distant, distorted hum that barely registered over the dull roar and ringing in my ears. My body felt heavy, like I was sinking deeper into some unseen abyss, the air pressing against my chest with suffocating weight. The Grotto blurred around me—stone walls melting into shadow, flickers of torchlight warping like they were underwater. Voices rose and fell in the distance, too far away to make sense of, too fragmented to follow.

“Artemis.”

A voice—familiar, steady—cut through the haze. Freya.

Her presence was a tether, pulling me toward the surface of my consciousness. I blinked sluggishly, trying to focus. Freya was crouched in front of me, her face drawn with concern, her hands firm but gentle as they gripped my shoulders. Her lips moved, forming words I couldn’t quite hear, though her tone carried an unshakable warmth.

“Hey,” she said again, her voice becoming clearer, sharper. “You’re here. You’re with us. Look at me.”

I tried, but my eyes refused to stay on her. Something deeper in me stirred, restless and raw, as if the Wail had left behind an aftershock I couldn’t contain. My chest tightened, my breath hitching as a faint pulse rippled outward—another tremor of the power that had just erupted from me.

The group flinched. Lae’zel hissed, her body tense, but instead of reprimanding me, she muttered dryly, “If she is determined to scream us to death, she might first consider giving us warning.”

“I’d rather not hear the encore,” Gale said, his voice unusually dry but laced with concern. “Though I must admit, if we’re keeping track of dramatic displays, that was a hard act to follow.” Despite his attempt at levity, his eyes were fixed on me, worry etched into his features.

“Shut up y’all,” Freya snapped, shooting them a look before turning her attention back to me. “Artemis, listen to me. You’re safe. Whatever that was, it’s over now. You’re not alone.”

Safe? The word rang hollow, mocking, as the echoes of the Wail reverberated in my mind. I could still feel its force rippling through me, a power I didn’t understand, couldn’t control. I was terrified of what it meant—terrified of myself. My breaths came in shallow, frantic bursts, the edges of the Grotto darkening with every panicked thought.

“Artemis,” Astarion began, his voice coming closer to me as his hazy figure approached.. “Darling, I thought I was the dramatic one in this group. But you’ve certainly outdone yourself.” He crouched beside Freya, tilting his head slightly as if trying to meet my distant, unfocused gaze.

His tone shifted, quieter now, the sharp edges of his words softening. “Listen to me. Whatever you’re stuck in, snap out of it. I know you can. You’ve already done more than most ever could.” He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against my arm. 

When I still didn’t respond, his voice dropped lower, a thread of worry woven into his usually controlled tone. “Artemis. Please,” he urged, crimson eyes searching mine. “Don't do this. Not now, not when...” He stopped himself, jaw clenching. Then, quieter, with reluctant vulnerability bleeding through: “Not when I've only just gotten used to having you around. Don’t let this take you from us. From me.”

His words jolted me—with a strange clarity. My chest heaved as I sucked in a ragged breath, my eyes meeting his. His tone softened, just barely. “There you are. Breathe. For once, just… breathe.”

The haze began to lift, the crushing weight in my chest easing, but the clarity only brought a new wave of emotion crashing over me. Guilt, sharp and cutting, twisted in my stomach. I looked around at the group—at their wary faces, at the faint lines of tension that hadn’t been there before—and the realization of what I’d done, of what I was, hit me like a blade.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” I stammered, my voice breaking. “I don’t know what… I don’t even know what happened.”

Freya squeezed my shoulder. “We know. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. Tears burned at the edges of my eyes, hot and unrelenting. “I could’ve hurt you. I could’ve—” My voice choked off as panic clawed its way up my throat, my breath coming faster and faster.

Then, a low, resonant voice filled the Grotto, calm and unearthly.

“ Be still .”

The Myconid Sovereign loomed nearby, its massive form moving with a strange, deliberate grace. It extended an arm, releasing a cloud of shimmering spores that drifted through the air, glowing faintly in the dim light. The spores enveloped me, their effect immediate and surreal—a dreamlike calm washing over me, silencing the chaos in my mind. My muscles relaxed against my will, my breaths slowing as if the panic had been plucked from my chest and replaced with stillness.

“Rest now, Dreamer,” the Sovereign intoned. “Your mind is unbalanced, but it will heal. Sleep, and the burden will lighten.”

I tried to resist, to cling to the edges of wakefulness, but the spores were too strong. My eyelids grew heavy, the group’s voices fading into the distance. Astarion’s hand was the last thing I felt, grounding me even as I drifted away.

Chapter Text

When I woke, the weight in my chest was still there, heavy and unrelenting. Sleep had been more of a fevered drift than any real rest, and my body felt caught somewhere between exhaustion and numbness. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling of the Grotto, the faint glow of bioluminescent fungi casting everything in sickly green hues.

And then I heard them.

Their voices were low, but not low enough.

“That sound she made,” Gale said, his words carrying a thoughtful edge, like he was already dissecting it in his mind. “It was unnatural. The air itself felt as though it might shatter.”

“Unnatural or not, that power might come in handy in the future,” Lae’zel replied sharply, every word edged like the blade she so often wielded. “ If she learns to control it.”

A beat of silence followed before Freya’s voice broke through, fierce and unyielding. “That’s easy for you to say,” she snapped. “That wasn’t power—that was pain.”

The heat in her words made me flinch, though she wasn’t wrong. I could picture her now, standing with her arms crossed, expression hard and protective in the way only she could manage.

“She’s lucky it didn’t kill her,” Halsin murmured, grave and calm as ever, his voice grounding like earth. “That power… it’s wild. Untethered.”

“Lucky? Untethered?” Karlach’s voice joined in, rough around the edges with concern. “We’re all just standing here talking about it like it’s… what, some puzzle to solve?” I could hear the frustration bleeding through her words, her usual warmth replaced by a simmering helplessness.

Shadowheart was quieter, her tone more measured but no less troubled. “It wasn’t just power,” she said slowly, as though working the thought out aloud. “It felt like a scream—for something or from something. Whatever it was, it nearly brought me to my knees.”

Another pause fell, thick and uncomfortable. I held my breath, pressing my knuckles into the stone beside me as their words curled like smoke around my mind.

Their words blurred together after that, muffled and distant, as though they were speaking underwater. Strong. Wild. Untethered. Lucky . Each word wormed its way into me like a thorn, stinging and burrowing deep.

I didn’t want their theories. I didn’t want their fear or their confusion or their concern. I just wanted it all to stop.

I pushed myself upright, the heaviness in my chest making it hard to breathe. My limbs felt sluggish, my head buzzing like I’d swallowed a hive of bees, but I forced myself to move—one foot in front of the other—until their voices faded behind me

I didn’t go far. Just to a quiet corner where the air was still and cold, far from the press of their concern. A pool of water glowed faintly before me, its surface perfectly smooth, reflecting my pale face back at me. I barely recognized myself. The shadows under my eyes, the tension in my mouth, the haunted look that refused to leave. I dropped my gaze and ran my fingertip absently over the stone beside me, its cool texture grounding me as the whirling, unspoken fear buzzed under my skin.

What was that power? That scream— my scream—where had it come from? It wasn’t mine. It couldn’t be. The thought of it made me sick, my stomach twisting as if I might wretch it out of me, whatever it was.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it all out: the memory, the way the air had cracked like glass, the devastation it left behind. And the looks they had given me—shocked, wary, afraid.

Afraid of me.

A faint shuffle broke the silence behind me, followed by a voice I’d know anywhere.

“You’re surprisingly quiet for someone who brought the roof down.”

I stiffened, my head snapping up as Astarion stepped into my line of sight, looking far too at ease for how I felt. His tone was light, as usual, but there was an edge beneath it, something searching. I didn’t meet his gaze.

I turned away instead, drawing my knees up and hugging them to my chest. “Go away, Astarion.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d said it to him, but this time it came out sharper. Too sharp, like I wanted it to sting. Because I did. Because I needed him to leave, needed him to go back to the others and stop looking at me like that. I didn’t want him to see me like this—hollowed out from the inside. I wanted him to leave me here in the dark where I could breathe without the weight of anyone else’s eyes on me.

But of course, he didn’t leave. Astarion never left when I told him to.

“You’re hiding,” he said matter-of-factly, ignoring my words as he always did. “The others are talking about you, you know. Concern, curiosity, fear—everyone has their own theory about what happened back there.”

The word fear stung sharper than it should have, and I sucked in a shaky breath, my throat tight.

“They’re wrong,” I muttered. The words came out hollow and empty.

Because they have to be, I thought. If they weren’t wrong, if their fear was justified, then what did that make me? A monster? A weapon? Something that might lose control again?

Astarion tilted his head, his crimson eyes narrowing ever so slightly as though he could see straight through me. He moved closer, slow and deliberate, and then, to my dismay, he sank down beside me.

“You know,” he began, sounding far too casual for my liking, “I’ve seen plenty of unsettling things in my time—giants, dragons, Sartheks with appalling table manners—but that was something else entirely. I half expected the gods themselves to come crashing down to scold us.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“Of course,” he continued, his voice quieter now, “the fact that you’re still here only adds to your allure.”

I let out a slow breath, my eyes fixed on the water in front of me. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Probably not,” he agreed cheerfully. “But then, I've never been particularly good at doing what I should.”

He didn’t move, didn’t say anything else for a long while, and in the heavy silence, my walls started to slip. I felt him watching me, waiting, and when I finally dared to glance at him, I didn’t see the usual smirk. The mischief in his eyes was tempered by something softer. Something I wasn’t ready for.

“You gave us all quite the fright, you know. Even me, which is rather remarkable considering how thoroughly dead I am inside.” he said at last. The honesty in his voice knocked the breath from my lungs.

I stared at him, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. Astarion , scared? The thought didn’t fit. It didn’t make sense.

“It looked like it hurt,” he added quietly. “And you… you looked like you were drowning in it.”

I turned my gaze back to the water, blinking hard against the sting building behind my eyes. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I don’t even know how it happened.” My voice cracked at the end, the truth leaving me raw and exposed. “I can’t… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He was silent for a beat, and then I felt him move. Gently—so gently I almost missed it—he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered just a second longer than they needed to, brushing against my skin like a whisper.

“You don’t always have to understand what’s happening to you,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. 

Something in me cracked at that, my breath catching in my throat. He wasn’t being smug, or sarcastic, or cruel. He was just there, looking at me like he saw me, like he wasn’t afraid of what he saw.

I swallowed, feeling the words slip out unbidden. “I don’t understand you.”

His crimson eyes softened, though his tone retained its teasing lilt. “I suppose I’ve grown fond of strays.”

It was a joke, but his voice was soft, and his hand hovered briefly before falling back to his side. He stood, his usual grace subdued, and turned to leave.

“For what it's worth,” he said over his shoulder, a faint smile still lingering at the edges of his mouth. “I rather like you as you are. Mysterious magical outbursts and all.”

And then he was gone, his figure disappearing into the gloom of the Grotto.

I sat there, staring at the ripples in the water, my heart aching in a way I couldn’t put into words. His warmth lingered beside me like an echo, and I hated that it made me feel less alone.

Chapter Text

I found her perched on the far edge of the Grotto, half-shrouded in the dark, a quiet silhouette framed against the cavern walls. Artemis sat curled in on herself, knees drawn close like they might shield her from the world. It wasn’t an unfamiliar pose—I’d seen others like her, folding into their shadows as though they could vanish entirely. The difference was her.

She always made it so bloody hard to look away.

The others had been murmuring about her for hours now, the echoes of their conversation still clinging to my thoughts. Unnatural. Wild. Dangerous. I’d heard those same words whispered about me before—quiet enough to pretend it was an accident, loud enough that they wanted me to hear. And Artemis? She’d heard them too. She must’ve.

It wasn’t a surprise she’d slipped off to bury herself in some forgotten corner of the Grotto, hoping to disappear. What did surprise me—mildly—was that I went looking for her.

I crossed the stone path noiselessly, my steps as light as habit demanded, until I stood near enough to catch the faint tremor in her shoulders. I didn’t like the sight of her this way: so still, so quiet. It suited her about as well as sunlight suits a vampire.

“You’re surprisingly quiet for someone who brought the roof down,” I said, my voice lifting just enough to be teasing but not sharp.

Her head snapped up, her tired eyes finding mine. And for a moment, something in my chest tightened. I’d seen exhaustion before—on myself, on others—but this was more than weariness. This was weight, heavy enough to press someone flat into the dirt.

What a sight you are, I thought, the corners of my mouth twitching upward reflexively. But Artemis didn’t meet the humor; her gaze fell again, dull and distant.

“Go away, Astarion,” she murmured, her voice a threadbare whisper.

I should’ve listened. A part of me told me to turn back and let her sit here in silence, chewing on her melancholy like a rat on gristle. What did I care? It wasn’t my responsibility to tend to her little cracks.

And yet…

I tilted my head, observing her carefully, as though looking closer might help me understand something I’d missed. She was always holding herself so tightly—fierce and guarded, like a shield forged of defiance. But here, now, her edges were fraying, and I couldn’t stop myself from seeing it.

“Ah, but what kind of friend would I be if I let you wallow here all on your lonesome?” I asked lightly, settling myself on a rock near enough to feel close, but far enough to give her space. That was important—I didn’t want to crowd her. “And besides, you’d be heartbroken without my sparkling company.”

She didn’t even flinch, as though I hadn’t spoken at all. For a moment, I wasn’t sure she’d heard me. The silence stretched between us, heavy as a shroud. I thought about filling it—anything to break the quiet—but instead, I watched her out of the corner of my eye.

Her shoulders are so tense, I realized. Her hands—she’s gripping herself so hard she might bruise.

“You’re hiding,” I said finally, lowering my voice.

Her head turned just slightly, her lips parting like she meant to say something, but then she stopped herself. Always holding back. I smiled faintly to cover the strange twist of frustration low in my stomach. “The others are talking about you, you know. Fear, curiosity… concern, for some.” My voice dipped on the last word. “Everyone’s got their own theory about what happened.”

She let out a bitter sound, something between a laugh and a scoff. “They’re wrong.”

Her words were clipped, tight. I turned to face her properly, studying her as I replied. “Are they? I’ve seen unsettling things before—giants, dragons, wizards with questionable hygiene—but that …” I gestured vaguely, “was something else entirely. I half expected the gods themselves to come crashing down to scold us.”

She flinched, just barely. It was the smallest crack, but I saw it—saw how she tried to hold herself together. That was the thing about her: Artemis was strong, unyielding even. But strength like that only worked when you ignored the fissures creeping through it.

I dropped the act, just a little. “It looked like it hurt, you know,” I said, softer now. “You looked like you were drowning in it.”

Her breath hitched. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she whispered, voice thin. “I don’t even know how it happened. I can’t… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Something twisted in my chest—pity, maybe, though the word felt distasteful. It was too close to how people used to look at me when they thought I couldn’t see them. So instead, I leaned back on my hands, giving a languid stretch to fill the silence. My smile had faded somewhere along the way.

“Artemis,” I said after a moment, my voice quieter.

She didn’t look at me.

For a heartbeat, I considered leaving—turning this into another joke or wandering off with a half-hearted excuse. It would’ve been easier. But instead, I leaned forward, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. My fingers lingered, just enough for her to notice.

She froze, and when she looked at me, her expression was unreadable.

“You don’t always have to understand what’s happening to you,” I said softly. “Not everything needs an explanation.”

Her breath shuddered, and for a moment, I saw it—the walls crumbling just slightly, her fear mixed with something I couldn’t name. Artemis blinked, her gaze searching mine.

“I don’t understand you,” she whispered.

Her voice wasn’t accusing, just… unsure. And the way she looked at me—like I was something real, something more than a mask—made me want to flinch away. But I didn’t.

“I suppose I’ve grown fond of strays,” I quipped, the words leaving my mouth before I could think better of them. A joke, I told myself, because I didn’t know what else to say. I wasn’t good at this—comfort, honesty, being seen.

But she smiled, just faintly, and for some reason, that felt like a victory.

I stood abruptly, brushing nonexistent dust from my trousers. “For what it's worth,” I said, voice lighter again. “I rather like you as you are. Mysterious magical outbursts and all.”

I turned to leave, slipping back into the Grotto’s shadows, but not before I glanced back once. Artemis still sat there, small and pensive against the dark— but breathing.

And I told myself that was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

I should’ve felt better. I should’ve understood everything better.

Instead, I sat there, trying to piece together what had unraveled inside my head the night before. Memories. Images. Sounds that didn’t belong here, rising from somewhere dark and buried. Some had burned sharp enough to cut: flashes of faces, names I couldn’t place. Others swirled like smoke, impossible to grasp and too heavy to breathe.

I’d fought against them then—clawing out of the visions as though they might swallow me whole—but now they clung to me, persistent and cruel, like thorns embedded in my skin. I couldn’t shake them, couldn’t sort them, and I didn’t know if I could bear to look at them again. I didn’t want to. Some doors, once opened, couldn’t be closed again.

I wanted this. I knew the risks. I needed to know, to find clues to get home . But why does it hurt so much?

Footsteps broke the stillness behind me. Soft, but intentional. I knew them before I turned.

“Morning,” Freya said gently. Her voice, usually bright as a flame, was quiet now, as though afraid of feeding a fire that was already burning out of control.

I glanced over, catching the concern in her eyes before looking away. “You’re up early.”

“Didn’t sleep much.” She settled next to me, close but careful, her movements deliberate, as though she feared I might spook like a startled doe. “What about you?”

I shrugged, the gesture feeling brittle enough to break. “Enough.”

It was a lie, of course. I hadn’t slept—not really. Every time I’d closed my eyes, scraps of memory pushed their way through, jagged and unrelenting. Faces I couldn’t place, places I’d never seen, and that sound —a wail, endless and shattering—echoing in the depths of my mind. I’d woken again and again, cold sweat clinging to my skin, the stone beneath me suddenly feeling like a tomb.

Freya studied me, waiting. She always waited. For a moment, I wondered if she could hear the things I didn’t say. If she could see the cracks running through me.

“You don’t have to talk to me, you know,” she said softly, leaning back on her elbows. “But… I want you to know I’m here. If you want to.”

Her words brushed against something fragile, something I didn’t want touched. I swallowed hard, the ache in my throat a quiet betrayal. I did want to tell her—I wanted to let it out, to make someone else carry the weight of it for just a moment. But the words stayed tangled, too sharp and messy to pull free.

Eventually, I muttered, “I saw things. Names, faces… places I don’t know.”

Freya’s gaze flicked toward me, steady and sure. “Do you think they’re connected to what’s happening to you?”

I hesitated, my arms tightening around my knees. “I think… I think they’re answers. Or part of them. But it’s like trying to hold water in my hands—most of it slips away before I can see it clearly.”

And the ones that didn’t ? I didn’t want to think about those. Didn’t want to feel that cold, sinking weight that came with them.

“And the ones that don’t?” Freya asked softly, almost like she could read my mind.

The words scraped against my nerves, but I forced myself to meet her gaze. She wouldn’t judge me. She never did. Still, I looked away, my voice low, nearly inaudible.

“Some of them hurt, Freya. I’m not ready to talk about them yet.”

She didn’t speak right away, but when she did, her voice was filled with something like sadness. “I’m sorry Artemis. Truly, I cannot fathom what you’re going through. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here to listen.”

“Thank you. I will tell you, I just need a day or two,” I said finally, though the words felt hollow.

Freya didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. Instead, she nudged my arm, her usual grin threatening to return, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come on. Let’s get back to the others before Lae’zel decides to drag us out by our ears.”

---

The camp felt alive when we returned, its hum of motion and conversation a stark contrast to the stillness I carried inside me. Karlach was sharpening her axe, the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone carrying through the cavern, while Gale muttered to himself, flipping through scrolls like they might hold salvation. Halsin, Wyll, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel were deep in conversation nearby, and Astarion…

Astarion was watching me.

He leaned against the far wall, his usual half-bored smirk firmly in place, but his eyes lingered on me longer than I liked. Like he knew something— saw something—that I didn’t want him to see. I dragged my gaze away, ignoring the unease twisting in my chest.

Halsin’s voice brought the group to attention. “We should decide our next move. The Myconids spoke of the duergar slaveholders. They’re entrenched nearby, and they’re a stain that should be removed.”

“Duergar,” Karlach muttered darkly. Her voice held an edge I rarely heard. “I hate those bastards.”

“Wyll,” Halsin said, turning to him, “you scouted the area—what are we walking into?”

“Fortified patrols,” Wyll replied. “Numbers enough to be bothersome. But their pride will make them predictable.”

“And their cruelty will make them dangerous,” Gale added, his brow furrowed.

“Good,” Lae’zel said, baring her teeth. “A worthy fight.”

The conversation swirled around me, but the word “slaveholders” echoed in my mind, sharp and cruel. It dredged up feelings I couldn’t name—a tangle of rage, disgust, and something bitter I couldn’t swallow. I curled my fingers into fists at my sides, my breath slow and careful.

“Artemis?”

My head snapped up, startled. Everyone was looking at me. Freya’s gaze held something steady, almost expectant.

“They need to die,” I said. My voice was cold. 

The silence that followed was heavy, but brief. Astarion’s lips curled faintly, as if he understood something the others didn’t.

“Well,” Karlach said, her grin wide and sharp. “I like her plan.”

Shadowheart’s voice cut through the space like a blade. “Before we head and fight a bunch of duergar, we should talk about this .” She looked at me. “About what happened to you last night. That wail . Whatever caused it.”

My chest tightened, the memory of it—of the sound tearing out of me—threatening to claw its way back.

“This isn’t the time, Shadowheart,” I said, forcing the words out evenly.

“If it happens again—”

“It won’t .” The words snapped out harsh, slicing through the air like a whip. I saw her eyes narrow, irritation flickering there, but I didn’t care. “What matters now is the duergar. We deal with them first.”

“And then what?” she shot back. “Pretend it didn’t happen? You nearly brought the cave down around us.”

Her words struck a nerve, and my hands clenched tightly at my sides. Before I could speak, Halsin’s hand landed gently on her shoulder. “Give her some time,” he said, though his gaze found me, thoughtful and searching. “If Artemis says we focus on the duergar, we focus on the duergar.”

Shadowheart let out a sharp breath but said no more. I refused to look at anyone. My pulse thundered in my ears, my skin hot and tight as though it might split open.

The conversation turned again—strategies, weapons, the cold, simple details of war—but the tension lingered. Astarion’s gaze lingered too, sharp and prying, like he could peel back my skin and see whatever was hiding underneath.

When he finally looked away, I let out a slow, shaky breath.

Chapter Text

The village was chaos. The clash of steel rang sharp against the stone, drowning in a flood of shouts and screams. Somewhere in the chaos, Karlach’s war cry rolled like thunder, Wyll’s fire hissed as it tore through the air, and Gale’s voice rose, sharp with incantations.

And me? I was trying to keep my blade steady.

A duergar lunged at me, his jagged axe gleaming in the torchlight. I brought my daggers up in time to meet his strike, the impact rattling up my arms. My feet slid back over the loose gravel—off-balance, unsteady.

Focus, I thought. Just focus damnit.

But my head was a mess. Every shout, every flash of motion, dragged me somewhere else—back to the wail that had burst from my chest. Back to the images in my head that didn’t belong to me. It was like trying to move through deep water, every limb weighed down, every thought slower than it should have been.

The duergar grinned, baring crooked teeth, and shoved his axe harder against my blade. My arm shook, the muscles screaming, but I couldn’t stop him. I was too slow. He broke the lock, his axe slicing down and nicking my shoulder.

I staggered back, a sharp cry escaping before I bit it off. The wound burned—hot, immediate—but I barely felt it through the pounding in my skull.

“Artemis!” Freya’s voice cut through the haze. “On your right!”

I turned—too late.

Another duergar rushed me, hammer raised. I ducked instinctively, but his swing caught my ribs as I twisted out of the way. Air punched from my lungs, and the ground slammed up to meet me. I hit hard, the stone biting into my palms, my vision dancing with spots.

“Damn it,” I hissed, trying to push myself up. My limbs felt slow, wrong , like they weren’t listening to me anymore. I could hear the duergar stomping toward me—heavy boots against rock—but my mind kept snagging, flashes of memories I couldn’t place snapping through me like jagged glass. Faces. Voices. Screaming.

“Are you just going to lie there?” Shadowheart’s voice broke through the fog, sharp as a knife. I turned my head enough to see her standing with her bow drawn, her eyes narrowed at me. “Get up!”

Heat flared in my chest—anger, shame, frustration so bitter it tasted like bile. I gritted my teeth and shoved myself to my feet, ignoring the sharp pain radiating from my ribs.

“Come on, then,” I muttered under my breath, fingers curling tighter around the hilt of my blade.

But the fight was everywhere. Karlach’s axe cleaved through a duergar nearby, blood spraying across the stone. Wyll darted past me, a blur of shadow and fire, and Gale shouted something in the distance, a flash of magic lighting up the cavern.

Everyone was fighting. Moving. Focused. And I couldn’t keep up.

A new duergar broke through the chaos, eyes fixed on me like he knew I was weak. I raised my sword, but he was faster. His blow struck me across the side, knocking me back with enough force to send me sprawling again.

Pain. Real, sharp pain. It flared through my ribs like fire, stealing my breath. I choked on it, my vision swimming.

“Artemis!”

Gale’s voice this time, tight with concern.

“You need to breathe! ”

I looked up, my chest heaving. The duergar was almost on me, his hammer raised high, his sneer mocking. Something inside me snapped.

The anger came first—hot and bitter, rising from the place where everything I couldn’t control had been buried. Anger at the duergar, at myself, at the memories clawing at the edges of my mind. The frustration followed, winding tight and sharp in my chest, dragging up every dark thought, every broken piece I didn’t know how to fix.

No more.

I wasn’t going to lie there. I wasn’t going to lose.

I grabbed for him—my hand shooting up, fingers locking around his wrist before the hammer could hit.

His eyes widened, shock flickering there, but I didn’t stop to think about it. The power rose inside me, like a tide I couldn’t stop—dark, cold, and hungry . It poured through me, snapping outward like shadowed claws.

He screamed. Gods, his screams.

The necrotic energy flowed from my fingertips, tendrils of darkness sinking into his skin. It withered beneath my touch, gray and cracked like dead leaves. I pushed harder, every ounce of anger, every shard of frustration, pouring into him. I didn’t hear the screams anymore—I didn’t hear anything but the roar in my ears, the rush of that power demanding more.

When I finally let go, the duergar fell like a crumbling husk. The shadows around me vanished, leaving only silence in their wake.

I stood there, chest heaving, my hand still tingling where the power had gathered. I looked down at what I’d done, at the ashes that had once been a man, and swallowed hard.

Silence.

When I looked up, they were all staring, done fighting.

Karlach had paused mid-swing, her axe resting against her shoulder. Freya stood frozen, her eyes wide, lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Even Lae’zel—Lae’zel, who never faltered—looked caught off guard, her brow furrowed as she took in the remains.

It was Gale who broke the silence.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, his voice bright and warm, like this was the best thing that had happened all day. “You did it! ”

I blinked at him, still trying to catch my breath.

“That’s it, Artemis—that’s the control we’ve been working toward!” He strode toward me like I hadn’t just turned a man to dust, his eyes alight with something like pride. “You channeled it. Properly. You didn’t let it overwhelm you—you wielded it!”

I stared at him, my pulse pounding in my ears. I looked down at my hands, flexing my fingers where the last threads of shadow still lingered.

“I—I did that?” I cut myself off, shaking my head. What had I done?

Freya stepped closer, her voice soft. “Artemis? Are you all right?”

Her question pulled at something tight in my chest. I looked at her—at the worry on her face—and forced a nod.

“I’m fine,” I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. I dropped my hand to my side, though it still trembled faintly.

Gale let out a bright laugh, beaming like a proud mentor. “We’ll refine it, of course, but that—that was remarkable progress.”

Shadowheart was still watching me from across the cavern, her arms crossed, her face unreadable.

“Progress,” she echoed quietly.

Karlach’s grin broke the tension. “Well, that’s one way to deal with them!” She hefted her axe onto her shoulder with a laugh. 

Is that what magic feels like? Control? Having a sense of power ?

Gods help me, it felt good.

Chapter Text

The return to the Myconid colony was brief. The Sovereign greeted us with that same unnerving stillness, its voice vibrating through my skull like the hum of a distant swarm. It barely acknowledged the blood that still crusted my hands and armor, though it seemed satisfied enough when we told it the duergar were dead.

"Order restored," it rumbled, its spores swirling lazily in the cavern's faint light. "You have served well. Take this—an offering of gratitude."

Treasure was not something I often argued with, though at the moment, I couldn’t bring myself to care about gold or gems or whatever else they pulled from the earth. I slung my pack higher onto my shoulder and muttered, “All I want is a hot, warm bath.”

The Sovereign tilted its massive fungal head toward me. “There is a lake. Hidden. Pure waters untouched by rot. You may cleanse yourself there.”

The offer caught me off guard, and for a second, I imagined it—steam rising, grime washing away. A reprieve, however fleeting. My lips quirked in something close to a smile. “I’ll take it.”

Freya nudged me with her elbow as we left. “Never knew you to turn down a reward.”

I shot her a look. “What can I say? Gold doesn’t clean blood off my skin.”

We decided to take a break before heading to Grymforge—time to breathe, resupply, and let the sting of the last fight fade. The Sovereign asked as to bring Nere’s head (as predicted), but for now, I had something else in mind.

—

The lake was exactly as the Sovereign had promised: hidden away, past winding tunnels choked with moss and vines. I’d almost missed it entirely if not for the faint sound of trickling water. When I stepped into the small cavern, I stopped. This was definitely not in the game.

It was beautiful. A pool of clear water spread across the stone floor, glittering in soft bioluminescent light. The air was warmer here, the dampness curling against my skin like a blanket. A narrow beam of light pierced through a crack high above, dancing across the water’s surface.

I toed off my boots and set down my pack, suddenly aware of how filthy I felt. Blood—some mine, some not—streaked my armor and stuck to my skin. I worked the straps free and let the pieces clatter to the ground, the weight finally off my shoulders. For a second, I just stood there in my undershirt and trousers, breathing.

The lake called to me. Slowly, I approached the edge and dipped a hand into the water. It was warmer than I expected. Inviting.

I undressed down to nothing and waded in, sighing as the water lapped around me, soothing sore muscles and washing away the dirt and blood. I lowered myself until the water covered me completely, shutting out the world for just a moment. It was so quiet down here—like the earth itself held its breath.

When I surfaced again, I let my mind drift, the calm an unfamiliar luxury. My new powers hovered at the edge of my thoughts; necrotic magic . Death. Power that sapped the life from others. It had erupted from me in the fight against the duergar, as natural as breathing—but I still didn’t understand it. Was it tied to the memories clawing their way free? To the wail? 

I looked down at my hands, submerged and pale beneath the water’s surface. I curled my fingers into fists, feeling the phantom tingling of magic still there, waiting.

“Who knew there would be such a thing hidden away in this damn grotto?”

I flinched, my fingers slipping through the water with a splash. I spun toward the voice, already scowling. “Gods, Astarion. Do you always have to sneak up on people?”

He stood at the edge of the lake, arms crossed and his grin sharp and amused. “Not my fault you were too busy having your little moment to notice. A little dangerous, don’t you think?”

“Not half as dangerous as you,” I muttered. “What do you want?”

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Want? Can't a man simply appreciate the finer things in life? The ambiance, the... scenery?” His gaze swept over me with deliberate slowness, that familiar smirk playing at his lips.

I felt heat crawl up my neck, though I refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting. “If you’re here to ruin my bath, I will drown you.”

His laugh echoed softly in the cavern. “Oh, don’t threaten me with a good time, darling.”

He took a short breath before continuing: “You’re not the only one entitled to a bit of peace and quiet, darling.”

Before I could stop him—before I could protest—he tossed the shirt aside, his movements languid and precise, each button slipping open under deft fingers. My words died in my throat as he shed his clothes completely, unashamed, his pale skin almost glowing in the faint light.. I whipped around, my face already heating. Astarion was wading into the lake—naked, of course, because why would he do anything by half measures? His pale skin stood out like marble in the dim glow, water lapping against his thighs as he moved toward me, utterly unbothered.

I turned away, fast, my face burning. “Fuck, Astarion—some warning next time?”

He laughed softly, the sound rich and unhurried. “Oh, my dear, I’m sure you’ve seen worse.” I didn’t look to confirm, but I could hear the smirk in his voice. “You don’t have to be so shy. I don’t bite. Well… not unless invited.”

I could hear him swim around before he continued: “What’s the matter? Is it me that’s distracting you?”

“It’s common decency that’s distracting me,” I shot back, my voice a little too high-pitched.

He chuckled again, unrepentant. “Oh, please. If it bothers you that much, stop peeking.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response, keeping my back to him. I floated further out into the lake, trying to focus on the warmth of the water and the soothing quiet. But no matter how hard I tried, I could feel him there—like a pull in the corner of my mind. His gaze, steady and watchful, lingered against my skin like a phantom touch.

He sighed dramatically, tilting his head back so his pale neck caught the faint light. “I’ll admit, this is far better than listening to Gale drone on about Weave theory.”

“You’re insufferable,” I muttered, though my voice lacked any real bite.

“Am I? Or am I simply charming enough that you can’t help but tolerate me?” He grinned as he looked at me again, crimson eyes sharp with mischief.

I rolled my eyes, turning my back to him as I swam lazily across the lake. But no matter how I tried to focus on the warmth of the water or the silence of the cave, I could still feel his gaze lingering on me.

Chapter Text

“You know,” Astarion said, his voice breaking the soft stillness of the water. “It’s my first time having a bath like this… since him. ”
He didn’t need to say the name. It lingered there, unspoken, like a shadow cast over the edge of his words. I watched his gaze drift, far away and yet focused—on something only he could see.

For a moment, the weight of it felt tangible, stretching across the lake between us, pressing against my chest. And then he turned to me, his crimson eyes locking onto mine. This time, there was no smirk, no shield of teasing arrogance. Just quiet honesty, startling in its rarity.

“It’s nice,” he said, voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “Especially sharing it with you.”

His words caught me off guard, like a ripple breaking the water’s still surface. I opened my mouth to reply, but my throat felt tight. For all his usual charm and wickedness, Astarion didn’t let people see him —not like this. 

“I mean…” I forced a smirk, trying to scrambled for levity, anything to ease the sudden intensity. “Well, I am excellent bathing company. It's one of my many talents.”

A beat of silence. Longer than I expected. I turned to him, expecting a quick retort, but his face was unreadable—like a mask with the edges slipping. Then, finally, he said lightly, “Naturally. How could I forget?” His smile returned, practiced and easy, but something underneath it lingered, heavy and unspoken.

The quiet stretched between us again, and I couldn’t ignore the way his shoulders tensed slightly, as if bracing against something unseen. I swallowed, my earlier bravado slipping as a question rose to the surface of my thoughts.

“Are you… his only spawn?”

His expression flickered, and I immediately regretted asking. I mean, I already knew the answer. But I needed to know. Needed to see if he trusted me enough to tell me. To share something real.

“No.” Astarion leaned back slightly, his red eyes drifting up to the cavern ceiling as if he might find the answers etched there. “Cazador sired seven spawn—me and my six brothers and sisters. ” The words were calm, measured, but I noticed how tightly his hands gripped the water’s edge. “He always insisted we were a family, even when he was carving scars into our flesh. One big, happy family of the eternally damned.”

The breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding left me in a slow exhale. He didn’t look at me, his profile sharp in the dim light, as if carved from marble.

“I was one of his first,” Astarion continued quietly, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting for anyone to hear them. “Some of the others came years later. He was a monster to us all, but…” A mirthless smile twisted his lips, bitter as poison. “He did take special pleasure in my pain. He said my screams sounded sweetest.”

His voice was steady, but the quietness of it hit harder than any shout could have. I froze, the water around me suddenly feeling far too cold.

I knew. I knew his past—what he’d been through. The scars, the torment. But knowing it and hearing him say it, watching the ghost of it darken his face, were two entirely different things.

“Astarion…”

He didn’t look at me.

“Don't.” He held up a hand, though his tone wasn't unkind. “Pity doesn't suit you, darling.”

“We’ll make him pay for it.” My voice came out quieter than I intended, but the promise was there, steel beneath the words. “I promise you.”

That finally made him look at me. A startled glance, like I’d said something unexpected—or something he didn’t dare believe. Then, to my surprise, he laughed. A hollow sound, loud and long, echoing off the cavern walls.

“What a sweet sentiment,” he said between breaths, though there was no joy in it. “And what will you do? March up to Cazador’s lair and demand satisfaction on my behalf?”

He said it like a joke, but his eyes were still on me, sharp as daggers. I held his gaze, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

“If that’s what it takes,” I said softly.

That stopped his laughter cold. He searched my face, looking for the joke, the lie, the inevitable disappointment. When he found none, something flickered across his features—hope, maybe, or terror at the thought of hoping.

“You beautiful fool,” His tone returned to its usual silkiness, though it rang a little hollow this time. He shifted, sliding a little deeper into the water, the ripples cutting between us like a boundary. “You actually mean it, don't you?”

“Every word.”

He was quiet for a long moment and I didn’t push him further. Some doors weren’t ready to be opened, no matter how much I wanted to see inside. Instead, I watched the way he sat there, back straight but shoulders set with an almost imperceptible weight—as though even here, even free, he was bracing for the next blow.

A pang ran through me, though I couldn’t name it. Pity? No. Not pity. Something deeper. A longing, maybe. To know him, as he really was, beneath all the masks and cunning smiles. To reach him.

But what right did I have to want that?

The water lapped softly against the stone, filling the silence between us. I let my head tilt back, closing my eyes as the warmth seeped into my bones. 

After a while I cracked one eye open, looking at him. When he caught me staring, he gave me that sly smirk I’d come to expect.

“Well look at that,” he purred, voice low and teasing. “You’re peeking again. I would too though, if I were you.”

I scoffed, but the heat that rose to my cheeks betrayed me. “Arrogant bastard,” I muttered under my breath, sinking lower into the water.

His laughter this time was quieter—softer. 

Chapter Text

I let my eyes drift closed, floating in the warmth, trying to push away the lingering chill of our conversation about Cazador. About what he'd endured.

“Your mind is wandering again.”

His voice—velvet-soft and closer than before—made my eyes snap open. He was moving through the water toward me with that fluid grace of his, each stroke deliberate and unhurried.

The ripples in the water fanned out around him, breaking the glassy surface, but all I could focus on was him— only him. He didn’t look real, not here, not like this.

My heart stumbled in my chest as he came to a stop in front of me, closer than he’d been all night. Close enough that I could see the faint droplets clinging to his lashes, the way his hair curled wetly against his temple, framing those beautiful, elegant features. Close enough that the warmth of his body radiated, seeping through the space between us.

I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe .

For a moment, he just looked at me—an intensity in it that burned through every fiber in my body. Then he lifted a hand, slow and hesitant, and brushed his fingertips along the bare skin of my shoulder.

The touch was feather-light, barely there, but it sent fire racing under my skin. I sucked in a shaky breath, my pulse hammering so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

“What’s the matter?” he murmured, voice low and intimate in the cavern's quiet.

“I—” I tried to answer, but the words caught in my chest, stuck there like a stone.

His gaze fell to my lips, and my heart skipped. Just a fraction of a second, barely a pause, but I felt it—like a pull, a slow, inevitable drag that had me swaying closer before I even realized it.

There was something different in his expression. Softer than his usual calculated charm. Almost... uncertain. Like he was asking a question he wasn't sure he wanted answered.

All I had to do was lean in. And I desperately wanted to. I was about to.

But then—

I looked down.

The water's surface reflected us back in ripples, and the face staring up at me wasn't mine.

Penelope's delicate features, framed by auburn hair that didn't belong to me. Those eyes—her eyes—wide with the same shock that was tearing through my chest.

The sight of it hit me like a blow to the stomach, stealing the breath from my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. The world tilted sideways, water and shadows blurring together.

That’s not me.

I jerked backward, water splashing as panic flooded my veins like ice.

“Artemis?” Astarion’s voice, startled and maybe concerned, broke through the haze.

“I—I’m sorry.” I choked out, the words barely coherent through my shaking.  When I looked up again, I could see the confusion in his eyes. Or was it… hurt ?

I turned, forcing myself toward the shore, the water dragging at my legs as though it wanted to hold me there. My heart thundered so loudly I could hear nothing else—nothing but the hollow sound of my breath and the echo of that reflection.

“Artemis!”

Astarion called my name again, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

I reached the edge of the lake and scrambled up onto the stone, every muscle trembling as I grabbed for my clothes. My hands shook so violently I could barely pull my clothes on over damp skin, fabric clinging and twisting as I fought with the clasps.

I felt him behind me—still in the water, watching. His gaze burned against my back, but he didn’t follow me. 

“Artemis,” he said again, quieter now, his voice softer. A question. A plea.

I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing back the sharp rise of nausea crawling up my throat. My breath stuttered, uneven and ragged, as I forced myself to stand,.

“Just— leave me,” I said, barely a whisper, though I didn’t know if he could hear me. My voice cracked at the edges. “Please.”

I didn’t look back.

The cavern around me felt impossibly vast, the shadows pressing in too close as I stumbled away from the lake, Astarion’s silence trailing behind me like a phantom.

My chest ached, the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin. But worse—far worse—was the image seared into my mind.

Penelope’s face. My face. And with one pang, all these terrifying memories came back.

I didn’t stop walking until the sound of the water had faded, leaving only the hammering of my own footsteps against the stone. My breath came in quick, shallow bursts, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking no matter how tightly I curled them into fists.

I didn’t know what to think. What to feel.

All I knew was that for one fleeting moment, before the mirror of the water shattered everything, Astarion had felt real. Close. Mine.

And I'd wanted it more than breathing.

Chapter Text

I pressed my back against the cavern wall, fingers digging into the stone, trying to steady myself. My heart was a runaway drum, pounding out a rhythm too fast, too loud. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed it all away—Penelope’s face staring up from the water, Astarion’s startled voice behind me, the ache twisting my ribs like something alive.

Calm down. Breathe. Just breathe.

But the words felt useless, flimsy. My breaths stuttered in and out of me, shallow and uneven. Panic scratched at the edges of my thoughts, and I felt it coming, the pull of something dark and familiar.

The memories—faces, places, sounds that didn’t belong to me. The wail from the night before echoed faintly in the back of my mind, and I flinched.

It’s not your body. It’s not your life.

And yet it was—at least right now. That truth sat like iron in my stomach, unrelenting.

I heard rustling behind me. My head snapped up so fast I nearly hit the wall.

“Withers?” I hissed, my voice shaky as I pulled myself upright. “Gods, where did you come from?”

The skeletal figure stood before me as if he’d been there the entire time, his hollow gaze fixed on me with that unreadable calm. For someone—or something—so ancient and strange, he had a knack for showing up exactly when I didn’t want company.

Withers tilted his hollow skull ever so slightly, as though observing something insignificant yet faintly amusing. “Thou hast made progress, child, whether thy mortal eyes see it or no. A step taken in shadow is still a step forward.”

I frowned, frustration simmering under the surface. “I don’t feel like I’ve gotten anywhere.”

“Feelings are fickle beasts, prone to chasing their own tails,” Withers replied, his voice as calm as ever. “Thy memories—frayed and fleeting though they be—hold the very answers thou seekest. A wise soul would examine the pieces before lamenting the whole.”

I swallowed hard. “What do you mean? The last time I looked too closely, I—” My voice cracked. “That wail happened. It was alive, Withers. It wasn’t just sound—it felt like it was coming from inside me.”

He tilted his head further, as if to regard me from another angle. “Ah, so the echoes do stir within thee. Fear not, for such sounds do not exist without purpose. Hast thou considered that the scream is not a torment but a summons?”

I blinked, chilled to the bone by the thought. “A summons?”

“Aye,” he intoned, his voice deepening, words turning over like ancient stones. “Tarry not on thy dread. Look instead at what lies beneath. Thou hast seen her—a woman with locks of white and a name whispered like a prayer—Agatha.”

The name sent a shiver through me. “You know her.”

Withers spread his bony arms wide in mock humility. “Know her? Nay, child, I know much. The weaver knows not every thread in their loom, only that it must be woven. The rest—” He gestured faintly toward me. “—lies in thy hands.”

I let out a shaky breath. I think he knows, but wants me to figure it out. 

“But I don’t understand. The memories don’t help as much—they just bring up more questions.”

He stepped closer, shadows seeming to cling to him like a second cloak. “Questions beget answers, and answers are born of courage. Hast thou truly looked, Artemis? Or dost thou flee when the truth gazes back?”

The words hit like a slap. I looked away.

Withers let out something between a sigh and a scoff. “Thy burden, heavy though it is, must be carried. To turn thy back now is to wander blind. Thou seekest to return home? Then face the memories as they are. Truth—painful, wretched truth—awaits thee there.”

His words settled like stone in my chest, cold and immovable. “And what if I don’t want to carry it?”

Withers’s sockets regarded me for a long moment, as though peering into my very soul. “Then fate shall carry thee instead—and cruelly so. For fate waits for no mortal, be they willing or no.”

He leaned it a bit closer, making sure I heard his words: “Remember this, child: thy answers lie within, hidden among the threads of memory. Understand the woman of white locks. Shy not from what thou hast seen, nor what awaits thee still. It is thine to bear. ”

And with that, he was gone, as if the shadows themselves had swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

The fire had burned low by the time I worked up the courage to approach it. Freya sat cross-legged beside the dying embers, poking at the coals with a charred stick. She didn't look up when my footsteps crunched on the gravel, but her shoulders relaxed slightly—like she'd been waiting.

“You look less like you're about to spontaneously combust,” she said without lifting her eyes from the flames. “Good sign.”

I tried to roll my eyes, but it came out with a laugh. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.” She patted the ground beside her, finally meeting my gaze. “But I'm guessing you didn't come here to admire my fire-tending skills.”

Her face softened into something so steady and welcoming that I felt my ribs loosen slightly.  I sank down next to her, the words already forming before I could second-guess them.

“So these memories, it’s like… I’m there. In those moments. But I’m watching someone else’s life play out through my eyes. That’s why it affected me so much. Does this make sense?”

Freya nodded, her expression thoughtful. “More than you might think.”

“In one of these memories, there was a woman,” I closed my eyes, pulling the image forward—pale hair like starlight, eyes dark as smoke.  “Agatha. I heard someone call her that, though I'm not sure if it was Penelope or someone else. She… I think she’s important. She felt important.”

Freya tilted her head, thinking. “Agatha…” She sighed. “Can't say it rings any bells, but then again, I'm still learning Faerûn's secrets. Someone in our merry band of misfits might know more.”

The thought of explaining this to the others made my stomach clench, but I nodded anyway. “I know you’re right.”

Freya grinned faintly. “I am. Besides,” she added, her voice softening, “it’s better to figure it out together than alone.”

I looked at her, some of the tension draining out of my chest. “Can you ask for me?” I said, half jokingly.

“Hah, no, you’re not getting out of this one.”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to them.”

“Good.” Freya sat back, crossing her arms. “And Artemis? I’m proud of you,” she said, her voice warm and sure. “I know this isn’t easy.”

It was such a simple thing to say, but it was enough to make my chest all fuzzy. Something about the certainty in her tone made the fire’s glow feel warmer. My chest didn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

---

The main camp buzzed with its usual evening energy. Karlach's laughter boomed across the clearing as she regaled Wyll with some outrageous tale, while Halsin tended to something near his tent, movements unhurried and peaceful. Gale sat hunched over a stack of books, quill scratching against parchment.

And Astarion... Astarion lounged against a tree at the camp's edge. He hadn't looked at me once since I'd emerged from the shadows.

I made my way to Gale, who glanced up with mild curiosity as I approached.

“Gale,” I said firmly as I walked over to him “Can I ask you something?”

His eyebrows rose, but he set down his quill with careful attention. “But of course, Artemis. My ears are yours.”

I thought, if someone knew anything about that mysterious woman, who else than our most knowledgeable companion? 

I hesitated for a heartbeat, feeling the weight of the group’s attention shift to me. I wasn’t used to being the center of it. “Have you ever heard of a woman named Agatha? She has white hair. Her eyes… they looked like... the night. Dark. Seemed kinda ghostly. I think she’s tied to something important, but I don’t know what. In my memories, Penelope met her in the woods.”

Gale straightened, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. “White hair, black eyes…” He tapped his fingers against his chin, gaze growing distant.  “The description does stir something in the depths of memory. An old tale, perhaps, or a footnote in some dusty tome. Give me time to consult my mental archives—I may be able to dredge up something useful.”

Relief flooded through me, unexpected in its intensity. “Anything would help,” 

Gale offered me a small, reassuring smile. “Knowledge rewards the patient seeker. You’ve done well to ask.”

“Finally sharing some details with the class?” Shadowheart spoke up, her gaze flicking briefly to mine. “Good. We all keep too many secrets as it is.”

“Rich words from you,” Lae’zel scoffed, but Shadowheart only gave her a raised eyebrow.

Her words settled in my chest like a balm I hadn’t known I needed. I swallowed, feeling the heat of their attention—but it didn’t feel so bad this time.

Their casual acceptance of my question—no judgment, no prying—eased something tight in my chest. “Thank you.”

I started to turn away when I caught Astarion watching me. Not with his usual calculating smirk or theatrical indifference, but something more... considering. Our eyes met across the camp, and for a moment neither of us looked away.

“Well, that was almost touching!”  Karlach's voice shattered the moment. “Opening up and sharing feelings! Next you'll be braiding our hair and having heart-to-hearts!”

“Don’t make it weird, Karlach,” I muttered, though the corner of my mouth twitched in spite of myself.

Karlach just grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Too late, sunshine!”

Despite myself, my mouth twitched. Around us, the others chuckled—even Lae'zel made a sound that might have been amusement. For the first time in days, the knot in my chest loosened just a little.

Chapter Text

Time passed like a haze.

Days blurred together in fragments: the endless, winding rivers of the Underdark; the oppressive gloom of Grymforge with its stifling air and sharp, metallic tang; the clash of blades as we freed the gnomes from their cruel fate. I remembered the glint of adamantine, the fierce persuasion in Freya’s voice as she talked Philomeen down, the thud of Nere’s body hitting the stone as we cut him down, and the smoke that lingered from the runepowder explosion.

But the details— how we got from one moment to the next—felt distant, fragmented. My mind couldn’t quite hold on to any of it for long, as though my brain had hit its limit. Too much had happened too quickly: new places, new faces, new dangers. Overstimulated and raw, I moved through it all on autopilot, feet following one step after another without question.

And then there was Astarion.

The memory of the lake had carved itself into me like a knife’s edge. Every interaction since—every glance, every passing word—felt like balancing on a fraying tightrope. I didn’t know what to say to him, and he seemed equally at a loss. His quips and smirks were still there, but the space between us crackled with something tense and unspoken, a thread pulled taut. Don’t think about it , I told myself whenever his eyes lingered just a little too long. But I did think about it. Constantly.

When Freya left with Halsin and Lae’zel to return to the Myconids and fulfill whatever bargain had been struck there, the rest of us stayed behind, preparing for whatever came next.

Now, as we approached the door to the Shadow-Cursed Lands, that next step felt far too real.

---

The moment we stepped through the threshold, everything changed.

It was like walking into a nightmare. A cold, unnatural darkness pressed against my skin, thick as oil. The air itself seemed wrong —heavy and damp, yet brittle at the same time, as though it might splinter apart if I moved too quickly. My breath fogged in front of me despite the lack of real cold, and the shadows around us writhed unnaturally, twisting and curling at the edges of my vision.

The landscape was barren and gray. Gnarled, lifeless trees stretched skeletal limbs toward a sky that hung dark and choked with clouds. Strange, ghostly lights flickered in the distance, like will-o’-the-wisps luring travelers into the gloom. A thin mist swirled low across the ground, masking the uneven stone and dirt. In the silence, I could hear faint whispers, like a hundred voices murmuring just out of reach.

The curse settled on my shoulders like a weight, seeping through my skin and into my bones. My chest felt tight, as if the shadows themselves were trying to crawl inside me.

“Stay close,” Halsin warned, his voice carrying a quiet, firm authority. He moved ahead, holding a glowing orb of light aloft. Its warm radiance carved a small pocket of safety in the darkness, but the moment the light touched the edges of the gloom, the shadows pushed back, hissing like something alive. “The darkness here is no simple absence of light. It is alive, and it will devour you if you let it.”

Karlach grunted, one hand on her massive axe. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” She shot a wary glance at the shadows. “This place feels wrong . Like it’s crawling under my skin.”

“Your discomfort does not deceive you,” Halsin replied solemnly. “This land is cursed to its very roots. Do not stray, and do not trust what you see beyond the light.”

Wyll swept his gaze across the gloom, his expression grim. “A curse like this doesn’t just happen . Someone—or something—ensured it would endure. And from the looks of it, they succeeded.”

“I’ve seen better vacation spots, I’ll give you that,” Gale muttered, his fingers flickering with faint arcane light as he maintained a soft glow of his own. “But let’s try not to dwell on the obvious. Any thoughts on how we’re not going to die horribly here?”

Halsin’s jaw tightened. “By staying together. The light— any light—will keep the curse at bay. Stray too far, and it will consume you.”

Astarion, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet, snorted softly. “Ah, so we’re to huddle together like frightened children? Charming. Remind me again why we came here?”

Karlach glanced over her shoulder, grinning despite the unease radiating off her. “You can cuddle up next to me if you get scared, Fangs. I’ll keep you safe.”

Astarion scoffed. “Please. If anyone here needs protecting, it’s clearly you.”

“I’m touched,” Karlach replied, rolling her eyes with a smirk.

Shadowheart stepped closer to me as we walked, her eyes scanning the darkness warily. “Any news?” she said quietly, her voice low enough not to carry.

The comment caught me off guard. “What?”

“You know, about Agatha,” she said, glancing sideways at me. “Did Gale come back at you with any new information?.”

I exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening just a bit. “Not yet. But he said it won’t take too long anymore.”

Shadowheart hummed softly, her expression softening. “If he says so, take his word for it. Gale doesn’t promise things lightly. That counts for something.”

For some reason, her words warmed me. I didn’t know how to respond, so I just nodded, grateful for the sentiment.

As we moved deeper into the cursed land, the darkness pressed closer, clinging to the edges of our small pocket of light. The mist thickened, swirling like serpents between the trees, and the whispers in the air grew louder, more distinct. They clawed at my ears, my mind, murmuring words I couldn’t quite understand.

“Great,” Karlach muttered under her breath. “Not ominous at all.”

Gale shot me a small, fleeting smile as he caught my eye. “At least we’ve a wizard on hand should the shadows grow too bold. I’ll fend them off for a modest fee.”

“Put it on my tab,” I said dryly, though my lips twitched into a faint smile.

But even as the group bantered, a prickle of unease lingered in the back of my mind. Every step deeper into these lands felt like wading through treacle, each breath heavier than the last. The Shadowcurse was no simple magic—this place was wrong to its core.

Chapter Text

Ahead, sprawled across the road, were bodies—too many to count. Some wore tattered cloaks with the silver harp insignia of the Harpers, others the deep crimson of the Flaming Fists.

“Gods,” Freya murmured, kneeling beside one of the corpses. Her face was grim, eyes flicking to me. “They didn’t stand a chance, did they?”

I crouched next to her, fingers hovering over a Harper’s cloak. His expression was frozen in terror, his hands curled as if grasping for salvation that never came. Not a chance.

“They shouldn’t be dead already,” I whispered, feeling a chill crawl up my spine. “Unless… we’re too late. Again.”

Freya turned her gaze to me, sympathy clear in her face. I wasn’t sure why this was the thing to hit me, the thing that made my throat close. But something about these deaths—senseless and final—gnawed at me, a cold, sick feeling in my gut.

How many times have I watched death happen in this game?

A sudden crackling sound split the air.

I looked up fast, heart stuttering as a cold wind rushed over us, carrying with it a whisper—low, wrong, words spoken just beneath the edge of hearing.

Then the first corpse moved.

It began with a shudder. Hands twitched. Heads lolled to the side. Bones creaked as if dragged unwillingly back to life. One by one, the dead sat up, blackened shadows spreading like ink across pale skin. Their empty, sunken eyes glowed with a faint, sickly light—an echo of the Shadowcurse itself.

“By Silvanus,” Halsin breathed, stepping back, his fingers curling toward the staff at his hip. “They’re coming alive.”

“No,” Shadowheart whispered, stumbling to her feet. “They’re undead .”

And they were fast.

The first Harper lunged, its decayed body moving in an unnatural, jerky sprint. I barely had time to pull back before it swung at me—a rusted blade slicing through the air where I’d been standing just moments before. I threw up my hands on reflex, black and green magic pooling in my palms.

The bolt shot forward, striking the undead square in the chest. Except—

Nothing.

The energy hit its mark, but the Harper didn’t even stagger. My spell fizzled across its rotted flesh like smoke against stone, leaving the undead completely unfazed.

I froze. “What—?”

“Necrotic resistance,” Wyll shouted from behind me, his rapier raised to block another of the monsters. “Your magic won’t work on them!”

Perfect. I completely forgot about that.

Before I could react, another undead soldier leapt at me, teeth bared in a horrific parody of a snarl. I stumbled back, barely dodging its claws as I grabbed an old dagger I carried. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

I slashed wildly, cutting through the air just enough to force it back. “Stay down, damn you!”

Freya was a whirlwind beside me, cutting through the undead with the Blood of Lathander and radiant magic in her hand. The ancient relic blazed with light, its radiant glow so bright it sent shadows fleeing across the road. Every swing sent arcs of pure sunlight crashing into the undead, turning them to ash where they stood.

One lunged for her. She spun on her heel, weapon raised, and struck it clean through the chest. Its body crumbled instantly, as if the light itself had devoured it.

“Artemis!” she shouted, her voice sharp with urgency. “Get out of there!”

I tried to move, but two of the undead were on me now, their claws scraping against my skin—tearing at my sleeves. Pain lanced up my arms, but I gritted my teeth through it. Their blows didn’t cut as deeply as they should have.

You’re resistant. The thought flashed through my mind even as I struggled against them. You’re resistant to the Shadowcurse. Of course- it’s base is necrotic damage.

It wasn’t an advantage I wanted, but right now, I’d take anything I could get.

Shadowheart’s voice rose in a chant behind me, her words ringing out like a hymn against the darkness. The undead recoiled, some hissing as if burned by the very sound.

“ Flagra! ” she cried, her guiding bolt flaring with a brilliant light. A burst of energy surged outward, radiant magic pouring over the battlefield. Several of the undead burst apart like shattered glass, their screams cutting off in an instant.

One of the Flaming Fist corpses lurched toward her anyway, undeterred.

Freya moved before I could shout a warning. She threw herself between Shadowheart and the undead, her mace arcing upward in a blazing strike that split it from shoulder to hip. “Stay close to us!” Freya shouted over her shoulder. “The radiant magic is the best keeping half of these things down!”

I cursed under my breath, slashing my dagger across another undead’s throat. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. But the damn thing dropped long enough for me to scramble free.

Everywhere I looked, light and shadow clashed. The Blood of Lathander’s glow bathed Freya in gold as she moved, a beacon cutting through the gloom. Shadowheart’s magic flared beside her, the pair of them pushing the undead back step by step.

And me?

Every time I summoned my magic, it sputtered out against the undead like a flame against wet wood. 

“Freya!” I called, dodging another attack. “You good?”

She grinned at me through the chaos, her cheeks streaked with dirt and blood. “Don’t worry about me! Worry about surviving!”

“Helpful,” I muttered, ducking under another swing.

I turned, ready to face another monster—only to see it evaporate in a blaze of holy light. Shadowheart lowered her shield, her magic still aglow. Her face was pale, sweat trailing down her brow, but she raised her voice anyway:

“ Push them back! Freya, now! ”

Freya nodded, holding the Blood of Lathander high. The relic flared one last time, its light surging outward in a pulse so strong it sent a shockwave through the air.

The remaining undead screeched in unison, clawing at their faces as the light overwhelmed them. One by one, they crumbled, their bodies collapsing into dust and shadow.

Then, silence.

My chest heaved as I straightened, my dagger still clutched tightly in one hand. Around me, the road was littered with ash and broken remains, but the corpses were finally still. The light from the relic dimmed in Freya’s hand, and she let out a slow breath, lowering her weapon.

“Everyone alright?” she asked, looking between us.

Shadowheart wiped her brow, nodding. “I’m fine.”

I ran a shaky hand through my hair, wincing as I realized how badly my arms ached. “Still breathing. I’ll take it.”

Freya turned to me, smiling faintly. “You held your own.”

I snorted softly, still catching my breath. “ Held my own is generous. You two are the reason we’re alive.”

“Team effort,” Freya replied, clapping me on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s keep moving. The shadows aren’t done with us yet.”

Chapter Text

The Last Light Inn was a sight both familiar and alien. I’d seen it countless times in the game, its soft glow and rustic charm a beacon of hope in a realm drowning in despair. But seeing it now—truly standing before it—was something else entirely. The inn was larger, more imposing, its walls worn with the weight of countless battles and sieges. The wooden beams, darkened by age and smoke, stood resilient, while the faint glow of the warding lights bathed everything in a golden hue that pushed the shadows just far enough away to let you breathe. Just far enough to remind you that even here, safety was fragile.

Freya nudged my arm as we approached, her gaze wary. “Is it different from your visions?” she murmured.

I nodded, unable to suppress a shiver. “More real,” I replied, though the word didn’t quite capture it. The inn wasn’t just a place to rest anymore; it was a lifeline, and every person inside knew it.

As we stepped through the wards, the air shifted. The magic buzzed faintly, brushing against my skin like static. Inside, the inn was alive with subdued chaos. Voices murmured in tense whispers, the clink of mugs and the scrape of chairs underscored the atmosphere. Survivors, soldiers, and refugees crowded the space, each carrying their own weight of fear and grief. It smelled of woodsmoke, ale, and desperation—a heady mix that settled in my chest like a stone.

And then I saw her.

Jaheira.

She stood at the far side of the room, her silver-streaked hair catching the warding lights. Her posture was unyielding, every inch of her exuding the strength of someone who’d faced the worst the world had to offer and lived to tell the tale. I’d admired her character in the game, her wisdom and no-nonsense attitude a grounding force amid chaos. Seeing her now, in the flesh, sent a thrill through me. Jaheira was a legend, and she carried it with her like a mantle. But there was more to her than the screen had ever shown—the lines around her eyes, the weariness in her gaze. She was real in a way I’d never imagined.

“Newcomers,” she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. Her eyes swept over us, sharp and assessing. “State your purpose. Quickly.”

Before I could answer, her expression darkened. “No,” she said, her tone dropping. “You bring something with you. Something… wrong.”

Freya’s hand went to her weapon instinctively, her body tensing. Shadowheart’s shield arm brushed mine as if to anchor me. Around us, the atmosphere shifted, suspicion and fear blooming like a stormcloud.

Freya stepped forward: “We’re not your enemy,” she said carefully. “We came here seeking refuge, just like everyone else.”

Jaheira’s gaze was unrelenting. “Refuge is earned,” she said. “And you carry the mark of the Absolute.”

The people exploded into noise—murmurs, accusations, and the glint of steel. I raised my hands, trying to calm the storm. “We’re not with the Absolute,” Freya said, louder this time.“The tadpoles aren’t our choice. We’re fighting them. We’re fighting her .”

Jaheira stepped closer, the faint glow of green magic flickering at her fingertips. “Words are wind. Prove it.”

I took a deep breath, letting the familiar chill of the persuasion seep into my voice, wrapping each word in its unnatural weight. “Look at us,” I said. “Do we look like zealots to you? We’ve fought the Absolute at every turn. We carry these curses not by choice, but because we’ve had no other way to survive. And we’ve bled to keep them from taking more.”

Jaheira’s gaze flickered, just for a moment, before the green light faded from her hands. “Very well,” she said. “But understand this: if you give me reason to doubt you, I will not hesitate.”

Relief flooded through me, though I kept my expression steady. “Fair enough,” I said.

“Good,” Jaheira replied. Her voice softened just slightly, though her suspicion didn’t waver. “Make yourselves useful. Speak to Isobel. I have no time for idle hands.”

---

Before we head upstairs, we decided to stop by to see Dammon. He greeted us with a tired but genuine smile. The tiefling’s workshop was tucked into a corner of the inn, cluttered with tools, scraps of metal, and the faint smell of oil. “Karlach!” he said warmly, his eyes lighting up. “You’ve been running her hard, haven’t you?”

Karlach grinned, though the tension in her shoulders never fully left. “She’s holding up, but I’d appreciate the tune-up.”

As Dammon set to work on her infernal engine, his expression grew somber. “Bad news out there,” he said, his voice low. “The Harpers. The ones stationed just outside the inn. They… didn’t make it.”

“We saw. What happened?” Freya asked, her tone sharp.

Dammon wiped his hands on a rag, his gaze dark. “Ambush. Someone tipped the Absolute off about their movements. It was a massacre.”

Shadowheart’s expression hardened. “A spy,” she said.

Dammon nodded. “Has to be. Someone here is feeding them information. Jaheira suspects it too, but… well, it’s hard to know who to trust these days.”

Chapter Text

The Last Light Inn settled into an uneasy quiet as we finished our meeting with Isobel. Her confidence in the wards and her own magic had been a small comfort, but her eyes had betrayed the weight of her fears. Everyone here bore scars, visible and unseen, and it was impossible not to feel the pressure of the fragile sanctuary pressing down on us all.

Freya and I lingered near the hearth, its warmth a poor substitute for the chill that clung to my bones. The room around us buzzed with muted conversation and the clink of mugs, but none of it reached me as I focused on Freya’s expression—intent, searching.

“Your visions?” she asked quietly, folding her arms. Her tone was even, but there was no hiding the urgency in her eyes.

I shook my head. “Nothing. I never saw anything remotely close to a spy.” 

Freya frowned, her fingers tapping against the hilt of her sword. “Not even a glimpse?”

“No. But…” I hesitated, glancing toward the stairwell leading to Isobel’s chambers. “I did see something else. Marcus. He attacked Isobel in my vision. But it hasn’t happened. Yet.”

Her eyes widened. “You think it’s still gonna happen?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, the unease creeping back into my voice. “I just know we have to stay close to her. She’s the heart of this place. If something happens to her…”

Freya’s jaw tightened, and she nodded. “We’ll keep watch. But for now, you should rest. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

I snorted softly, offering her a faint smile. “Takes one to know one.”

She grinned back, but the weight of our situation lingered between us, unspoken.

The group eventually dispersed, each of us left to process the growing tension in our own way. Shadowheart retreated to the quieter corners of the inn, her prayers a soft murmur beneath the hum of conversation. Lae’zel, ever vigilant, took a spot near the main door, her hand never far from her blade. The others disappear somewhere I didn’t know.

That left me wandering the inn with Karlach. She walked beside me with a relaxed gait, her tail swishing idly behind her as she glanced around the inn.

“Oi, Artemis,” Karlach said, nudging me with her elbow. “Quick question: if you could punch one god in the face, who would it be?”

I blinked at her, thrown completely off guard. “What?”

She grinned, sharp and mischievous. “Come on, everyone's got one! Mine's that bastard Zariel who shoved this infernal engine in my chest. Your turn.”

I hesitated, then sighed. “Honestly? Whoever decided this body should belong to me. Feels like a cruel joke most days.”

Karlach’s expression softened, her fiery demeanor dampened by understanding. “Ah, shit. That's heavy, Sunshine. Look, I get feeling out of place in your own skin—trust me on that one. But you're still you, yeah? Don't know what you looked like before, don't give a toss what kind of magic's bouncing around up there. Hell, the secret magic bit? That's bloody brilliant, that is.”

I smiled. “That's sweet of you to say, Karlach. Means a lot.”

Before I could say more, my gaze caught on a familiar figure near the edge of the room. Astarion stood by one of the windows, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of the warding lights outside. He wasn’t doing anything in particular—just standing there, watching the world beyond the glass. But there was something about the way he held himself—tense, distant—that pulled at me.

Karlach followed my gaze and let out a low whistle. “Ah. The brooding vampire routine. Classic.”

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. “It’s not what you think it is.”

“Uh-huh. And what is it?”

“It’s … complicated.”

“Course it is! Wouldn't be interesting otherwise.” She gave me a playful shove. “You're practically vibrating with unresolved tension. It's adorable.”

“It's not adorable, it's a disaster.” I muttered, scrubbing my hands over my face. “How am I supposed to figure out what I feel when I don't even know who I am? This body, these memories that aren't mine... What if what I think I feel isn't real?”

“Hey. Look at me.” When I did, her voice was unusually serious. “You reckon because you're dealing with some mind-bending identity bollocks, your feelings don't count? That's a load of dragon dung, and you know it.”

“But—”

"No buts. You're you, right here, right now. Don't matter what meat suit you're wearing or whose memories are knocking about up there. You're the one choosing how to feel about our pale, pointy-eared friend.”

I glanced back at Astarion, something tight loosening in my chest. “When did you become so wise?”

“Always been wise. Just usually too busy setting things on fire to share it” She flashed me that brilliant grin. “Besides, if he can't see what he'd be getting with you, that's his problem. Not yours.”

Despite everything, I found myself smiling. “Thanks, Karlach.”

“Anytime,” she said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Right then, enough moping about! Let's go dig up something useful about this spy business before everything goes tits-up, yeah?”

Chapter Text

The storeroom was cloaked in silence. Every creak of wood and whisper of wind felt amplified, unnervingly loud.

It started with the broken rune. Dammon had shown it to us earlier, his frown deepening as he traced the jagged lines with a calloused finger. Someone had tampered with it recently, leaving the inn’s magical defenses vulnerable. From there, Freya had picked up the trail—faint, scuffed footprints leading toward the back of the inn. 

Now, standing amidst the wreckage of the storeroom, the sense of unease gnawed at me like a persistent itch. Grain spilled across the floor, a sea of golden kernels sparkling under the dim lantern light. Shattered potion bottles glinted like jagged teeth, and the air carried a bitter, acrid tang that stung the back of my throat.

“Lae’zel, check the perimeter,” Freya ordered quietly, her voice a razor-edged whisper. “Wyll, watch the door.”

Lae’zel’s sharp, yellow eyes flicked toward Freya as she nodded, unsheathing her blade with a satisfying hiss. “If the culprit remains,” she growled, “they shall find themselves cleaved in two.”

Wyll raised an eyebrow at her, his glaive resting easily in his hands. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, aye? Some of us prefer answers over bodies.”

Freya crouched near an overturned crate, her fingers brushing over the splintered wood. “This wasn’t just mindless destruction,” she murmured. “Look here—clean, deliberate cuts. Whoever did this knew exactly what to ruin.”

“They know how to hurt us,” Gale added, his tone grim. He was studying the broken rune in the corner, muttering an incantation under his breath. When he finally straightened, there was a shadow in his expression. “This rune was meant to reinforce the inn’s protective wards. Without it, the defenses are… fragile.”

I stepped closer. “Fragile how?”

Gale turned toward me, his hands brushing off invisible dust. “Weak enough for someone to slip through undetected.”

Before his words could fully settle, a dull thud broke through the tension—a sound that seemed to reverberate from just outside the storeroom. My instincts flared, and I spun toward the door, my hand already reaching for the dagger at my belt.

“Did anyone else hear that?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Wyll shifted into a ready stance, his muscles taut as a bowstring. “Yes, I did too.” he said, his gaze darting toward the shadows.

Lae’zel emerged from her sweep, her sword already raised. “Something stirs,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Shall we strike?”

Freya held up a hand to stall her. “Not yet. Artemis, Wyll, with me. Gale, keep working on the rune. Lae’zel, stay vigilant—we’ll flush them out if they’re still here.”

The three of us slipped out into the narrow alley behind the storeroom, where the faint golden glow of the inn’s wards painted jagged shadows on the walls. The air here was colder, biting against my skin as my heart drummed a steady rhythm of anticipation.

Freya raised her arm, pointing toward a disheveled pile of crates at the far end of the alley. “There,” she whispered. A dark smear of blood marked the edge of one.

Before I could process her words, a figure darted out from behind the crates—a hooded blur moving with the frantic speed of a cornered animal.

“There they are!” Wyll shouted, his voice sharp and commanding as he took off in pursuit.

The chase ignited in an instant, every muscle in my body snapping into motion. The hooded figure bolted toward the edge of the wards, their movements quick and erratic. Freya and Wyll were hot on their heels, their weapons gleaming faintly in the dim light. I followed, my dagger clutched tightly, my breaths coming in short bursts. I should have started going to the gym back home. Bites me in the ass now.

“Stop!” I shouted, knowing full well they wouldn’t.

Instead, the figure veered left, heading for a cluster of abandoned supply carts.

“Cut them off!” Freya barked.

Lae’zel appeared like a specter from the shadows, her blade catching the light as she stepped into the figure’s path. “You flee like a coward—face your end with honor!” she roared, swinging her sword in a devastating arc.

The figure ducked just in time, rolling under her strike and coming up with something in their hand—a small, black orb.

“Get back!” Freya yelled.

The orb hit the ground and exploded in a cloud of thick, choking smoke. My vision blurred, my lungs burned, and I stumbled back, coughing violently.

Through the haze, I caught glimpses of movement—the figure sprinting toward the edge of the wards again.

“By the Blade, not on my watch,” Wyll said, his voice steady despite the chaos. He surged forward, his rapier slicing through the smoke. The blade caught the figure’s leg, drawing a sharp cry as they stumbled.

Freya, undeterred by the lingering smoke, raised the Blood of Lathander high. Its radiant glow pierced the fog like a divine beacon. “Wyll, now!”

Without hesitation, Wyll channeled a crackling bolt of an eldritch blast that echoed through the alley. The blast struck the ground near the figure’s feet, throwing them off balance and sending them sprawling.

Lae’zel was on them in an instant, her blade reversed as she drove the hilt into the back of their head. The figure collapsed, unmoving.

Silence fell, the smoke dissipating as we caught our breaths.

“Htak'a. The hunt is ended.” Lae’zel hissed, standing over the unconscious figure, her sword still drawn and ready.

Wyll knelt beside the body, pulling back the hood to reveal a face we all recognized—a Harper, one of Jaheira’s own.

Gale’s voice came from behind us. “I’ve stabilized the rune, but it won’t hold for long. What’s going on?”

Freya exchanged a glance with me before turning toward Gale. Her voice was quiet but resolute as she said, “We’ve found our spy.”

Chapter Text

The spy knelt in the dim glow of Last Light Inn’s common hall, their head bowed, hands bound with coarse rope. Jaheira stood before them, her presence as unyielding as stone. The weight of her gaze alone seemed enough to press the spy further into submission, though they offered no words in their defense.

The room was heavy with silence, save for the faint crackle of the hearth. Freya and I stood on either side of Jaheira, watching as she delivered her verdict. Lae’zel loomed at the edge of the group, her sword still unsheathed, while Wyll and Gale hovered nearby, their expressions a mix of unease and grim acceptance.

“You were Harper,” Jaheira said, her voice low and laden with disappointment. “Sworn to protect the innocent. Yet here you are, a tool of the Absolute. Did you truly believe betraying your own would grant you safety? Power?”

The spy looked up, their face streaked with sweat and grime. For a moment, they didn’t respond, their lips pressed tightly together. But then something shifted in their eyes—desperation, maybe defiance.

“I didn’t have a choice,” they said, their voice trembling. “The Absolute… they have my family. My wife, my son. They said if I didn’t do what they asked—”

Jaheira’s expression didn’t waver. “So you chose to damn others instead. How many died for your family's sake?” 

I flinched at the cold finality in her words. 

Freya shifted uncomfortably. “Jaheira, if what they’re saying is true—”

“They still made their choice,” Jaheira interrupted, eyes never left the spy. “Sabotaged this sanctuary. Led Harpers and innocents to their deaths. I understand the love of family—but I will not let sentiment blur what must be done.”

The spy’s shoulders sagged, a defeated sigh escaping them. “You don’t understand,” they whispered. “You can’t fight the Absolute. You don’t know what she’s capable of.”

Jaheira's laugh was bitter as winter bark. “Child, I've fought tyrants since before your grandparents drew breath. We know exactly what we face.” She paused, letting the weight settle. “And we know what it costs.”

She gestured to Lae’zel, who stepped forward, her blade gleaming ominously in the firelight. “Chk. Finally.” Lae'zel's blade sang as she raised it. “This istyk has wasted enough of our time with their sniveling.”

But just as the Githyanki warrior prepared to strike, Jaheira lifted a hand. “Wait.”

Lae’zel froze, her sword hovering inches from the spy’s neck. Her scowl could have curdled milk. “You would spare this traitor?”

Jaheira’s voice softened, though it lost none of its authority. “No mercy. Justice. Strip them of their Harper pin. Cast them out—let them live with what they've done. After we've secured this sanctuary, they'll face proper judgment.”

“Tsk'va!” Lae'zel spat, but lowered her blade with obvious reluctance. “Soft. The githyanki way is swifter. Cleaner.”

The spy looked up, their eyes wide with a mixture of relief and despair. Jaheira turned to the guards flanking the hall. “Take them below. Ensure they can do no more harm.”

As the guards hauled the spy to their feet and out of the room, Lae'zel sheathed her sword with a sharp, frustrated motion.

“Your 'justice' shows weakness, Jaheira. Enemies should be cut down, not coddled.”

Jaheira met her glare evenly. “And your way leaves no room for learning from our mistakes. We are not conquerors here, Lae'zel. We are protectors.”

---

Back in the dimly lit room we’d been given, the group settled into an uneasy silence. I sat on the edge of the bed, the spy’s words replayed in my head like a broken record.

Gale’s voice broke the quiet. “Artemis.”

I looked up, surprised to find him standing close. His expression was guarded, his arms crossed over his chest, but there was an intensity in his eyes I couldn’t ignore.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice carrying that particular weight reserved for scholarly revelations. “About matters most pressing and, dare I say, quite extraordinary.”

“What is it?” I asked, my pulse quickening.

He hesitated, then glanced at the others. “This discussion would benefit from... discretion. The nature of what I've discovered is rather delicate.”

Freya raised an eyebrow but waved him on. “Fine. Just don’t keep us in suspense too long, wizard.”

Once the door closed behind us, Gale turned to me, his expression grave as a tombstone and twice as serious.

“It concerns your wail,”  he began, settling into what I recognized as his lecture stance. “And those haunting memories of the white-haired woman—Agatha. I've been conducting extensive research, you see—cross-referencing ancient tomes, parsing through fragments of historical accounts, delving deep into the etymological roots of spectral phenomena. The threads of evidence, while initially disparate, have begun to weave together into a most remarkable tapestry.”

I stood, unease creeping up my spine like morning frost. “Go on.”

Gale nodded, his expression growing darker. “was an elven diviner of extraordinary repute—possessed of wisdom that could pierce the veil between worlds, power that could reshape destinies, and beauty that bards would weep to describe. Yet her tale, as so many of the most profound stories do, took a decidedly tragic turn.”

He began to pace, hands gesturing as if conducting an invisible orchestra of knowledge.

“Her homeland fell to violence most brutal. Her kinfolk—slaughtered to the last. And in that moment of ultimate grief, when the weight of responsibility and failure crushed down upon her noble spirit, she found herself powerless to shield those she held most dear. That failure, that all-consuming anguish... it transformed her very essence. What emerged from that crucible of sorrow was something altogether different—a banshee.”

I felt my chest tighten. “A banshee?”

“Precisely,” Gale said, his tone gentle despite the weight of revelation. “Your wail, that otherworldly power that courses through you—it bears the unmistakable resonance of a banshee's lament. The familiar yet foreign sensation you described? That's because you're channeling something ancient, something born of grief so profound it transcended mortality itself. I believe—and mind you, this is still conjecture requiring further investigation—that a fragment of Agatha's essence, her concentrated sorrow and righteous fury, has somehow become intertwined with your... or rather, with Penelope's corporeal form.”

The pieces fell into place with an almost audible click. My wail, the ghostly whispers, the overwhelming grief that sometimes felt like it wasn’t mine—they all made sense now. “So… she’s connected to me, or more like Penelope, somehow?”

Gale inclined his head. “That would be my hypothesis, yes, though I confess the precise mechanisms remain tantalizingly elusive.” He paused, fixing me with an earnest look. “However, what strikes me as particularly significant is that this connection appears to be anything but coincidental. Indeed, I suspect it may prove to be the very key that unlocks the mysteries surrounding your entire predicament.”

I sank back onto the bed, my head spinning. “What does that mean for me? For us?”

“That,” Gale said, his voice heavy with determination, “My dear friend, represents precisely the question we must endeavor to answer. Together, naturally. After all, the greatest discoveries are rarely made in isolation, and I daresay this particular mystery shall require all our combined wisdom to unravel.”

For a long moment, I sat there in silence, the weight of this revelation settling over me like a shroud. But for the first time, the fear that had accompanied my wail felt… less consuming. There was a chance to understand it now, to find meaning in the chaos.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low, casting silver shadows across the courtyard of Last Light Inn. The world felt muted here, wrapped in a stillness that seemed eerie. My heart hammered against my ribs as I crossed the threshold, each step deliberate yet hesitant. Everything about me felt exposed, raw in a way that made my skin prickle. I would need to tell the others what Gale had discovered about Agatha, about the banshee's wail that lived in my throat. But first—first, I had something else I needed to do.

I found Astarion perched on the inn's parapet like some beautiful gargoyle, all elegant angles and predatory grace. A leather-bound tome lay forgotten in his lap while he gazed at the horizon, his pale features softened by moonlight into something almost ethereal. For once, the perpetual tension in his shoulders had eased, and he looked... peaceful. Or as close to peaceful as someone like him ever allowed himself to appear.

My breath caught. Part of me wanted to retreat, to leave him to this rare moment of tranquility. But I couldn't. Not anymore.

“Astarion,” I said softly, my voice barely carrying over the night air.

His head snapped toward me with swiftness, crimson eyes narrowing as they swept over my form. Confusion flickered across his aristocratic features.

“Well,” he drawled, shutting the book with a snap. “And what have we here? Some lost little lamb wandering about in the dark?” His voice carried that familiar edge, but I caught the way his gaze lingered, searching. “Do tell me you're not another tedious assassin. I'm simply not in the mood tonight.”

I watched the exact moment recognition dawned. His smirk faltered, those keen eyes widening almost imperceptibly as the pieces fell into place: the curve of my jaw he'd traced with his fingers, the cadence of my voice he'd heard whisper his name.

“Artemis?” he asked, disbelief threading through his tone.

I nodded.

He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. “My, my. Aren't you full of surprises?” His voice had taken on that silky quality he used when he was unsettled, wrapping barbs in velvet. “What delicious little trick is this, hmm? Finally decided to play dress-up for me?”

“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “It’s not like that.” I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. “I—I asked Gale for this. Just for a little while.”

It was a glamour, one that the wizard had cast—it shimmered faintly in the corner of my vision, its presence both comforting and disconcerting. For the first time in weeks, my reflection had matched the face in my memories: human features that felt like home instead of borrowed elvish beauty. The spell wouldn't last long; Gale had warned me fifteen minutes, twenty at most. But it was enough. It had to be.

“How fascinating,” Astarion purred, though his eyes had grown calculating. “And why would our resident wizard agree to such an... intimate favor?”

I swallowed hard, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “Because I needed a moment. Just one moment to feel like myself again, to look like myself.” My voice cracked on the last word, and I forced myself to meet his gaze. “I wanted you to see me. The real me. Not Penelope, not some borrowed face. Just me. Even if it's only for tonight.”

Astarion’s eyes softened, though his posture remained guarded. “And why, darling, is that so desperately important?”

“Because of the lake,” I said, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “Because I fled like a coward and left you there without explanation. It wasn't fair, Astarion. None of it was fair to you.”

He tilted his head, that sarcastic smile returning but softer somehow. “Ah yes, that charming little sprint you took. Quite the dramatic exit, really. I was almost impressed by the sheer audacity of it.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, wincing. “I couldn't handle seeing myself like that. But that doesn't excuse how I treated you.” 

“Artemis.” His voice had gone dangerously quiet. “You owe me nothing.”

“Maybe, but I still want to make things right,” I pressed on, stepping closer until I could see the faint silver scars at his throat, “You matter to me, Astarion. More than I probably should admit.”

The words hung in the air between us, fragile and unguarded. Astarion’s mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but he hesitated. 

“I couldn't bear the thought of you seeing me as someone else,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “When I don't even recognize myself, I didn't want to become another stranger to you too.”

The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a short, sharp sound that might have been cruel if not for the fondness threading through it.

“Oh, my sweet, ridiculous little Artemis,” he said, shaking his head as if I'd just declared my intention to fight a dragon bare-handed. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

My heart clenched. “What?”

“You absolute disaster of a person,” he continued, but his tone had gone soft, almost tender. “Do you honestly believe I give a damn about what pretty mask you wear? Darling, I've seen you covered in gore and glory, weeping over dead tieflings, arguing with gods—and yet here I stand. What does that tell you?”

He reached out then, cool fingers tilting my chin up until I had no choice but to meet his gaze. “You are still you,” he said with quiet intensity. “No curse, no magic, no borrowed face can change the heart that beats beneath it all. The question is—do you understand that?”

Tears pricked at my eyes, and I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Good,” He released me, stepping back with that familiar theatrical flourish. “Now then, if you're quite finished with this delightfully tragic little performance, perhaps we could sit and discuss more... pleasant matters?”

A small, shaky laugh escaped me, and I wiped at my eyes. “I’d like that.”

“Wonderful,” he said, gesturing grandly to the parapet. “Though I must say, if you ever want to try another glamour, might I suggest something with fangs next time? I think you'd look rather fetching with a proper set of canines.”

I rolled my eyes, genuine warmth spreading through my chest. “I'll take it under consideration.”

“See that you do,” he said with a wicked grin. “After all, matching sets are so very fashionable these days.”

Chapter Text

Astarion settled beside me, moonlight carving his profile into something achingly beautiful—so ethereal that seemed too perfect for this world. His crimson eyes tracked over my face with the intensity of someone cataloging precious things, though his expression remained carefully neutral.

The glamour shimmered at the edges of my vision like heat waves, a fragile comfort I clung to even as his gaze seemed to pierce straight through it.

“You're staring.” he observed, voice low and edged with amusement. “Rather intensely, I might add. Planning to sketch my portrait later, darling?”

“Maybe I am memorizing you,” I admitted softly, the words slipping out.

His lips curved into a slow, teasing smile. “How delightfully morbid. And what exactly do you see when you look at me?”

The question let me falter for a moment, wondering how much I could say. “Someone who's survived the impossible. Someone who pretends not to care but...” I hesitated, then pushed forward. “Someone who still finds ways to protect the people who matter to him.”

Astarion’s smile wavered, breaking eye contact. “Care,” he repeated, the word tasting unfamiliar on his tongue. “My dear, you're giving me far too much credit. I'm really quite selfish.”

“Are you?” I asked, the question hanging between us like a challenge.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he studied me and the intensity of it sent a shiver down my spine, heat curling low in my stomach. I looked away, suddenly too exposed, but his hand brushed mine, stopping me.

“Artemis.” My name fell from his lips, quiet but certain, and I turned back to him, caught in the gravity of his presence. He leaned in slightly, close enough that I could feel the coolness of his breath against my cheek. “What is it you want from me?”

The question hung in the air, laced with something deeper, something raw. I swallowed hard, my pulse thrumming as I searched for the right words. “I don’t want anything from you,” I said, my voice trembling. “I just... want you. Your company, your terrible jokes, your—” My voice cracked. “Just you.”

His eyes widened briefly, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual composure. For a moment, I thought he might pull away, but then his hand moved again—lightly brushing my jaw, his touch impossibly careful, as though he feared I might disappear. The sensation sent a thrill coursing through me, electric and intoxicating.

“Dangerous words, darling, You should be careful what you wish for,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, though there was no malice in it. Only a quiet tension that made my skin prickle.

“And what do you wish for?” I whispered.

Something shifted then, a crack in the careful walls he kept between us. His thumb traced the line of my cheekbone, his gaze dropping to my lips as if drawn there against his will. “You” he said simply and before I could second-guess, he closed the space between us.

The first brush of his lips against mine was tentative, testing, as though waiting for permission. I gave it freely, leaning into him with a soft, shuddering breath. His kiss deepened, slow but insistent, and my senses flooded with him—the coolness of his skin, the faint scent of leather and something darker, wilder.

His hand slid to the nape of my neck, his fingers threading into my hair as he pulled me closer. Heat bloomed in my chest, spreading outward until it felt like I might come apart under the intensity of it. I clung to him, my hands finding their way to his shoulders, his chest—anywhere I could anchor myself as the world seemed to spin out of focus.

The kiss grew hungrier then, more demanding, his lips parting to taste me fully. I gasped against him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as my knees went weak. Every nerve in my body felt alive, attuned to him, to the way he claimed me with a fervor that left me breathless.

He kissed me like he was claiming something precious, fierce and desperate and—

The glamour shattered.

The magic unraveled in an instant, like glass splintering under pressure. I pulled back, the sudden loss of its comforting presence leaving me exposed. My heart hammered in my chest as I stared at him, waiting for the shift, the flicker of disappointment or rejection.

It didn’t come.

Instead, Astarion’s gaze softened, his hand still cradling my face. “What’s wrong darling?” he asked gently, his voice steady despite the tension in his body. “Do you want to stop?”

I shook my head, swallowing hard. “No. I just—” My voice faltered, and I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Do you?”

His lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “Not for all the treasure in Faerûn.”

Relief flooded through me, and I closed the distance again, my lips finding his in a kiss that was fiercer this time, unburdened by doubt. He matched my intensity, his hands roaming to my waist, pulling me flush against him as if he couldn’t stand the thought of any space between us.

The heat between us built, consuming, until it felt like the world might burn away entirely. But just as the moment threatened to spill over, a loud, familiar voice shattered the stillness.

“There you two are!”

I jerked back, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I turned to see Karlach striding toward us, her expression torn between amusement and impatience. Astarion let out a low groan, his hand falling reluctantly from my waist as he straightened.

“Karlach,” he drawled, tone dripping with long-suffering patience “Your timing is, as always, absolutely exquisite.”

She crossed her arms, a big smirk forming in her face. “Oi, don't let me interrupt your little snogging session, but Freya's called a meeting. Says it's urgent.”

I nodded, still catching my breath, hyperaware of Astarion's presence beside me. “We’ll be there,” I managed, my voice unsteady.

Karlach gave us one last knowing look before turning away, whistling tunelessly as she headed back inside.

Astarion glanced at me, that familiar smirk softening into something private and warm.

“Shall we face whatever fresh catastrophe awaits, darling?” he asked, his voice rasp and intimate.

I took his offered hand, his kiss still burning on my lips like a brand. “Lead the way.”

As we descended from the parapet together, fingers intertwined with quiet certainty, I knew that everything between us had irrevocably changed—and for once, I wasn't afraid of what came next.

Chapter Text

The memory of Astarion's kiss clung to me like smoke—phantom warmth still tingling on my lips, my pulse stuttering whenever I remembered the cool press of his hands, the way he'd held me as if I were something precious. Even now, walking through the courtyard with our group assembled around Freya, I could feel his gaze like a physical touch.

I risked a glance over my shoulder. There he was, that infuriatingly perfect smirk playing at his lips. Our eyes met for a heartbeat before I turned away, cheeks burning.

Focus, Artemis. People are counting on you.

Freya's voice cut through my distraction, crisp and commanding.“The Absolute is more entrenched here than we suspected. I’ve uncovered something troubling—they’re using moonlit lamps to navigate the curse. Each lamp holds a living pixie, forced to channel magic that pushes back the shadows. Without one, we’ll remain vulnerable.”

Uncovered is a stretch—as if I didn't hand her that information on a silver platter.

The group shifted uneasily. Astarion's usual theatrical air evaporated, replaced by something more calculating.“Charming. As if the curse itself weren’t enough to contend with, now we have to chase down kidnapped pixies.”

Freya nodded grimly. “We have two paths forward: steal one of their lanterns, or find materials to craft our own. Both options carry significant risk, but splitting our efforts gives us the best odds of success.”

Freya continued, her voice dipping lower as if wary of unseen ears. “That’s not our only lead. Remember the lyre we took from Nere's corpse? It's enchanted, designed to summon a guide through these cursed lands”

“A guide?” Shadowheart's arms crossed, wariness etched in every line of her posture.

Freya’s expression darkened. “Not just any guide. A servant of the Absolute, bound to help those who call it. I spoke with Jaheira about it—wanted to see if she could spare any Harper support to back us up in case of an ambush.”

“And?” Karlach prompted, her voice tinged with hope.

Freya’s lips thinned into a grim line. “She refused. Jaheira’s not in a position to trust anyone right now, not after the spy in the camp. She can’t guarantee there aren’t more infiltrators among her ranks. If we’re going to use the lyre, we’ll have to do it alone.”

A tense silence settled over the group. The stakes felt higher now, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on all of us.

“So, what's our approach?” Gale asked.

Freya straightened, her posture radiating calm authority. “We lure the guide out. Two of us call the guide using the lyre while the others remain hidden, positioned to strike if it turns hostile—or worse, if it brings friends.”

“ And which of us plays the part of bait in this trap?” Lae’zel asked, her tone half-wary, half-resigned.

Freya glanced at me, then at Shadowheart. “Shadowheart and Artemis.”

“Us?” I blinked, surprised.

“You’re both uniquely resistant to the curse,” Freya explained. “The rest of us will position ourselves nearby. If things go sideways—”

“Which they absolutely will,” Karlach muttered under her breath. Freya finished without missing a beat. “—you'll have the best chance of survival,”

Freya’s eyes lingered on me for a moment, something almost like reassurance in her expression. “This is our most viable option for progress. Success means either acquiring a moonlantern or securing safe passage through the curse. The risk is worth the potential gain.”

As the group began to disperse, murmuring among themselves about preparations and contingencies, I caught Astarion's eye once more. This time, his smirk had faded into something more serious

Chapter Text

The lyre felt heavier in my hands than it had any right to, its dark wood cool to the touch, as though it had never known sunlight. Even its strings looked ominous—taut and glimmering with an almost unnatural sheen, as if woven from strands of silver moonlight and shadow.

Shadowheart stood a few paces behind me, her posture tense but ready. Her presence was steadying, though I couldn’t quite shake the nervous energy coiling in my stomach. The air in the Shadow-Cursed Lands was always oppressive, but now it felt as though the weight had doubled, pressing down on my chest with every shallow breath.

I ran my fingers over the strings, a soft, discordant note breaking the silence. It reverberated unnaturally, lingering in the air far longer than it should have. My hands trembled as I adjusted my grip, glancing at Shadowheart.

“Ready?” I asked, my voice low.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied, her tone clipped but calm.

Taking a deep breath, I plucked the strings again, this time with more purpose. The melody came unbidden, coaxed from the lyre itself—a haunting tune that seemed to bleed into the shadows around us. The air grew colder, the oppressive silence deepening until even the sound of my own breathing felt muted.

And then, he appeared.

At first, it was just a flicker—a ripple in the shadows ahead. But as I played on, the figure took shape, stepping into the dim, cursed light of the clearing.

Kar’niss was disgusting, a nightmare given form. His body was twisted and elongated, his spider-like legs arching grotesquely as he moved with a chittering, alien grace. His torso was vaguely humanoid but hunched, his pale skin stretched taut over sharp, angular bones. His arms, too long and jointed unnaturally, ended in clawed hands that twitched as if in constant anticipation.

But it was his face that turned my stomach. What should have been a mouth was a maw filled with jagged, uneven teeth, twitching mandibles protruding from either side. His eyes were the worst—eight black orbs that reflected no light, only the endless abyss. A faint, eerie glow clung to him, illuminating the tattered remains of once-fine robes.

Shadowheart hissed softly behind me. I couldn’t blame her. Kar’niss was the embodiment of wrongness, an affront to anything natural or sane.

The chittering noise grew louder as he moved closer, his head tilting in a disturbingly human gesture of curiosity.

“Who dares summon Kar’niss?” His voice was a rasping whisper, layered with a low, guttural clicking that set my teeth on edge.

I swallowed hard, gripping the lyre tightly. “I did,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “We seek guidance through the Shadow-Cursed Lands.”

Kar’niss tilted his head the other way, his mandibles twitching. “Guidance? Yesss… Kar’nissss can lead you. But only the faithful may walk beneath the moonlit path.”

Shadowheart’s hand brushed against my back, a silent warning. We both knew what he meant—allegiance to the Absolute.

“I am… willing to follow,” I said carefully, my words measured. “ And my companion already does. But I need to understand the path first. The curse here is strong. How do the faithful here move so freely?”

Kar’niss chittered again, the sound almost like laughter. “The lamps light the way. The pixiesss sing their songs, binding the shadowsss. Without them, even the faithful would fall.”

He leaned closer, his eight eyes fixed on me. I fought the urge to step back, my heart pounding in my chest. “But you… you do not smell of the Absolute. You carry the shadowsss within you, but they are… different.”

“Ugh, not you too,” I whispered to myself. He took another step forward and was too close now, his claws flexing as if testing the air around me.

“What are you hiding, little elf?” His voice dropped, the menace in it unmistakable.

Before I could answer, Shadowheart moved. Her spear gleamed in the faint light as she struck, aiming for the gap between his torso and one of his legs. The moment her spear connected, Kar’niss let out an inhuman screech, his limbs thrashing violently.

“Traitorsss!” he roared, his claws swiping at Shadowheart. She barely dodged in time, the air hissing where his talons had sliced through.

I stumbled back, the lyre slipping from my hands as I reached for my weapon. Before I could react, the clearing erupted into chaos.

Chapter Text

From the shadows around us, our companions struck like wolves closing on wounded prey. Lae'zel emerged first, her greatsword singing through the air as she bellowed a githyanki war cry that could wake the dead. She aimed for Kar'niss's spindly legs, seeking to cripple the abomination, but he skittered aside with unnatural grace, his chittering laughter echoing through the clearing like breaking glass.

Karlach charged in like a living inferno, her greataxe trailing flames as it carved a burning arc through the air. The impact against Kar'niss's blocking limbs sent shockwaves through the ground, sparks showering around them in a deadly rain.

“Come on then, ugly!” she roared, grinning with wild ferocity. “Let's see what you've got!” she bellowed, her voice dripped with adrenaline.

Kar’niss lashed out, his claws slicing through the air. Astarion ducked under the deadly arc, his daggers flashing as he darted in to land a flurry of quick strikes. The blades connected, drawing black, ichor-like blood that oozed from the creature’s pale flesh.

“Such a charming host you’ve been, Kar’niss,” Astarion taunted, his voice cold and sharp. “But I’m afraid the party’s over.”

The drider screeched, mandibles clicking in rage as he lunged for the vampire. Before the blow could connect, Wyll's eldritch blast streaked across the battlefield like a falling star, slamming into Kar'niss and sending him reeling.

“Concentrate fire on his legs!” Wyll commanded, his tone urgent. “Ground the bastard!”

Gale and Freya moved in perfect synchronization, their voices weaving together in arcane harmony. A sphere of roiling flame burst to life, hurtling toward our enemy and exploding against his chitinous hide in a shower of sparks and smoke.

I pressed forward, dagger tight in my grip, watching for an opening. Kar'niss was growing erratic, lashing out in all directions as pain and fury overtook strategy. Shadowheart and I moved as one, circling like predators. Her shield caught one of his legs with a resounding crash, staggering the monster.

Then those alien eyes fixed on me.

Time slowed as Kar'niss lunged, claw extended like a scythe. I twisted aside, but not fast enough—burning pain exploded across my cheek as his talon raked flesh. Blood ran hot down my face, the metallic taste filling my mouth as I stumbled backward.

My vision wavered, knees threatening to buckle.

Before Kar’niss could strike again, Lae’zel barreled forward, her greatsword raised high. She planted herself between me and the monstrous creature, her blade intercepting another of his limbs with a deafening clash of steel.

“Fall back!” Lae’zel barked, her voice fierce and commanding. “You are compromised!”

Her protection came at a cost. The drider's other claw found its mark, tearing through her armor like parchment. She grunted but held firm, planted like a mountain against the storm.

“Damn it, Lae’zel!” I hissed, clutching my cheek as I tried to regain my footing.

Karlach roared, her axe cleaving into one of Kar’niss’s legs with brutal force, severing it cleanly. The creature screeched, staggering as black ichor sprayed across the ground.

“For the Blade!” Wyll shouted, his voice ringing with authority.

Wyll moved like water, fluid and precise. His rapier caught the light as he vaulted forward, the blade punching through Kar'niss's chest with a flash of warlock magic. The drider convulsed, limbs thrashing wildly as unholy energy coursed through him.

Kar'niss flew backward, hitting the earth with a sound like breaking bones. His body spasmed once, twice, then went still.

Silence settled over the clearing, broken only by our ragged breathing and the distant whisper of cursed wind through dead trees.

I swayed, the wound on my cheek throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Shadowheart appeared at my side, hands already glowing with divine radiance as she pressed them to my torn flesh.

“You’re reckless,” she muttered, though concern softened the rebuke. “This will probably leave a mark.”

“Better a scar than a grave,” I managed, voice shaking. “Is Lae'zel—?”

“Wounded but whole,” Freya reported, helping the githyanki to her feet. Lae'zel grimaced but waved off further assistance, pride intact despite the blood staining her armor.

“Do not squander this victory with worry,” she said, though exhaustion colored every word. “We have prevailed. That is what matters.”

As the group began to regroup and gather their bearings, I cast one last glance at Kar’niss’s still form. The lyre lay a few feet away, its dark wood glinting ominously in the faint light.

Chapter Text

Freya's decision to free the pixie had been the right one, I'd made sure she understood that. The moment the tiny creature's magic worked, relief flooded through me like cool water. The pixie's blessing settled deep in my bones, and from the way my companions' shoulders relaxed, I knew they felt it too. She vanished in a trail of luminous dust, leaving us standing in a world that suddenly felt less hostile, less suffocating.

Inside the inn, Halsin tended to Art Cullagh with the patience of someone accustomed to healing broken minds. The man's hollow eyes and skeletal frame spoke of torments beyond imagining, his consciousness fractured by whatever horrors he'd endured. Ancient Druidic words flowed from Halsin's lips as golden light pulsed between his fingers, weaving calm through the room's heavy air.

We'd used the respite to prepare ourselves, gathering supplies and checking equipment. When Freya finally called us together, we formed a loose circle—weary faces marked by determination we'd all learned to wear like armor.

“Jaheira has asked us to infiltrate Moonrise Towers. She believes it’s the key to uncovering Ketheric’s immortality and his connection to the Absolute.”

She relayed Jaheira's intelligence methodically—guard rotations, architectural weaknesses, known magical defenses. We agreed to scavenge for better equipment before attempting the fortress.

She then turned to me: “Before we move on, Artemis, share what you and Gale discovered.”

I hesitated, glancing at Gale for reassurance. He nodded, his expression encouraging but expectant.

“So, turns out in some way or another, Penelope has some type of banshee abilities. We don’t think she herself is a banshee, but maybe she was cursed by Agatha, who definitely is one.” My voice faltered slightly before I pushed on. “And… I think every time I use these abilities, it feels like it’s getting stronger. More uncontrolled.”

A brief silence followed before Gale leaned forward, his fingers steepled thoughtfully. “What Artemis describes represents a fascinating confluence of necromantic and enchantment magic—rare, but documented in certain texts. The manifestation appears to be trauma-triggered, possibly amplified by external magical influences.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “With proper instruction, such abilities could potentially be controlled. Perhaps even weaponized.”

“Weaponized?” Astarion repeated, arching a brow. “My, how wonderfully ominous. Do go on.”

He nodded. “If channeled deliberately rather than erupting spontaneously, her wail could become a formidable tool,” Gale explained. “The question becomes whether Artemis is prepared to undertake such training.”

The memory of my uncontrolled scream sent ice through my veins. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”

Gale’s gaze softened with sympathy. “Ready or not, my dear, the responsibility already rests upon your shoulders. Far better to understand your power than to fear it.”

“If it keeps you breathing, I'm all for it.” Karlach chimed in, her grin fierce and supportive. “Besides, we've got your back either way, Sunshine.”

I managed a small smile, appreciating her support even as my thoughts churned.

Before I could respond, the air in the room shifted. Aripple of arcane energy so profound it made my teeth ache.

The door swung open.

He entered like a storm given human form, presence so overwhelming it seemed to bend reality around him. Deep indigo robes shimmered with silver constellations that moved with their own celestial rhythm, while his snow-white beard flowed like captured starlight. But it was his eyes—ancient blue depths that held the weight of millennia—that commanded attention. This wasn't the weariness of age but the terrible wisdom of someone who had witnessed empires rise and fall.

The gnarled staff in his grip hummed with barely contained power, dark wood that seemed to drink in the room's light. Each step was deliberate, unhurried, as if time itself deferred to his will.

Tension coiled through our group like a living thing. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, charged with magic that made my skin prickle. Even Astarion's usual smirk faltered under the weight of this newcomer's presence.

“Gale, my boy,” he announced, his voice a deep, rolling baritone that resonated through the room. “Here you are.”

Gale straightened immediately, his expression shifting from curiosity to thinly veiled apprehension. There was no warmth in his eyes, only a careful wariness.

“Elminster,” he greeted, his tone measured, his words as deliberate as the older man’s steps. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The wizard’s gaze lingered on Gale for a long, unsettling moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing every atom of his being. When he finally turned his attention to the rest of us, it was like being caught under a sweeping searchlight. One by one, his gaze flicked over us—pausing briefly on Freya, narrowing slightly at Astarion, and lingering a heartbeat longer on me. The intensity of his eyes felt like it peeled back layers, leaving me acutely aware of my own vulnerabilities, even if he said nothing.

When his eyes returned to Gale, his voice softened, though it lost none of its weight. “This is not a matter of pleasure, my boy. It is a matter of necessity.”

Gale’s jaw tightened, his body tense as a bowstring. “Necessity?” he echoed, his tone cautious, but there was no denying the unease that slipped into his words.

“Yes,” Elminster replied, leaning on his staff. “May we have a word together?”

Chapter Text

I decided to head out in the back balcony while Freya was talking to Gale and Elminster. I didn't have the muse to interact with anyone else right now, the events of today tired me down—and I needed a moment to breathe, to untangle my thoughts.
The cool night air wrapped around me as I stepped out, the distant hum of crickets filling the quiet. The stars above seemed so indifferent, their cold beauty a stark contrast to the chaos below. I exhaled slowly, hoping to shed some of the tension coiling in my chest.

The moment was short-lived, though.

A sudden pull, like invisible threads wrapping tightly around my being, yanked me off my feet. The world blurred and warped, the inn fading into a haze of golden light and shifting shadows. When I landed, disoriented but upright, the air was heavy with warmth and the faint scent of brimstone.

I knew where I was before I saw him.

Raphael’s domain unfolded before me with all its ostentatious grandeur: the polished marble floors gleamed under a light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Crimson banners embroidered with infernal symbols hung from towering walls, and ornate furniture dotted the space in calculated precision, each piece a silent boast of wealth and power. 

And there he was—Raphael, lounging in his throne-like chair, his posture languid but his presence anything but. His suit, as always, was impeccable: dark velvet that absorbed the light, with crimson accents that seemed to pulse faintly, alive in the room's eerie glow. His eyes, those infernal pits of smoldering amber, locked onto me the moment I arrived, and his lips curved into a smile that promised nothing good.

“Artemis,” he purred, his voice like honeyed poison. “How delightful it is to see you again.”

I bristled, my hands clenching into fists. “Well, I’m not happy to see you, Raphael. What do you want?”

He chuckled, low and indulgent, as though I’d told a particularly amusing joke. “What I want , my dear, is to help you. You’ve been so very busy, haven’t you? Chasing shadows, piecing together fragments of a puzzle that refuses to fit. And yet, despite all your efforts, the answers elude you still .”

I crossed my arms, my glare unwavering. “I don’t need your help.”

His smile widened, revealing perfect, gleaming teeth. “Ah, but you do. Allow me to be blunt, my dear Artemis—you’re running out of time. Agatha, the banshee who holds your precious truths, is located in the Neverwinter Woods, so very far from here. You’ll die before you even take the first step towards the north.”

I fought to keep my expression neutral while answering: “If you’re trying to scare me, you’ll have to do better.”

“Oh, I’m not trying to scare you.” Raphael rose from his seat with a feline grace, his every movement oozing confidence. “I’m offering you salvation. A chance to skip the perilous journey, the endless guesswork, and the danger to your companions. I can take you directly to her—Agatha herself. Speak with her. Learn all that you crave. And when you’re finished, I will bring you back, unharmed and enlightened.”

The offer hung in the air like a glimmering lure, tempting and treacherous.

“And the cost?” I asked, my voice colder than I felt. “You don’t do anything for free.”

“Very astute.” Raphael inclined his head as though praising a clever student. “The cost is simple: your body . After your time in this world concludes, of course.”

I recoiled, my stomach twisting with revulsion. “My body ?”

He raised a hand, palm outward, a placating gesture. “Not for the reasons you’re imagining, my dear. Perish the thought. No, this is purely... business.”

His gaze darkened, the amusement in his features replaced with something far more calculating. “The vessel you inhabit is... unique. It holds power—power that, left unclaimed, would fade into nothingness upon your passing. Penelope, its original owner, is gone. Stuck in a limbo where no magic, no plea, can retrieve her. That leaves two options: another vessel to take her place, or someone like me, who can ensure the body is put to good use .”

I stared at him, the words sinking in like jagged shards of ice. “You want to use … the banshee powers, am I right?.”

“Precisely.” He spread his hands in a gesture of mock sincerity. “Think of the possibilities, Artemis. Those abilities you fear, those that terrify even you—they could be controlled, wielded with precision. With me, they would find purpose.”

I shook my head, disgust roiling in my chest. “And what happens to me in this little arrangement? Do I get a say, or do I just become some pawn in your infernal schemes?”

Raphael’s smile softened, almost pitying. “You misunderstand, my dear. This is not a matter of you —it is a matter of the body, once your soul has departed. You will be gone, free to whatever awaits you in the world you lived before. But the vessel you leave behind... that is what I seek.”

The temptation of his offer lingered in the air, its allure undeniable. To meet Agatha face to face, to uncover the truth without risking my friends—wasn’t that what I wanted? And yet, the thought of handing over this body to him... it churned in my stomach like a poisoned draught.

I met his gaze, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. “No.”

Raphael’s eyes flashed with a flicker of annoyance, quickly masked by his ever-present charm. “No?” he echoed, as though the word were foreign to him.

“I won’t make a deal with you. Never will.”

He inclined his head, a small nod that spoke of acknowledgment, if not agreement. “A shame. But I am a patient man, Artemis. Consider my offer. I suspect you’ll find the alternatives... lacking.”

With a snap of his fingers, the world twisted again, and I was thrust back into the cool night outside the inn. My breath came fast and shallow, my hands trembling as I pressed them to my chest, trying to steady the furious pounding of my heart.

The stars above felt colder now, distant and indifferent. I found no comfort in their light.

Chapter Text

After Raphael's departure, I lingered outside the inn, watching cursed mist writhe across the ground like restless spirits. The cold bit deep, but it was nothing compared to the weight of his offer pressing against my thoughts. Freya's boots creaked on the wooden boards behind me before she appeared at my side, concern etched in the lines around her eyes.

“Gale told me about his... conversation with Elminster.”

I turned to face her, already knowing where this conversation was heading. “And?”

“It's a death sentence dressed up as divine duty,” she said bluntly, her voice tinged with frustration. “Mystra—” she spat the name like a curse, “—wants him to blow himself up for her cause. All very noble, sure, but let’s not pretend she isn’t just using him like a pawn. And he knows it. He’s furious, but...” She shook her head, her hands clenching into fists. “The fool's still loyal enough to consider it. It's maddening.”

Silence stretched between us before the words tumbled from my lips unbidden. “I understand that. Being caught between what you owe yourself and what others expect from you.”

Freya turned to me, curiosity etched into her expression. “You’re talking about Raphael, aren’t you?”

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck as if the motion could dispel the unease curling in my chest. “He offered to teleport me directly to Agatha. No more wandering, no more guesswork. Just straight to the answers I need. But the price...”

I explained Raphael's terms, watching Freya's expression darken with each detail—anger and disbelief warring across her features. “Tell me you're not actually considering this madness.”

“I’m not,” I said quickly, though the half-truth burned in my throat. “But part of me... I don’t know. If it’s the only way to get home, shouldn’t I at least think about it?”

“No.” The word cracked like a whip, stopping my rationalization cold. Freya stepped closer, eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness. “You don't bargain with devils, Artemis. Especially not Raphael. He doesn't just play games—he owns the board, the pieces, and the rules. He'll get what he wants, and you'll be left holding nothing but regret and chains.”

Her words hit me like a slap, and for a moment, I hated how right she was.

- - -

The next day, we packed our bags and began the trek toward Moonrise Towers, the path winding its way through the eerie remnants of Reithwin Town. The air was carrying the stench of mildew and something metallic, like old blood left to stagnate.

Karlach sidled up beside me as we walked, her grin mischievous despite the grim surroundings. “Right then, Artemis,” she began, her voice dripping with faux innocence. “You and our resident vampire—what's the situation there now?”

“There’s no situation,” I replied quickly, though the heat rising in my cheeks betrayed me.

Shadowheart materialized on my other side, smirking like a cat with cream. “Please. The way he watches you? The way you practically melt when he so much as looks in your direction? It's hardly subtle.”

I groaned, my head falling back dramatically. “Oh my god, would you both kindly mind your own business? I don't 'melt' at anything, and I certainly don't—”

“Don't what?” Astarion's velvet voice interrupted from directly behind us.

I spun around to find him wearing that insufferably perfect smile, clearly having caught enough of our conversation to be thoroughly entertained.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, shooting my tormentors a look that promised creative revenge.

“Ladies, please,” Astarion drawled, his tone light and teasing. “You mustn't embarrass poor Artemis like this. She's far too modest to admit how utterly captivated she is by my considerable charms.”

Despite everything—the danger, the tension, the weight of impossible choices—I found myself laughing. The sound surprised me, bubbling up unbidden, and I realized that somehow, even in this cursed wasteland, he could still make light pierce through the darkness.

“Your humility is truly inspiring,” I managed between chuckles.

“I do try, darling.”

As we moved deeper into Reithwin's ruins, weapons appeared in hands and spells hummed at fingertips. The crunch of bone beneath Karlach's heavy boots made us all flinch. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, her voice unusually subdued. “Sorry. Not exactly rolling out the welcome mat, are they?”

We turned a corner, the skeletal remains of a building looming over us like a forgotten sentinel. Freya motioned for us to stop, her hand raised in warning.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered.

I strained my ears, and there it was—a faint rustling sound, like dried leaves being stirred. It was coming from just ahead, where a crumbled fountain sat at the center of a dilapidated square.

Freya turned to me, her expression tense but steady. “You and Shadowheart take the left flank. Gale and I will go right. The rest, stay back and cover us.”

I nodded, my heart hammering as Shadowheart and I moved into position. My fingers tightened around the grip of my bow, every muscle coiled and ready.

The sound grew louder, and then—with a sudden, chilling burst of movement—they emerged.

Chapter Text

“Persistent little bastards.”

Freya wiped her staff on the hem of her cloak, her expression grim. “This town is worse than I thought. If this is what’s lingering in the outskirts, I don’t even want to imagine what we’ll find in the heart of it.”

Gale nodded, his face pale but determined. “This level of necromantic energy... It’s deliberate. Controlled.”

After defeating more undead, I looked around and truly took in the town. Toppled statues and jagged cobblestones littered the streets, their edges sharp enough to wound. Even the inanimate things here seemed hostile. The ground beneath my boots was soft with rot—patches of grass and earth blending with splintered wood and shards of bone. The few signs of life—a scuttling insect here, a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye—felt wrong, corrupted.

Astarion sheathed his daggers, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his coat. “Well, whatever it is, I do hope it doesn’t ruin my boots. I just had them cleaned.”

Karlach snorted, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Priorities, pretty boy.”

The banter faded as we walked, silence creeping in like a shadow. The first glimpse of Moonrise Towers came through a break in the fog—its dark silhouette rising like a jagged wound against the gray sky.

It was bigger than I’d imagined, its spires climbing higher, its walls broader and more foreboding. A faint shimmer surrounded the structure, as though cloaked in an unseen barrier. This wasn’t just a fortress—it was a stronghold, a monument to dread.

Freya stopped abruptly, raising a hand. “Look.” She pointed ahead.

Through the haze, figures moved in lines toward the gates of the towers. Prisoners, shackled and stumbling, herded by armored cultists bearing the Absolute’s symbol. Their cries were faint at this distance, muffled by the crack of whips and barked orders.

“Gods,” Karlach muttered. Her fists clenched, veins bulging on her forearms. “We can’t just let them—”

“We’re in no position to fight a battalion,” Wyll interrupted, his voice steady but heavy with regret.

I felt my nails dig into my palms, my fists trembling with the effort to stay still. My instincts screamed to act, to help—but Wyll was right. We weren’t ready. But we would be.

Astarion stepped up beside me, his voice low and dry. “A grim little procession, isn’t it? Almost quaint, in a way. But I’d wager we’ll end up just like them if we aren’t careful.”

“Ever the optimist,” 

“Just managing expectations, darling,” he replied, though his tone held no humor.

We crept closer, sticking to the shadows, keeping low behind crumbled remains of walls and debris. The nearer we got to the towers, the more unnatural the air became. 

“Do you hear that?” I asked, glancing around.

“You’re imagining things,” Lae’zel muttered, but I knew better. I wasn’t imagining it.

At first, it was a faint hum, like wind brushing through distant reeds. But as we drew closer, the sound took shape—threads of words weaving into mournful murmurs. Soft, pleading voices floated just beyond reach.

Then another voice. And another.

“He killed us all...”
“Please...”
“End this torment...”

I froze mid-step, my heart hammering in my chest. The voices felt so close, as though their speakers stood just behind me. But when I turned, there was nothing—only the empty, ruined street.

“Artemis?” Freya’s voice was hushed, her hand brushing my arm. “What is it?”

I shook my head, but the whispers pressed on, louder now, twisting into something mournful.

“They’re here,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.

Lae'zel frowned. “Who?”

“The Selûnites...” My breath hitched. “They’re still here. Trapped. They’re pleading with me.”

The others exchanged uneasy glances, confusion mingling with quiet alarm.

“Artemis, there’s nothing here,” Gale said gently.

But there was. I could hear them clearly now, surrounding me, their anguish piercing through the veil of reality.

“End this suffering...”
“Let us rest...”

Their grief clawed at me, relentless. It wasn’t just their words—it was their emotions, crashing over me in waves of sorrow, anger, and despair. It was too much.

The voices swelled, overlapping in a cacophony of desperate pleas. My head throbbed as a sharp, icy pain lanced through me. Staggering, I clutched at my temples, my breathing ragged.

“Please—free us!”
“It hurts...”
“Save us!”

I collapsed to my knees, gasping for breath, my hands pressed tightly over my ears. But it didn’t help. The voices weren’t coming from outside—they were inside me, clawing at the edges of my mind.

“Artemis!” Freya dropped to my side, gripping my shoulder. “What’s wrong? Talk to me!”

“I—I can’t—” The words caught in my throat as the voices rose to a fever pitch, their anguish battering my senses. Tears blurred my vision, streaking down my face. The weight of their suffering crushed me, an iron shroud suffocating every breath.

“Is she going to scream again?” someone asked, their voice distant and distorted; I couldn't place who said it.

“No,” I managed to rasp, though my voice trembled, fractured under the weight of their cries. “This time, they’re the ones screaming.”

Chapter Text

The sheer agony in their words was unbearable. It felt as though their suffering was my own, like they were carving their grief into my soul. I squeezed my eyes shut, nails digging into the ground, as if grounding myself to something solid could anchor me against the rising tide. But it didn’t work. The voices only grew louder, their anguish sharpening into knives that stabbed at the edges of my sanity.

Astarion crouched at my side, his usually poised demeanor marred by a flicker of something close to worry. His crimson eyes darted over my face, searching for something—anything—that would explain what was happening. “What’s going on?” His voice was tight, lacking its usual lilt of amusement.

“It’s her banshee abilities,” Freya said, her tone equally tense as she knelt beside me. She looked between me and the others, her knuckles white where she gripped her staff. “I assume it’s amplifying whatever she’s hearing. Spirits, memories…”

“If it doesn’t stop, it will make her go mad,” Lae’zel said, her voice was steel-edged. “We must move.”

I gasped as the whispers shifted, they drilled into my skull, filling my head with grief that wasn’t mine but somehow felt like it had always been there, buried deep and festering.

“Stop,” I begged through gritted teeth. My voice was barely audible beneath the cacophony. “Please, stop!”

“Artemis, listen to me,” Freya said urgently, gripping my arm tighter as if she could anchor me by touch alone. “I don’t know what you’re hearing, but they’re gone. Whatever’s left is just an echo. Do you understand? They can’t hurt you.”

But they didn’t feel like echoes. They felt real. So painfully real. Their cries dug into me, a relentless chorus of sorrow and rage. I could feel their anguish like an open wound, and it was tearing me apart from the inside out.

Astarion’s hand found mine, his touch light and hesitant at first, as though afraid I might recoil. When I didn’t, he let it rest there. His crimson eyes locked onto mine.

“Artemis,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “Snap out of it, darling. This isn’t you.”

I tried to speak, to explain, but the words caught in my throat. My hands trembled, clutching at the dirt beneath me as though it could hold me together. “I can feel their pain… it’s too much…”

Astarion’s fingers tilted my chin up gently, forcing me to meet his gaze. The crimson of his eyes seemed warmer somehow, like embers instead of blood. “Now, you’re smarter than whatever haunted chorus is trying to steal the show. Don’t let them—especially not after all the trouble you’ve put me through to keep you alive.”

I tried to focus on him, on the familiar lines of his face, the sardonic quirk of his brow. It was grounding in a way I hadn’t expected. His voice dropped lower, softer, so only I could hear him.

“Don’t let a few pitiful ghosts get the better of you. I, like the others, have no intention of losing you to a bunch of disembodied whiners.”

The words, ridiculous as they were, hit with an almost physical weight. My breath caught, and the voices seemed to falter, their oppressive grip loosening just enough to let me draw in air. His presence felt like a shield between me and the tide threatening to consume me.

“Stay with me, here,” he murmured, his tone softer now, almost pleading. “Let them fade. Let me bring you back.”

For a moment, the world narrowed to just him—his voice, his touch, the unwavering intensity in his eyes. It was enough. Enough to pull me from the brink.

The voices receded, still there but quieter now, as though retreating back into the shadows where they belonged. I sucked in a shaky breath, my hands trembling as I lowered them from my ears. The ground beneath me felt solid again, the air less suffocating.

Freya’s hands were suddenly under my arms, helping me to my feet. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were filled with concern. “Are you with us?”

I nodded, though my legs felt like jelly beneath me. “I’m… I’m okay. Let’s just keep moving.”

“Are you sure?” Gale asked, stepping closer, his brow furrowed. “You just had, what sounded like, an entire ghostly opera performed in your head.”

“I’ll manage,” I said, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me. “We don’t have time to stop.” 

As we moved, Astarion stayed close, his hand brushing mine while walking. It was a small gesture, fleeting and subtle, but it was enough to remind me I wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

The whispers where still there, but now they seemed quiter, and as long as I stay focused, I could keep them managable. But I wasn't sure how long I could stay here before feeling overwhelmed again. 

Moonrise loomed ahead, its dark spires scraping the sky like jagged claws. The shimmering barrier surrounding the fortress was faint but undeniable—pale tendrils of magic curling and writhing against the gray horizon. My stomach twisted in knots. This wasn’t just a fortress; it was a shrine to something foul.

Freya pulled her hood up as we approached the gates. The guards stationed outside were unlike the cultists we’d faced before. These were armored, their helms forged in the likeness of snarling beasts, the symbol of the Absolute gleaming on their chests. Their weapons looked sharp, well-maintained—these weren’t the ragtag followers we’d fought in the wilds. These were soldiers.

The largest of them stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Halt,” he barked, his voice muffled by his helm. “Who are you, and what business do you have here?”

Freya didn’t miss a beat. She stepped ahead of the group, her staff angled slightly to her side in a non-threatening but confident stance. “We’re True Souls,” she said, her voice steady, almost bored. “Here to report to General Thorm about the Goblin Camp.”

The guard’s head tilted slightly, his grip tightening on his weapon. Behind me, I could feel the others tensing. Astarion’s hand brushed against the hilt of his dagger, and Karlach shifted her weight, ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble.

“True Souls, you say?” The guard’s voice dripped with suspicion. “And yet I don’t recognize you. Why haven’t we seen you before?”

Freya raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a faint smirk. “Do you expect General Thorm to personally introduce every True Soul under the Absolute’s blessing? We’ve been busy in the field, ensuring her vision is carried out. Surely you’ve heard what happened to Priestess Gut and the others?”

The guard hesitated, his posture shifting slightly. “We heard it was... compromised.”

“Because we were sent to deal with it,” Freya snapped, a hint of irritation creeping into her tone. “Do you think the General is going to be pleased if you delay us further? Or should I let you explain to him why he wasn’t informed of our arrival?”

The tension hung in the air like a drawn bowstring. For a moment, I thought the guard might call her bluff, but then he grunted and stepped aside, signaling to the others. “Go on, then...” 

Freya strode forward without a glance back, her steps confident and unhurried. The rest of us followed, the weight of the guard’s gaze pressing against our backs. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder, keeping my focus on the looming entrance to Moonrise.

The interior of the Towers was colder than I’d expected, the stone walls slick with damp. Torchlight flickered along the corridors, casting shadows that danced like restless spirits. The air was thick with the scent of rot and burnt incense, a nauseating combination that made my stomach churn.

The soldiers who passed us paid little attention, their eyes glazed and distant. I didn’t know if it was the tadpoles or something else, but there was a lifelessness to them, as though their minds were no longer their own.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Karlach muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible. “Feels like the walls are watching us.”

“Keep your voice down,” Wyll warned. “We can’t afford any mistakes here.”

“Enough,” Freya hissed, her eyes scanning the hallway ahead. “We need to find Thorm. Or someone who knows where he is.”

“Wonderful,” Astarion drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure he’ll be absolutely thrilled to meet us.”

We passed where some merchants displayed their wares—many of them peddling cursed artifacts, shadow-touched weapons, and other ominous trinkets. 

I lagged behind the group, my eyes caught by a peculiar item at one of the stalls. The moment I saw it, I stopped in my tracks. It wasn’t just any weapon—it was beautiful. The blade shimmered like liquid moonlight, its edge curved in a way that was both elegant and menacing. The handle, engraved with twisting runes, practically hummed with power. But the best part? The merchant, noticing my gawking, picked it up, muttered a word, and the whole thing shrank down into a tiny ring.

Then, with another whispered command, it expanded back into its full, deadly glory.

My jaw dropped. “Okay, that’s officially the most badass thing I’ve ever seen.” And I'm pretty sure I've never seen something like this in the game.

The merchant grinned, his voice smooth and a little too eager. “A fine eye you have, miss. This here is the Scythe of Whispering Shadows. Perfectly balanced for combat, light enough to carry anywhere, and the magic? Oh, it’s as sharp as the blade itself.”

I didn’t even register the rest of what he was saying. My mind was already racing with possibilities. A scythe. A banshee with a scythe? How perfect would that be?

I spun around to find Freya, practically bouncing with excitement. “Freya, did you see that? It shrinks! You could carry it around like a ring and then—bam!—full-on scythe mode! That would suprise our enemies.”

Freya glanced over at the stall, unimpressed. “A scythe? Artemis, you can barely fight with daggers and a bow. That thing’s going to be way too heavy for you.”

“It’s magic!” I protested, throwing my hands up. “Magic makes it lighter. Probably. Besides, imagine how intimidating I’d look! A banshee with a scythe? That’s, like, peak aesthetic.”

It wasn’t just about the weapon—it was the whole package. It reminded me of my favourite fantasy games, where the characters looked effortlessly cool, every detail enhancing their presence. I’d always wished I could look like that, just for a day. And now, I finally had the chance to make it happen!

“I haven't seen her this ecstatic since the quasit scroll,” Wyll remarked.

Ah. I forgot about Shovel. Poor Freya has been stuck carrying that scroll around forever. I should really remind her to use it… probably.

She rolled her eyes and started to walk away. “We’re not here to shop for ridiculous weapons. And you’re not intimidating—you’re clumsy.”

I jogged to keep up, grabbing her arm like a petulant child. “Freya, please! Think about it. Death is literally my new brand. This would be perfect for me. Don’t you want me to embrace my full potential as a terrifying wraith of doom?”

“It’s astonishing how excited she is about this. Especially after she was merely on the verge of a mental breakdown minutes ago.” Lae’zel scoffed.

I gave Lae'zel a side-eye and brought my attention back to Freya. 

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Artemis, a scythe is a melee weapon. Do you even know how to use one?”

“No,” I admitted quickly, “but I could learn. And it shrinks! You love practical solutions, right? It’s practical! And terrifying. A win-win!”

“It’s unusual to see her being all awe-struck like this. It's cute.” Shadowheart said from the back.

Freya glanced back at the merchant, who was now holding the scythe like it was the Holy Grail, clearly smelling a sale. I could see the corners of her mouth twitch as though she was trying not to laugh.

“You’re serious about this?” she asked finally, her tone skeptical but amused.

“As serious as death itself,” I said, grinning.

She groaned, shaking her head. “You’re going to regret this. If you break something—or someone—with that thing, don’t come crying to me.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes,” she said begrudgingly, tossing a small coin pouch at the merchant.

I let out an excited squeal and ran back to the stall. The merchant handed me the scythe-turned-ring with a knowing smirk, and I couldn’t resist muttering the command word under my breath, watching as it expanded back into its full glory.

I held it up, twirling it awkwardly, already feeling ridiculous but too thrilled to care. “Look at me! I’m death incarnate!”

Karlach barked out a laugh from behind us. “Death incarnate is gonna take someone’s head off by accident with that thing.”

Freya snorted. “Probably her own.”

I ignored them both, staring down at my new scythe with the giddy determination of someone who absolutely had no idea what they were doing.

But hey, I was committed.

Chapter Text

The thought of the scythe as my ring felt strange but satisfying, its magically compacted form almost an afterthought—until I imagined it unfurling into its full, lethal size. Astarion had teased me for carrying around “a farmer’s tool with delusions of grandeur,” but his amusement didn’t bother me. Not when I’d caught the briefest flicker of approval in his eyes.

We started exploring the towers and stopped when a faint sound reached us—a melodic hum, low and enticing, coming from behind a door slightly ajar. Wyll tensed, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his rapier, while Freya shot me a questioning glance. I nodded, motioning for the group to follow, curiosity tugging us forward.

The room inside was a shrine to obsession. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with bottles, vials, and strange preserved objects I didn’t want to examine too closely. The acrid tang of burnt herbs hung heavy in the air, undercut by the metallic scent of iron. At the center stood a woman, her black robes flowing like ink against the unnatural green light. Her silver hair fell in perfect rivers down her back, and her presence filled the room like a shadow that didn’t belong.

Araj Oblodra.

Her eyes lit up the moment she spotted us, a slow smile curling her lips. “Ah, visitors. And such intriguing ones at that.” Her gaze slid over each of us, calculating and assessing, before landing squarely on Astarion. “You, especially. You have... a certain aura about you.”

I glanced at Astarion, who stiffened under her scrutiny, his usual smirk faltering. “Do I now?” he drawled, his voice laced with feigned indifference. 

Araj stepped closer, her smile turning into something predatory. “Yes, but so much more than that. A spawn, aren’t you? A rarity. I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of encountering one quite like you before.”

My stomach turned at her tone, the way her words slithered over him like a net tightening around prey. Astarion shifted subtly beside me, his usual composure cracking ever so slightly. For a moment, his eyes darted to mine, searching. Was he looking for reassurance? Support? My heart clenched.

“Do you have a point, or is this just a love letter?” he drawled, attempting to maintain his usual air of flippancy.

Araj chuckled, a low, almost musical sound that set my teeth on edge. “Oh, I do. You see, I’ve devoted my life to the study of... unique conditions. Vampirism, for example. The power of a bite, the way it enthralls, the way it... transforms. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Not the word I’d use,” Astarion muttered, though his smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’ve studied the effects extensively,” Araj continued, undeterred. “But I’ve never had the opportunity to experience it firsthand.” Her smile widened, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Until now.”

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. It was that scene.

“You can’t be serious,” I said before I could stop myself.

Her eyes flicked to me briefly, dismissively, before returning to Astarion. “I assure you, I am. I’ll even make it worth your while.” She reached into her robes and produced a vial filled with shimmering, golden liquid. “A Potion of Everlasting Vigour—priceless and potent. A fair trade, don’t you think?”

Astarion’s expression darkened, his lips curling into a grimace. “A fair trade? For you, perhaps. For me, it sounds like a bad deal.”

“It’s just a bite,” she said, feigning innocence. “Surely someone of your... experience... isn't frightened by such a simple request?”

His laugh was brittle. “Frightened? My dear woman, I've simply had quite enough of being treated like someone's exotic pet.”

Something in her expression shifted—irritation bleeding through the scholarly fascination. She stepped closer, lifting the potion as if its glow could mesmerize him into compliance. “Consider the possibilities. Unimaginable strength, for yourself or your companions. One bite, spawn. That's all.”

For a heartbeat, I saw Astarion's gaze linger on the potion, and my heart nearly stopped. Then he leaned closer to me, voice dropping to barely a whisper. “She’s hiding something,” he said under his breath, low enough that only I could hear. “Her blood—it’s wrong. Poisoned, maybe. Tainted with something vile.”

“Then don’t do it,”  I whispered back, my voice trembling with barely contained rage.

“I'm certain we can reach some sort of mutually beneficial arrange—”

I didn’t wait for her to finish her sentence. My anger boiled over, fueled by the way Araj spoke to him like he wasn’t even there, like he was nothing more than a tool to be used and discarded.

“He said no. So back off, drow.” The words erupted from me like a physical force as I stepped between them, my patience finally snapping.

Araj’s gaze shifted to me fully now, her smile faltering for the first time. “How intriguing. And what are you, exactly? His keeper? His lover?” Her eyes narrowed, studying me with a cold curiosity. “Or does this pretty spawn simply belong to you?”

“He doesn’t belong to anyone,” I said, my voice steady despite the irritation simmering beneath the surface. “He's not a specimen for your twisted experiments, and he's certainly not some toy for you to play with.”

I ignored her, turning to Astarion instead. “You don’t have to do this,” I said quietly, searching his face. “Whatever she’s offering, it’s not worth it.”

Araj’s smile returned, sharper this time, tinged with something darker. “Fiery. You’d make a fascinating study yourself, little viper. But no matter. You’ll see reason—eventually.”

I turned back to Araj, my hand unconsciously brushing against the ring. “Touch him again, make one more suggestion, and I'll show you exactly what kind of subject I can be.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigue flashing in her expression. “Such passion,” she mused. “But threats won’t change my mind.”

“They’re not threats,” I met her gaze steadily, letting every ounce of my protective fury bleed into my voice. “They’re promises. Try me.”

Astarion let out a soft laugh behind me, his usual mirth returning. “Oh, my deadly little darling,” he said, his tone light, laced with something softer now. “You're absolutely terrifying when you're protective. I find it devastatingly attractive.”

Despite everything, I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “Don’t push your luck.”

Araj sighed dramatically, waving a hand as if dismissing us. “Very well. Run along then. But do think it over, spawn. You know where to find me when you come to your senses.”

As we turned to leave, the tension slowly bled from my shoulders, though my heart still raced with leftover adrenaline. Astarion fell into step beside me, his smirk softening into something almost vulnerable.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly. “But... thank you. Truly.”

I looked at him, surprised by the raw sincerity in his voice. “Of course I did. You're important to me—to all of us. I wasn't about to let her treat you like some kind of curiosity to be poked and prodded.”

His gaze lingered on me for a moment, before he looked away. “Well, whatever the case, remind me never to get on your bad side. That wrath of yours is far too intimidating for my liking.”

I laughed, the sound lightening the weight in my chest. “Good. I'd hate to have to prove the point twice.”

Chapter Text

After checking the upper floor, we couldn't find Ketheric, but gathered some general intel that could be worth something for Jaheira. I told Freya that it was not necassary to meet Ketheric anyway, and that I could provide her with the missing information because I was positive my "visions" would reveal that much soon.

So instead I urged her to help free the prisoners. We made our way downstairs; the faint drip of water echoed through the stone halls, punctuated by the distant rattle of chains and muffled cries.

Then I saw her.

In the first cell, isolated from the others, Minthara sat slumped against the wall. The once-proud drow commander was barely recognizable. Her silver hair, once meticulously tucked in an updo, hung in matted strands around her hollow face. Bruises mottled her pale skin, and her armor had been replaced by filthy rags that clung to her gaunt frame.

“Gods,” I whispered, my stomach churning. It wasn’t pity that gripped me—it was something more urgent. If we didn’t act soon, she’d be gone, not just in body but in spirit, if the questioner sisters didn't already wipe her mind.

“Artemis.”  Freya's voice cut through my thoughts, her hand brushing my arm in warning. “We’re not here for her.”

“We should be.”  I turned to face the group, my voice carrying more conviction than I'd intended. “She’s important. More than you know.”

“Important?” Shadowheart’s voice came sharp from the back, her green eyes narrowing. “Important to whom? To getting us all killed? She's the one who sent those goblins after us in the first place.”

“Shadowheart—”

“No,” Lae’zel cut in, her tone steely and unrelenting. “The Shar-worshipper is right. The drow would have gladly watched us bleed out. Why should we risk ourselves for such treachery?”

I shook my head, trying to keep my voice calm. “She’s not useless. She knows things—things about the Absolute, about Thorm. She could be a powerful ally.”

“An ally?” Lae’zel’s laughter was cold and humorless. “You would trust the spider who spun webs around our throats?”

“Enough,” Freya said, her voice cutting through the tension. She turned to me, her brow furrowed. “Artemis, you’re not thinking straight. Even if she could be useful, she’s half-dead. Look at her.”

And I did. Minthara’s once-piercing eyes were now hollow, looking as if trapped in a nightmare. The sight made my chest tighten. “She’s not beyond saving,” I said, my voice softer now. “Not yet.”

I took a deep breath, calming myself and trying it again.

“I’m not asking you to trust her,” I said, my tone firm. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Do you seriously want to bail her out?” Karlach’s voice was laced with frustration. She crossed her arms, her fiery skin glowing faintly in the torchlight. “Soldier, I get wanting to help people, I do. But look around—there are other prisoners here. Gnomes, tieflings, people who didn't choose to throw in with the Absolute cult. Shouldn't they be our priority?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. Even Astarion nodded, though he remained diplomatically silent.

I stepped forward, meeting Karlach’s fierce gaze head-on. “We’re going to save them,” I said firmly, my voice steady despite the tension. “All of them. The tieflings, the gnomes... and Minthara.”

“And what if she turns on us the moment she’s free?” Karlach pressed. “You’re asking us to gamble with all our lives.”

“I’m not asking you to like it,” I replied, my tone growing more frustrated. “But if we're going to fight the Absolute, we can't pick and choose who deserves saving based on convenience.”

Karlach eyes were flickering as if warring between anger and reluctant understanding. She finally exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. “Fine. But don’t expect me to trust her. If she so much as looks at us wrong—”

“She won’t,” I cut in, the conviction in my voice leaving no room for argument. “I won't let her to.”

“You assume she even wants our help,” Shadowheart countered, crossing her arms as well. “She’s a fanatic. She chose this path. She chose the Absolute.”

“Did she?” I shot back. “Or was she manipulated like so many others?”

I know she was. Believe me.

“Or maybe you’re projecting,” Shadowheart said, her tone icy.

“As much as I love seeing women fight,” Astarion said smoothly, stepping between us. His eyes flicked between Shadowheart and me, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Let's not alert the entire fortress, shall we?” He turned to me, his expression softening. “Artemis, darling, you do realize how insane this sounds, don’t you?”

I bit my lip, glancing back at Minthara. “It’s not insane. She’s important. I know it.”

“Important enough to risk all our necks?” Freya said firmly. “Because if we're caught freeing her, we're all dead.”

“I know the risks,” I said, my voice trembling with urgency. “But I also know what will happen if we don’t help her. Please, Freya. Just trust me on this.”

Freya’s jaw tightened, and for a long moment, she just stared at me. I could see the conflict in her eyes, the push and pull of logic versus loyalty. Finally, she sighed and rubbed her temples. “If we do this, we need a solid plan. No improvisation.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this at all,” Shadowheart muttered, but she didn’t press the point further.

Wyll stepped forward, his expression thoughtful. “If we can get her out quietly, it might be worth it. She’s been in the Absolute’s inner circle. She could know things that could help us.”

“Or she could slit our throats in our sleep,” Shadowheart said dryly.

“Which is why we don’t let her out of our sight,” Wyll replied calmly. He turned to me. “You're absolutely certain about this course of action?”

I nodded, my resolve hardening. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Freya sighed again, then looked at the others. “Fine. We’ll try. But if anything goes wrong, Artemis, this is on you.”

“Thank you,” I said, relief flooding through me. I turned back to Minthara’s cell “We’ll get her out. And then we free the others.”

Lae’zel growled under her breath. “Madness. Utter madness.”

“Possibly,” Astarion said with a shrug, “but when has our little group ever chosen the sensible path?”

I ignored the murmurs and protests behind me as I stepped closer to the cell, gripping the bars tightly.

“Minthara,” I whispered, my voice soft but steady. “Can you hear me? I need to you listen to me very closely.”

Chapter Text

Her head shifted slightly, her bloodshot eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, there was no response—just the faint sound of her labored breathing. Then, her cracked lips parted, and her voice, hoarse and barely audible, cut through the silence.

“If you’ve come to gloat,” she rasped, “save your breath. I have no interest in your pity.”

“I’m not here to gloat,” I said, my tone firm. “I’m here to get you out.”

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion cutting through her exhaustion. “Why?”

“Because we need you.”

A faint, bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Need me? You’re either a fool or a liar. Which is it?”

Good. Seems like Sumera and Jasin haven't visited Minthara yet.

“Neither,” I replied, refusing to flinch under her scrutiny. “Now, can you stand?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her gaze shifting to the others behind me. Freya stood with her arms crossed, Shadowheart’s lips were pressed into a thin line, her disapproval obvious, and the others eyes narrowed in distrust.

Minthara’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. “Your companions don’t share your optimism.”

“They don’t have to,” I said, my voice steady. “This is my call. Now, can you stand, or do I need to carry you?”

Her smirk faded, replaced by a look of cold calculation. Slowly, she pushed herself upright, her movements stiff and deliberate. Her hands trembled as they braced against the wall, but she managed to rise, her chin lifting in a show of defiance that belied her weakened state.

“I won’t grovel at your feet,” she said, her voice low but sharp. “But if you’re determined to play the hero, I won’t stop you.”

“Alright,” I said, stepping back to give her space. “Freya, keep watch. Astarion, the keys.”

Astarion pushed off the wall with a sigh, his smirk returning. “Of course. Why do the hard work myself when I can fetch and carry for you?”

I ignored his jab, turning back to Minthara. “We’re getting you out of here. But you need to trust us.”

Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something—gratitude, perhaps, or just the barest hint of hope. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by her usual mask of icy detachment.

“Trust,” she said, her tone biting, “is a luxury I cannot afford.”

“Then stay close,” I replied, my voice firm. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

Her lips twitched, as if she were fighting back a retort, but she said nothing. Instead, she nodded once, her gaze shifting to the corridor beyond.

Freya’s voice cut through the tension, low and urgent. “Artemis, we need to move. Now.”

I nodded, my heart pounding as I turned toward the hall. The faint jingle of keys echoed in the distance, a reminder that time was running out.

Astarion stepped forward, a smirk playing on his lips. “Let me guess,” he drawled. “You want me to charm the keys off some brutish jailer while the rest of you stand around looking concerned.”

“You’re the best suited for it,” I said, keeping my tone even.

He sighed theatrically. “Oh, fine. But if I get caught, do try to rescue me before they start pulling out my fingernails.”

Before anyone could respond, he vanished into the shadows, his movements fluid and silent. We waited, tense and silent, as the orcish guard came into view. He was massive, his armor clinking as he ambled past, the keys dangling from his belt. Astarion emerged behind him like a phantom, his fingers deftly plucking the keys without so much as a whisper of sound.

The orc shifted suddenly, his hand brushing his belt. My breath caught, but before he could turn, Astarion leaned close and whispered something low and silken. The orc chuckled—a deep, rumbling laugh—shaking his head before continuing down the hall.

Astarion reappeared moments later, the keys dangling from his hand. “Honestly, you lot don’t appreciate me nearly enough,” he said, tossing them to me.

I caught them and turned back to Minthara’s cell. As I slid the first key into the lock, a faint shimmer rippled across the bars.

“Wait!” Shadowheart hissed, grabbing my wrist. “The cell’s warded.”

I frowned, stepping back as she knelt to inspect the glowing runes etched into the iron.

“It’s drow magic,” she muttered, her voice tense. “I can try to disarm it, but if I fail, we’ll trip the alarm.”

“Then don’t fail,” Lae’zel said coldly.

Shadowheart shot her a glare before tracing the runes with her gloved fingers. Her voice lowered into an incantation, melodic and sharp. The glow of the runes flickered, dimming slightly, but then flared bright again.

“Fools,” came a hoarse voice from the cell.

We all turned. Minthara had lifted her head, her bloodshot eyes fixing on Shadowheart with a look of faint disdain.

“You’re blundering in the dark,” she rasped, her tone biting despite her weakened state. “That sequence will kill us all. If you’re determined to meddle, at least do it correctly. The fourth sigil comes first. Then the first and third together.”

Shadowheart stiffened. “I don’t need your guidance.”

Minthara’s lip curled into the faintest sneer. “No, you need competence. Follow my instruction, or leave me to rot and flee while you still can.”

There was a tense pause before Shadowheart adjusted her approach, her fingers moving over the runes in the corrected sequence. This time, the glow faded completely.

The lock clicked open.

I stepped into the cell, crouching in front of Minthara. Up close, she looked even worse—her cheekbones sharp, her lips cracked and dry.

“Can you walk?” I asked softly.

Her gaze flickered over me, cold and calculating. “Are you truly here to save me… or to use me?”

“Maybe both,” I said, refusing to flinch under her gaze. “Drink this.” I held out an invisibility potion.

For a moment, her expression softened—or maybe I imagined it. Then she took the potion with trembling fingers, uncorked it, and drank. Her form shimmered and vanished, leaving only the faintest outline in the air.

“We need to keep moving,” Freya said, her voice urgent.

I nodded and turned toward the corridor, the others falling into step behind me. The sound of water echoed faintly ahead, mingling with the distant clamor of the guards. The invisibility potion was already wearing thin—Minthara’s outline flickered faintly in the dim light.

“Almost there,” I said, though my heart pounded with doubt.

Shadowheart fell into step beside me, her voice low. “This is a mistake,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

I didn’t look at her. “I know the risks.”

“No,” she said, her tone biting. “I mean it’s a mistake trusting her. You think she’ll be grateful? That she’ll change? She’s a zealot, Artemis. Zealots don’t change. They bide their time.”

“She’s not the only one we’re taking a chance on,” I replied, my voice calm but firm.

Shadowheart let out a bitter laugh. “Maybe. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when she puts a dagger in your back.”

Before I could respond, Minthara’s faint voice came from the air beside me.
 
“Shadowheart,” she said, her tone smooth yet cutting. “If I wanted them dead, I’d hardly need to wait. Your paranoia does you no favors.”
 
Shadowheart’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond.
 
We pushed on, opening the big stone doors that was an opening to the side of one of the towers.
 
“Go,” I said, urging the others forward.
 
Minthara’s outline flickered one last time before she collapsed onto the grass outside, the potion’s effects fully worn off.
 
She looked up at me, her expression inscrutable. “You’ve tied your fate to mine. Let’s hope your gamble pays off.”
 
The others looked at me, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and mistrust. None of them said a word as we melted into the darkness. But I could feel their questions—unspoken, but heavy as the weight on my shoulders.
 
Had I made the right choice?
 
Time would tell.

Chapter Text

Minthara walked silently beside me, her steps steady despite her weakened state. Her eyes scanned the shadows, alert and calculating, as if already plotting her next move.

When we were out of sight, I stopped and turned to her. “This is where we part ways—for now.”

Her gaze snapped to mine, questioning. “You’re leaving me here?”

“Not for long,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Head close to Last Light Inn. Stay out of sight though until we meet you there.”

Her lips curled into a faint sneer. “And if I choose not to?”

I met her gaze without flinching. “Then you’ll be on your own. But if you want to survive—if you want to see the Absolute fall—you’ll wait for us.”

For a moment, she said nothing, her eyes searching mine as if weighing my words. Then she gave a curt nod. “Very well. But don’t take too long. I won’t wait forever.”

I handed her a small pouch of supplies—food and a healing potion. “This should help you until we meet again.”

She took it without a word. Then, with a final glance at the group, she turned and disappeared into the shadows, her form blending seamlessly with the night.

Freya stepped up beside me, her arms crossed. “You’re really trusting her to just… wait for us?”

“I don’t trust her,” I admitted. “But I think she’s smart enough to know she needs us—for now.”

Freya sighed, shaking her head. “I hope you’re right.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” I said, turning back to the group. “For now, we need to get back to Moonrise Towers. Z’rell will be expecting a report, and we can’t afford to raise her suspicions. And then we free the others.”

Lae'zel crossed her arms, her expression skeptical. “And what’s the plan, exactly?”

“We’ll figure that out once we’re inside,” Karlach said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “For now, let’s focus on getting through this meeting with Z’rell without giving her a reason to doubt us.”

---

We made our way back to Moonrise Towers. As we entered, we didn't have to look very far: Disciple Z’rell stood like a sentinel at the far end of the room, her crimson robes flowing behind her like blood spilled across stone. Her gaze swept over us with a chilling precision, as if she could peel back our masks with just a look.

“Tell me, who among you speaks for this… motley crew?” Z’rell said, her voice flat, devoid of any real interest. She stepped down from the raised dais, her movements deliberate and unhurried. 

Freya stepped forward, her posture straight and commanding. "I do. We’ve come to report about the Goblin Camp. We uncovered evidence that the attack was part of a coordinated effort to disrupt the Absolute’s plans."

Z’rell’s head tilted slightly, her eyes narrowing. "Ah, is that so. How curious. And yet... one of you is not like the others." Her gaze shifted, landing directly on me.

I froze, the pit in my stomach deepening.

"You," she said, her voice like a knife slicing through the silence. "You carry no mark of the Absolute. No tadpole writhes in your skull. Why, then, are you here? What binds you to our cause?"

My mouth went dry. For a moment, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The others shifted uneasily behind me, but Freya remained motionless, her expression unreadable.

"I..." I began, searching for the right words. "I believe in the Absolute’s vision. It is not the tadpole that proves loyalty, but actions."

Z’rell’s lips curled into a faint, mocking smile. "A clever response. But words are cheap. Actions, as you say, are what matter."

She gestured, and two armored guards dragged a prisoner into the hall—a young tiefling woman, her face streaked with dirt and blood. She stumbled as they shoved her to her knees, her wide eyes darting between us and Z’rell.

"Show me your loyalty, then," Z’rell said, her gaze boring into me. "Kill her."

My heart plummeted, the blood draining from my face. "What?" The word escaped before I could stop it.

"You heard me," Z’rell said, her tone cold and final. "Prove your devotion to the Absolute. Take her life."

I glanced at the others. Gale's jaw was tight, his knuckles white around his staff. Wyll’s brow furrowed, and even Lae’zel looked uneasy. Astarion’s expression was carefully neutral, though his crimson eyes flickered with something I couldn’t place.

"I..." My voice faltered. I looked down at the tiefling, who was trembling but trying to hold herself together. Her eyes met mine, and I could see the silent plea in them. She wanted to live. Of course she did.

"She’s just a prisoner," I said, forcing steel into my voice. "Hardly worth the effort. Surely there are better ways to prove my loyalty?"

Z’rell’s smile widened, but it was as cold as the moonlight. "Ah, but this is a test, dear girl. If you cannot follow a simple command, how can we trust you with greater tasks?"

I could feel the walls closing in, the oppressive weight of the moment threatening to crush me. My blood stirred, a dark whisper at the edge of my mind. I took a slow breath and let that otherworldly power seep into my voice as I spoke.

"You don’t need her death," I said, my tone laced with the chilling undertone of my abilities. The temperature in the room seemed to drop as I stared Z’rell down. "Think of what she could offer instead. Information. Service. A living tiefling is worth far more to the Absolute than a dead one."

The power crackled through me, wrapping around my words like a shroud, but Z’rell only raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "An intriguing speech," she said, her voice dripping with mockery. "But your persuasion fails to move me. I stand by my decision."

The silence in the hall was deafening. The tiefling prisoner knelt on the cold stone floor, her wide eyes darting between me and Z’rell. She was shaking, though she was trying to keep her chin up, trying to look brave. It made everything worse.

Z’rell stood with her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on me like a hawk watching prey. “I'll say it one last time,” her voice as calm as a blade sliding into its sheath. “Kill her.”

Chapter Text

I looked to Freya, to Wyll, to anyone who might intervene. But no one could. If I hesitated any longer, she would see through us. If I refused, she would kill all of us. She had guards everywhere. We were utterly outnumbered.

I froze, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it would shatter my ribs. The weight of the dagger at my side grew unbearable, dragging me down, suffocating me. My mouth opened, but no words came.

I stepped closer to the tiefling. Her breath hitched as she looked up at me, her fear obvious. “Please,” she whispered, her voice so faint I barely heard it. “Please... don’t.”

I felt my chest tighten, my throat burn. I wanted to scream, to run, to do anything but this. But Z’rell’s gaze burned into the back of my head, and I knew I had no choice.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice cracking. I knelt in front of the tiefling, close enough that she could hear me. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Her eyes widened in terror, but I reached out, brushing trembling fingers against her temple. “Listen to me,” I whispered, calling on the haunting power within me once more. Her breathing slowed, her body stilling under the weight of my power. “Go somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Think of the most beautiful memory you have—the one that made you feel loved, whole, happy. Go there now and hold onto it. Hold onto it so tightly that nothing else can reach you.”

Her wide eyes blinked once, and then her expression softened. The panic in her face melted away, replaced by something almost serene. “My mother’s garden,” she murmured, her voice distant, dreamlike. “The lavender... she used to sing while she worked.”

“Stay there,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Stay in the garden. Let the sunlight keep you warm.”

She gave the faintest nod, her lips curving into a small, wistful smile as her eyes drifted shut. My heart shattered.

My hands shook so violently I could barely grip the dagger. My heart screamed at me to stop, to find another way, but my mind knew there wasn’t one. “I’m so sorry,” I said again, though I doubted she could hear me anymore.

I drove the dagger into her chest, piercing her heart.

The blade slid in too easily, as if her body were made of nothing but paper and air. For a moment, I felt nothing—just the cold, unyielding resistance of flesh giving way. Then the warmth of her blood spilled over my hands, sticky and thick, and the reality of what I’d done crashed into me like a tidal wave.

It was over in an instant. She didn’t cry out, didn’t gasp in pain. Her body slumped forward, limp, her face still peaceful. Like she was asleep. But she wasn’t asleep. She was gone. I had taken her life.

Her blood spilled across my hands, hot and searing, as if it were burning me. The metallic scent filled my nose, sharp and cloying, and a wave of nausea rolled through me so violently that I thought I might vomit. I stared down at the crimson pooling beneath her, spreading across the stone floor like a grotesque shadow. My vision blurred, my chest heaving as I fought to keep my composure, but it was slipping through my fingers like sand.

I had killed her. I had killed her.

The dagger slipped from my shaking hands, clattering against the floor with a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the silence. My fingers twitched, slick with her blood, and I couldn’t stop staring at them. They didn’t feel like mine anymore. They felt like the hands of a stranger, a monster. I wanted to scrub them clean, to tear the skin off if I had to, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

“Well done,” Z’rell said, her tone as icy and indifferent as ever. She stepped forward, inspecting the body with the faintest flicker of satisfaction. “Perhaps you’re more loyal than I expected.”

Her words barely registered. All I could see was the tiefling’s face, still peaceful, still smiling faintly as if she were dreaming of her mother’s garden. All I could feel was the warmth of her blood cooling on my skin, the weight of her life pressing down on me like a stone.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to my feet, but my legs threatened to give out beneath me. My nails bit into my palms as I clenched my fists, digging into the pain to keep myself from trembling. From sobbing. From breaking apart right here, in front of her. But it wasn’t enough. The guilt was a living thing, clawing at my chest, tearing me apart from the inside.

I had killed her. I had killed her.

“Is that all?” I asked, my voice tight and strained. I kept my head low, not daring to meet Z’rell’s gaze, afraid that she’d see the anguish bleeding through the cracks in my facade.

“For now,” Z’rell replied coolly. She gestured to the guards, who hauled the tiefling’s lifeless body away like discarded trash. “You’ve proven your worth. But I’ll be watching you… all of you.”

She turned and strode away, her robes trailing behind her like a shadow. The guards followed, leaving us alone in the suffocating silence.

As soon as the doors closed, my knees buckled, and I dropped to the floor. Freya was there in an instant, gripping my shoulders, her face tight with worry. “Artemis—”

“Don’t,” I rasped, pulling away from her. My hands were shaking, slick with blood, and I couldn’t bear to feel anyone’s touch. The taste of bile rose in my throat, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, swallowing it back

“She didn’t feel it,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. “She didn’t feel it. She was happy. She was... safe.”

But the words rang hollow. She wasn’t safe. She was dead.

And I had killed her.

Freya’s hand hovered near my shoulder, hesitant. “You did what you had to do,” she said, though her voice sounded brittle. “If you hadn’t—”

“I know,” I cut her off, my voice trembling. “I know.” My chest tightened, a sob threatening to escape, but I forced it down, swallowing the ache that threatened to shatter me. “Let’s just... go.”

“Z'rell is going to pay for that,” Wyll said quietly.

I said nothing, staring at the blood still clinging to my hands. Freya helped me to my feet, and we left the hall in silence, each step heavier than the last.

But the image of the tiefling’s peaceful face—her final smile—clung to me like a ghost. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the weight of her blood on my hands.

Chapter Text

The water ran pink between my fingers, no matter how hard I scrubbed. Each time I thought the stains were gone, I'd catch another glimpse of red beneath my nails, another smear across my knuckles. The basin had been clear when I started—now it looked like a wound.

I pressed my palms against the cold stone edge until it hurt. The pain was better than the alternative: remembering the exact moment the light left her eyes.

“You've been at that for twenty minutes.”

The sound of Astarion’s voice made me flinch. I hadn’t heard him approach, too lost in my own thoughts. I turned to see him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on me. He looked as composed as ever, but there was something in the way he held himself—a tension in his shoulders.

“What do you want?” It came out colder than I intended.

He arched a brow, stepping into the room with his usual measured grace. “Can’t I check up on you?”

I turned back to the basin, gripping the edges until my knuckles turned white. “I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not,” he said, voice softer now. He moved closer, his footsteps silent on the stone floor. “You’re shaking.”

I hadn’t even noticed. My fingers trembled as I clutched the basin, my breath coming in shallow bursts.

“Artemis.” His voice was quieter this time, closer. I felt the ghost of his hand against my arm, light and tentative. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

I recoiled as if burned, stepping back until there was space between us. “Don’t.” My voice cracked, and I hated the way it made me sound—fragile.

Astarion sighed, tilting his head as he studied me. “Darling, you can’t just—”

“I said not now,” I snapped. It echoed off the walls, too sharp, too raw.

He watched me for a moment, eyes narrowing. Then he let out a breath, the amusement in his expression fading into something almost—serious. “Alright. But bottling it up isn’t going to help. Trust me on that.”

“It’s not that,” I said, though the words felt hollow. “I just… I need to focus. The prisoners—we have to save them. I can’t fall apart now.”

His mouth curled into something that might have been a smirk if it wasn’t so tired. “We've all done things we're not proud of. The trick is learning to live with them without letting them live in you.”

I forced myself to meet his eyes. “No. I don’t have time for this.”

A beat of silence stretched between us before he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. But don’t think I’ll let you off the hook so easily. We’ll revisit this… later.”

I didn’t respond, my throat too tight to speak. He gave me one last lingering look before slipping out of the room, his footsteps fading into the dark corridor.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to push it down, to bury it. The prisoners needed me. That was all that mattered now.

But as I stood there, the silence pressing in around me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was losing something—something I might never get back.

---

The others were already gathered in a circle when I arrived. 

“About time,” Lae’zel muttered. “We’ve wasted enough daylight as it is.”

“We’re not wasting time,” Freya countered. “We’re planning. And we need everyone here for that.”

Her gaze flickered to me, scanning my face as if searching for something. I avoided her eyes.

“We need a plan,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “We still have to get the prisoners out of here.”

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Freya asked.

“Yes,” I said too quickly. “Let’s focus.”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. “If you’re not thinking clearly, you’ll get us all killed.”

“I’m thinking clearly,” I bit back. “So let’s just get this over with.”

Freya exhaled and stepped forward, cutting off the tension. “All right,” she said, voice firm. “If we’re doing this, we need to be smart. The guards are on alert now, and we can’t afford any mistakes.”

Wyll nodded. “We need a distraction—something to pull them away from the cells.”

Freya rubbed her jaw. “That’s a start. We also need a way to get the prisoners out quietly. Most of them are too weak to fight.”

Karlach folded her arms, frowning. “If we go in loud, they won’t stand a chance.”

“They won’t stand a chance if they stay here either,” Shadowheart pointed out. “We’ll have to deal with the guards eventually.”

As the debate continued, I tried to focus, but my thoughts kept slipping. The tiefling girl’s lifeless face flashed in my mind, her body crumpling under my hand. I clenched my fists to keep them from shaking.

Astarion’s voice cut through the noise. “We could use the prisoners as part of the distraction,” he suggested, his tone smooth. “Send some out one way to draw attention while we slip the others through a quieter route.”

“No,” I said bluntly, turning to him. “We’re not using them as bait.”

He raised a brow. “I wasn’t suggesting we march them to their deaths, my dear. Just... misdirection.”

“It’s too risky,” I said.

“And sneaking all of them out unnoticed isn’t?” he countered. “We’re already playing with fire, Artemis. You might as well make use of it.”

“What about the guard rotations?” Wyll suggested. “If we time it right, we might be able to slip past them with the prisoners during the shift change.”

“They’ll still have someone stationed at the main gate,” Shadowheart said.

“Then we create a diversion near the gate,” Freya decided. “Something big enough to pull them away for a few minutes.”

Karlach grinned. “Explosives.”

Shadowheart scoffed. “And where exactly do you plan to find explosives in a prison?”

Karlach shrugged. “You’d be surprised what people smuggle into places like this.”

Freya sighed. “Fine. We split up. One group creates the diversion. The other gets the prisoners ready to move.”

I straightened. “I’ll stay with the prisoners.”

Freya hesitated, studying me again. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” The word left no room for argument.

She nodded. “Then we move soon. We won’t get another chance.”

The conversation shifted back to details—routes, numbers, weapons—but I barely heard them. The weight of the tiefling’s death still sat in my chest, pressing like a stone. Her face lingered in my mind, her peaceful smile a stark contrast to the blood on my hands. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, and forced myself to focus.

As the others finalized the plan, I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to push it down.

Chapter Text

The prison smelled of damp rot and unwashed bodies, the stench clawing at my throat.

I knelt before the rusted bars of Wulbren’s cell, fingers curled tightly around the haft of the hammer. The weight of it grounded me, its cold metal biting into my palms. I’d brought it with me from Dammon, knowing Wulbren would need it to break through the stone and iron keeping him caged.

Wulbren’s calloused fingers hovered just before taking the weapon, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine with the kind of suspicion that only came from being betrayed one too many times.

"Where did you get this?" His voice was low, wary.

The question sent a jolt through my already frayed nerves, but I didn’t let it show. He had every reason to be cautious. He’d been rotting in this cell long enough to know there was no such thing as an easy escape.

“Does it matter?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. “Get your people out.”

He held my gaze a second longer, then gave a curt nod and turned to his cellmates. “You heard her. We break through, and we move fast.”

I stood and tightened my grip on my scythe. “We’ll cover you. Wait for the signal. But help the tieflings too.”

A few of the prisoners huddled closer together, wide-eyed, their breath hitching in anticipation. Others still turned their faces away, as if refusing to believe in hope. I understood that feeling all too well.

The explosion struck seconds later.

The ground bucked beneath my feet as Karlach’s diversion went off. A deafening boom split the air, sending debris raining from the ceiling. The thick stone walls trembled, dust and smoke billowing into the corridors. The metallic clang of alarm bells followed, ringing frantically through the fortress.

Shouts erupted above, voices thick with panic.

“Go!” Freya’s voice cut through the chaos, commanding. “Now!”

The first strike of Wulbren’s hammer rang out, reverberating through the prison like a war drum.

Everything moved at once.

Lae’zel was the first into the fray, her sword flashing in the dim firelight as she cut down the nearest guard. The clash of steel on steel sent sparks flying. Wyll was close behind, his eldritch blasts crackling like streaks of violet and red lightning through the smoke. The air smelled of scorched flesh and burning metal.

Shadowheart stayed near the prisoners, her hands glowing with divine magic, keeping them safe from stray blows. Gale lingered near the back, magic already building at his fingertips, his expression grim.

And Astarion—Astarion was a shadow.

He wove through the chaos with practiced ease, slipping behind guards before they even realized he was there. I saw the glint of his daggers, quick and merciless, saw the way he moved—elegant, deadly. His crimson eyes burned in the dim light, a predator in his element.

I stayed near Gale, my focus divided between protecting him and keeping an eye on the prisoners. I kept expecting to see the tiefling girl’s face among them, but of course, she wasn’t here.

I forced myself to focus.

A guard came at us, blade raised high.

I called on my scythe and twisted it up just in time, catching his strike. The force of it sent a shudder up my arm, the impact jarring. I shoved forward, using the momentum to knock him off balance, and Gale finished the job—a blast of fire striking the man square in the chest, sending him sprawling.

I barely had time to turn before I heard the sharp intake of breath behind me—a prisoner, her thin frame shaking, a guard’s blade pressed tight against her throat.

The bastard was using her as a shield.

Wyll moved before I could, his rapier slipping between the guard’s ribs with lethal precision. The man let out a strangled gurgle and crumpled to the ground.

“You need to run,” Wyll told the woman, gripping her arm just enough to steady her. “This way.”

She hesitated—just a moment—before nodding and stumbling past us.

Then another sound—a deep, echoing crack.

The hammer.

Wulbren was breaking through.

We had to go. The exit was in sight.

Beyond the archway, moonlight glimmered on dark water. The boat rocked gently against the wooden dock, waiting. Almost there.

Wulbren led the charge, his hammer swinging with brutal efficiency as he cleared the way. The prisoners followed in a desperate, chaotic sprint. We were so close.

Then I saw him.

A guard, heavier armored than the others, wielding a warhammer far too large for a prison sentry. He moved with purpose, the measured steps of a man who knew he had the advantage.

And he was heading straight for Gale.

But I saw it too late. The wizard was mid-cast, magic sparking at his fingertips—but the guard was faster. The hammer was already swinging in a brutal downward arc.

I didn’t think.

I just moved.

I lunged between them, arms raised—

And the hammer struck.

Chapter Text

A sickening, wet crunch echoed through my bones as the full force of the blow caved into my ribs. Pain detonated, white-hot and all-consuming, shredding through muscle and flesh like I had been split open from the inside. My breath never even made it past my lips; it was stolen, crushed beneath the weight of the warhammer. The impact sent me flying.

I slammed into the ground with such force that something else cracked—something deeper, worse. Agony splintered through my body like wildfire, flaring through every nerve. My side burned, a raw, gaping wound where my flesh had torn beneath my armor. I could feel the wetness pooling beneath me, warm and sticky, soaking into the fabric of my clothes. My body screamed, nerves alight with agony. My lungs refused to expand, the pain radiating so deep that it felt like my bones themselves were breaking apart, trying to escape my own skin.

I gasped, but it wasn’t air that met my lips. It was coppery and thick— blood. My own. A cough wracked through me, a wet, gurgling sound, and fresh agony lanced through my ribs like knives carving into me. The pain was so sharp, so suffocating, that my vision darkened at the edges. I tried to lift my head, to see if Gale was safe, but the world tilted violently, and my arms buckled beneath me.

I wasn’t breathing. I couldn’t breathe.

A voice was shouting my name, but it was muffled, distant, swallowed by the rushing sound in my ears. My fingers twitched, weak and unresponsive. I tried to move—tried to reach for my scythe, for anything —but my body refused to obey. The world tilted, warped, the prison walls stretching and closing in at the same time.

I was going to die here.

Then a shadow moved.

Astarion.

His snarl cut through the haze of my pain—a sound more beast than man, raw and feral with rage. He didn’t hesitate. He struck like a blade in the dark, silent and swift, his entire body moving with a grace that was somehow both controlled and utterly, mercilessly brutal.

His dagger found flesh.

A gurgling cry—cut short.

The guard barely had time to register the attack before Astarion drove the blade straight into his throat. Not a clean kill. No, deliberate. The tip pierced the soft flesh just beneath the jaw, then dragged upward, severing tendons and arteries with surgical precision. Blood erupted in a thick, violent spray, coating Astarion’s hands, his face, me. 

But he wasn’t finished.

The bastard twitched, gurgling, trying to fight—Astarion didn’t let him. His other hand lashed out, claws unsheathed, sinking into the guard’s exposed flesh. He ripped, tearing skin, muscle, as if he could tear the life out of the man with his bare hands alone. The guard choked, body spasming, eyes wide with shock and horror.

Then Astarion twisted the dagger.

A slow, purposeful motion.

A final, sharp jerk.

The body slumped forward with a wet, lifeless thud.

Astarion didn’t even spare it a glance.

He was already moving—already dropping to his knees beside me.

"Shit. Shit. ” His hands hovered over me, frantic, shaking . “No, no, no—”

The rage was gone. Just like that. In its place— fear. A terror so naked it looked unnatural on his usually controlled face.

His hands pressed down on my side, and I screamed.

Stars burst behind my eyes. It felt like he had shoved a blade straight into the wound, pressing hard enough to set my entire body on fire. My breath hitched, choking on pain and blood. I felt his grip falter, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to recoil, but he couldn’t . He had to stop the bleeding.

“You’re—” His voice cracked. He swallowed . “You’re bleeding out .”

I tried to smirk. It felt more like a grimace. “No kidding.”

A strangled noise left him, almost a laugh, but it was thin. Hollow.

His eyes flicked over me, wild, frantic, moving between my face and the growing pool of blood beneath me. His own hands were slick with it, trembling as he pressed down harder. “Shadowheart!” he called, voice sharp with something I didn’t recognize. “We need a healer, now! ”

No response. She was too far, locked in another fight.

Astarion cursed under his breath, panic bleeding into his expression, his grip tightening too much . He wasn’t just trying to stop the bleeding anymore—he was holding onto me.

“Stay awake,” he ordered, voice low, urgent. “ You hear me? ”

I tried. I really did. But the edges of the world blurred, and my body felt too heavy.

A strong pair of arms lifted me.

Karlach.

Her grip was firm, grounding. Safe. “You’re not dying,” she muttered, voice rough. “Not here.”

I wanted to believe her.

But as my head slumped against her shoulder, my gaze tilted toward the water—toward the boat.

And beyond it—

A face.

Small. Pale. Familiar.

The tiefling girl.

Watching.

Then, nothing.

Chapter Text

I was weightless, like drifting on water or soaring through clouds. It was more like being untethered, unmoored, as if the world had forgotten I existed. The darkness around me was thick and endless, pressing in from all sides, and the cold—gods, the cold—seeped into me until I couldn’t tell where it ended and I began.

Then, light.

It started as a faint glimmer, a silvery glow that spread like ripples on a still pond. Below me, a village emerged from the mist, its rooftops cloaked in shadows and its streets winding through fields of wild heather. Somewhere in the distance, a voice rose—soft at first, then swelling into something achingly beautiful. It wrapped around my heart like a melody half-forgotten.

She stood in the village square, her blonde hair catching the light like strands of midnight silk. She sang with her whole being, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

The memory shifted, flickering like a candle in the wind.

She was younger now, barefoot in the heather, her laughter ringing out as she twined her fingers with a man’s. Her betrothed. His hands were calloused but gentle, his touch careful, as if she were something fragile, something sacred. Stole kisses by the river’s edge, made promises with nothing but their hands clasped together.

A beautiful display of love.

But then the shadows came.

The village square darkened, the air thick with tension. A carriage rolled through the cobbled streets, its wheels slick with rain. The man inside was a specter draped in finery, his eyes gleaming with something hungry, something cruel.

The lord.

I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t need to. The way he looked at her—full of lust and like she was something to be owned—made my skin crawl. With a loud command, he sent the men he had brought with him into motion. They scattered like insects disturbed from their nest, skittering into the shadows, ready to infest every corner with their silent menace.

The shift was sudden, jarring.

Her betrothed was dragged through the streets, his hands bound in chains, his face pale with fear. She screamed, her voice raw and desperate, but no one listened. The executioner’s axe flashed once, twice, and then—

She was at the bars of a cell, her mother’s fingers slipping through hers, her father slumped in the corner, his voice hoarse from pleading. Her sister—small, frightened—was ripped from their grasp, swallowed by the looming doors of the lord’s estate.

Next, she was on her knees, her face stricken with grief, her voice trembling as she begged—not for herself, but for her sister. I felt the shame burning through her skin, the sting of tears she refused to shed. The lord only smiled, a viper basking in its own cruelty. A deal was made.

The wedding was a hollow thing, a mockery of everything she had once held dear.

Gold and velvet, silk and silence. She was a doll in his hands, something pretty to be caged. The bruises came soon after. The threats even sooner, his hands all over her. Her voice, once strong enough to move hearts, was stolen from her. 

Then came the firelight—flickering, crackling, devouring. Fury.

She found the letter hidden among his papers—cold, clinical words sealing her sister’s fate. Payment received. Transfer arranged. A distant city, a nameless brothel, a life stolen and sold like coin for wine.

She stood before him now, her face pale and drawn, her hands shaking as she clutched the parchment that sealed her fate. Betrayal dripped from every word he spoke, from the smirk curling his lips as he twisted the knife deeper into her ruin.

A blinding light again.

She ran, her heart pounding against her ribs, the wind lashing at her face as she tore through the night. Behind her, the Lord followed, his furious shouts swallowed by the howling sea. She could hear him closing in, his boots striking against the earth, his breath ragged with the effort of reclaiming what he had stolen.

The cliff’s edge loomed before her, the abyss stretching wide and endless, a gaping mouth ready to consume her whole. She skidded to a stop, the ocean roaring below, salt and mist curling around her like an embrace. Slowly, she turned.

The Lord stood mere steps away, his face twisted with rage, with triumph—he thought he had won. That she had nowhere left to run.

But she smiled.

Spreading her arms wide, she let herself fall, into the abyss, vanishing into the crashing waves below.

I turned, expecting to see the rest unfold—but instead, I was met with a face mere inches from my own.

The woman with the white hair.

Agatha.

Her dark eyes bore into me. A slow, terrible silence stretched between us—then her mouth opened.

The scream came like a tidal wave.

A force so immense it crashed into me, a raw, piercing shriek that tunneled into every nerve, scraping against the inside of my mind. My knees buckled, hands flying to my ears, but it was useless—there was no blocking it out. It was everywhere, inside me, around me, drowning me.

The world fractured, pieces breaking away into nothingness, dragging me down with it. I reached out—instinct, desperation—but my fingers found only empty air. My body splintered, pulled apart by unseen hands, dissolving like sand slipping through a grasp I could not control.

Chapter Text

I surfaced from the dark, dragged upward by the slow, steady ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. My body felt distant, wrong, like I had been stitched back together in ways that didn’t quite fit. But the world around me was soft—a bed? I blinked against the dim light, my vision sluggish and unfocused.

I tried to make sense of the room around me. The ceiling was low, wooden beams crisscrossing above me. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth, tinged with something herbal. Last Light Inn. I was at Last Light Inn.

A figure sat beside me, a familiar silhouette. And for a moment, my heart leapt—

“Astarion?” My voice came out rough, barely more than a croak.

But no, it wasn't him.

I blinked, my mind struggling to catch up as he turned towards me. His robes were wrinkled, his eyes darkened by exhaustion, but there was something almost fond in the way he exhaled, shutting the book he’d been holding.

“Ah, our sleeping beauty awakens,” Gale mused, lips quirking in a tired smirk. “How are we feeling? Or should I ask how many things you’d like to curse at the moment?”

I swallowed, my throat dry and tight. “I feel like I got hit by a warhammer.”

Gale let out a soft chuckle. “That would be an accurate assessment, yes. And also, regrettably, true.”

Memories came rushing back in scattered fragments—the fight, the prisoners, the hammer swinging down, the way my bones had seemed to shatter all at once. I inhaled, pushing through the pain as I tried to sit up. Gale reached out instinctively but stopped himself from touching me.

I shifted slightly, but the movement sent a fresh wave of pain lancing through my body. I clenched my jaw, hissing through my teeth.

“Easy,” he warned. “I’d rather not explain to Shadowheart that I let you undo all of her hard work.” He handed me a waterskin, his tone lighter but still tinged with carefulness. “Sip. You’ve been out for some time.”

I took the waterskin gratefully, the cool water easing the rawness in my throat. “How long?”

“A day and a half. Shadowheart worked miracles, but, well…” He gestured vaguely at me. “There was quite a lot to mend.”

I exhaled, pressing a hand gingerly against my side where the worst of the pain lingered. Beneath the bandages, my skin felt tight, bruised. He wasn’t exaggerating—I must have been in bad shape.

“The others?” I asked.

Gale leaned back, stretching out his legs as he considered his answer. “Largely intact, I’m pleased to report. The prisoners made it out of Moonrise with us and are now safely here at Last Light. But while we were out heroically infiltrating a cursed stronghold, matters on this end took a turn for the dramatic.” His expression darkened slightly. “Marcus launched an attack. He wanted Isobel.”

The name sent a jolt of alertness through me.

Gale lifted a hand, as if to steady my thoughts before they spiraled. “Jaheira and the Harpers held the line. Isobel is safe, though the inn itself is looking considerably worse for wear. They're rebuilding as we speak.”

A fresh wave of guilt settled in my chest. Last Light Inn had already been under siege when we arrived, struggling to hold its fragile sanctuary together, and now—

“They're managing,” Gale reassured me, as if reading my thoughts. “And the prisoners—our gnome and tiefling friends—have insisted on helping. A token of gratitude, they said, for being given a chance to seek refuge here.”

I nodded slowly, relief tangled with exhaustion. “What about Minthara?”

“No sign of her yet,” Gale admitted. “But given her flair for the dramatic, I imagine she'll make an entrance sooner or later.”

She would. I could feel it in my bones.

Gale studied me for a moment, then he exhaled through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh. “You know,” he said, “I've never seen Astarion so utterly, mindlessly panicking before.”

I blinked at him. “...What?”

“Oh, he was quite the spectacle,” Gale continued, tone light but edged with something serious. “He was quite unhinged. When we pulled you out, he wouldn't let go. He barked at Karlach to hold you steady, snarled at Shadowheart for taking too long—gods, I swear he would’ve tried to wring a healing spell out of me if I’d had anything useful to give.”

Astarion.

Something twisted in my chest, not pain, but something dangerously close. I tried to picture it—him, frantic, terrified.

“He was shouting at us too,” Gale went on, “Not his usual drawl of casual mockery—no, this was a different kind of desperation entirely. I don’t think he even realized he was doing it.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry for an entirely different reason.

“He’s been in and out,” Gale added, softer now. “Checking on you. Trying not to hover too obviously, but, well…” His mouth curled in a knowing sort of smile. “Subtlety has never been his strongest suit.”

Warmth bloomed in my chest, tangled with something bitter and aching. I turned my gaze to the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

“Where is he now?” I asked, my voice quieter than before.

Gale only smiled. “Not far, I imagine.”

Chapter Text

There was a knock at the door I barely registered in my mind before it creaked open. Soft footsteps, too light to belong to anyone but him .

“You’re awake.” His voice was smooth, carefully measured, yet I didn’t miss the way it wavered at the edges.

I turned my head slightly, blinking up at him through the dim candlelight. His smile was too practiced, too deliberate, but his eyes betrayed him.

“More or less,” I murmured, my voice still rough with sleep.

“Good,” he said, his gaze flickering over me, lingering on the bandages wrapped around my middle. “I was beginning to think you'd decided to sleep forever just to spite me.”

I huffed a tired laugh. “Ha, you wish. You’d miss me too much.”

He made a dramatic scoff, placing a hand over his heart. “Perish the thought. Who else would I have to keep me entertained with stupid heroics and near-death experiences?”

I rolled my eyes, shifting slightly—only to wince as pain flared hot and sharp along my ribs. Astarion was at my side before I even had the chance to stifle the sound, his hands hovering but not quite touching, tension coiled tight in his stance.

“Careful,” he whispered, and this time, there was no teasing in his voice.

I let out a slow breath, waiting for the pain to ebb. “I'm fine.”

Astarion let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “You have a rather flexible definition of that word, my dear.” He hesitated, his fingers twitching at his side before he finally sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. “Do you even realize how close it was?”

I swallowed, glancing away. “I do now.”

His jaw clenched, something stormy flickering across his face. “You scared me,” he admitted, so quiet it was almost lost beneath the crackle of the fireplace. “I’ve—” He took a breath, raking a hand through his curls before dragging it down over his face. When he looked at me again, his expression was stripped of the usual clever retorts. “Cazador already took everything from me—my freedom, my choices, my life. And just when I thought I had nothing left to lose, you came along.” His voice wavered, barely above a whisper. 

Something in my chest tightened at his words. The weight of them. The rare, fragile honesty in his voice.

I reached out, fingers brushing against his wrist before curling around his hand. 

For a moment, he was still. His gaze dropped to where our hands touched, his thumb ghosting over my knuckles in a slow, restless motion. Then he laughed bitterly. “Do you have any idea what it was like? Watching you fall like that, seeing the blood—” His voice caught, and he shook his head, his grip tightening around mine. “I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought that was it. That you were gone.”

I squeezed his hand, willing him to believe it, even if I wasn’t sure I did myself. “I’m still here.”

“For how long?” His words were quiet but laced with frustration. His eyes searched mine, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “If we somehow make it through all this, what then?” He exhaled shakily. “One day, you’re going to leave. Whether it’s by blade or by choice. And I’ll be left with nothing all over again.”

His words stole the air from my lungs. I parted my lips to speak, to argue, but nothing came out.

Because he was right.

I swallowed hard, my fingers twitching against his. What could I possibly say to make this easier? To make it hurt less? There was no answer. No comfort I could offer that wouldn’t be a lie.

I could tell he wanted to argue, but instead, he lifted my hand and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to my knuckles. His lips were cool against my skin, but the way he held me there was warmer than anything else.

I shifted slightly, ignoring the dull throb in my ribs as I tugged at his hand. “Lay with me?”

His gaze snapped to mine, unreadable for a moment. “You’re still weak. You need to rest.”

“Then help me rest.” I said, barely a breath between us. “Just—stay. Please.”

The tension drained from his shoulders as he sighed, a reluctant but inevitable surrender.

“Alright.” 

He shifted, carefully easing into the space beside me. The moment his arms wrapped around me, the moment I let my head rest against his chest and felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing, something inside me finally settled. 

“I hate how easily you slip through my fingers,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Like a dream I can’t hold onto.”

I let out a slow breath, pressing closer, my forehead resting against the cool skin of his throat. 

“Then hold on tighter.”

For a long time, we lay there, silent except for the distant murmur of voices outside, the wind against the windows, the steady pulse of being alive. 

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun hung low, while I was taking a walk. My steps were slow, careful, but at least I was on my feet.

A few feet ahead, Lae’zel walked with her usual rigid posture, her hands clasped behind her back. She didn’t slow her pace for me, but she didn’t rush ahead either.

I clenched my jaw as another wave of pain flared through my ribs, frustration prickling under my skin like needles. My body was protesting the effort, but I refused to turn back. Still, after a particularly sharp jolt of pain, I exhaled through gritted teeth.

“Lae’zel,” I said, and she glanced at me, waiting.

I hesitated for half a second before swallowing my pride. “Can I—your arm, just for a little while.”

Her brows lifted, something flickering in her gaze—surprise, maybe, or just assessment. Then, without a word, she extended her arm.

I grasped it carefully, feeling the sheer solidity of her, the way her muscles tensed instinctively beneath my touch. She was a wall of strength, built for war, for discipline, every inch of her honed to precision. And yet, she let me lean into her without a word of complaint.

“Your body is frail,” she remarked after a moment, not unkindly.

“Ugh yeah, I know,” I muttered, adjusting my grip.

She huffed. “It is no insult. It is fact. You are still recovering, and yet you push forward. A foolish choice, but an admirable one.”

For Lae’zel, that was practically a heartfelt confession.

“Thanks, I think.”

We walked in silence for a while, the sounds of activity humming around us—Harpers repairing fortifications, the rhythmic clang of hammers on metal, refugees murmuring among themselves, the occasional clank of weapons being sharpened. Life trying to steady itself after the chaos.

“You fought well at Moonrise,” she said at last. “Even as you fell.”

“Not well enough, apparently.”

Lae’zel made a disapproving sound. “Do not wallow in self-pity. You survived. That is what matters. And you must continue to do so, unless you wish to burden us with yet another unnecessary loss.”

I shot her a look. “Is that your way of saying you’d miss me?”

She scoffed, though the late afternoon light caught a hint of amusement in her eyes. “It is my way of saying I have grown accustomed to your presence. I would rather not waste my energy training another fool to fill your place.”

A smirk tugged at my lips. Lae’zel’s idea of concern was laced with sharp edges, but I’d come to understand her in ways I hadn’t before. She respected strength, yes, but she also respected survival.

“Noted,” I said. “I’ll try not to die again just to spare you the inconvenience.”

“See that you don’t.”

---

Freya was waiting for me when I returned, arms crossed as she leaned against the table strewn with maps and notes. Her gaze flicked over me, assessing.

“You look like shit,” she said bluntly.

“Nice to see you too,” I replied dryly. “Really feeling the love today.”

Freya didn’t smile. Her usual teasing edge was absent, replaced by something heavier. She tapped a finger against the map. “I'll spare you the lectures, I'm sure you will hear them enough. We need to figure out our next move.”

I sighed, stepping closer. “I know. Tell me—what are our options?”

She glanced toward the doorway, then lowered her voice. “The way I see it, we don’t have the luxury of staying here much longer. Marcus’ attack proved that this place is vulnerable. Ketheric is still out there, and we need to deal with him before he regroups.”

I nodded, but my mind was still sluggish. “We also need to get to Thaniel and obtain the lute to lift the curse. We need to do that before we head to the Sharran Temple.”

“I've been thinking if splitting up should be an option,” she admitted. “But there’s something else.”

I frowned. “What?”

Before she could answer, the shadows in the corners seemed to deepen, responding to an unseen presence.

“Such grim faces,” she mused, letting her gaze trail lazily over me, then Freya. A flicker of amusement played at the edges of her mouth. “I do hope you’re not disappointed.”

I squared my shoulders. “Minthara.”

She stepped inside with the unshaken confidence of someone who had already decided this was her space. Even without a weapon in hand, she carried the air of a woman who could carve through this entire room if she wanted.

“I don't think it’s wise for you to be here,” I said carefully. “We should have met outside Last Light. I thought you were smarter.”

She hummed as if considering the critique, glancing around like she was inspecting an inn she might buy and burn down in the same breath. “Don't worry. No one saw me.” A smirk ghosted over her lips. “You underestimate how easily I slip past the eyes of fools. I just need a moment of your time. Unless, of course, you’d rather return to licking your wounds.”

Freya scoffed. “That depends. Are you here to talk, or to waste our time?”

Minthara didn’t flinch. "Your moral posturing is tiresome. I am here because it serves my purpose, not to seek your approval. If my presence offends you, feel free to look away."

Then, just as smoothly, she turned back to me, gaze heavy, assessing. “We have a common enemy. I assume you’ve realized that by now.”

I crossed my arms, mirroring her unwavering stare. “The Absolute. First target is Ketheric Thorm.”

A flash of something dark passed through her eyes, like storm clouds gathering. “A parasite, festering beneath his god’s shadow. He believes himself untouchable.” She leaned in slightly, voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “I want to prove him wrong. I want to prove them all wrong.”

Freya let out a sigh. “And let me guess—this is where we come in?”

Minthara replied, almost amused. “It would be easier if I did not have to spell it out for you, but yes.” Her gaze flicked to me. “You need me. You need my knowledge. My experience. My ruthlessness.” She let the last word linger, like a promise. Or a warning. “Because I will do what must be done. No hesitation. No doubt.”

I tilted my head slightly. “And in return?”

Minthara smiled, slow and knowing. “Your resolve.”

She caught me by suprise. “Not loyalty?”

She let out a quiet chuckle. “Loyalty is fragile. A blade pressed against one’s throat can sever it in an instant. But resolve—that is much harder to break.” Her expression darkened, as if she could already see the hesitation buried in my chest. “I need to know that when the moment comes, you won’t falter.”

Freya folded her arms, the leather of her armor creaking softly. “And if we do?”

Minthara's smirk returned, colder than the night air seeping through the walls. “Then I’ll ensure Ketheric isn’t the only corpse left rotting in the dark.”

She watched me carefully, waiting. Testing.

I wasn’t naive—I knew what she was asking. No half-measures. No turning back.

“I want him and the others dead just as much as you do,” I said at last. “But I don’t need you threatening me to make that happen.”

Minthara’s smirk widened slightly. “Then we understand each other.” She turned to Freya. “If we are to succeed, I expect you to do whatever it takes.”

Freya’s expression didn’t waver, but I saw the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides. “You expect a lot for someone who hasn’t proven her worth yet.”

Minthara chuckled softly. “Oh, I will.” Her gaze flicked back to me, unblinking. “I only hope you are ready when the time comes.”

Minthara wasn’t just offering information. She was issuing a challenge.

And I wasn’t sure if she expected me to rise to it—or fall beneath it.

Chapter Text

In the end, Freya had agreed to pursue the lute first, and Minthara would join when we make our way to the Gauntlet of Shar. Whether it was my argument about Arabella potentially searching for her parents in the area, or simple strategic sense, I couldn't say. What I could say was that the dull ache in my ribs—courtesy of that damned warhammer—wasn't going to keep me at the inn, no matter how much the others insisted.

When we arrived at the graveyard, Freya made it clear to let me feel that I wasn’t supposed to be here.

That’s what Freya had said before shaking her head and muttering, "You're impossible." Astarion had rolled his eyes, Shadowheart had sighed, and Gale, ever diplomatic, had simply given me a long, considering look before deciding against arguing.

But I wasn’t staying behind.

Not while Arabella was still out there.

So I let Shadowheart heal me—again. Magic seeped through my veins, knitting wounds, easing the deep ache in my ribs. I flexed my fingers, testing the movement. The pain was a whisper now, lingering but no longer crippling. Almost back to full strength.

“Don't mistake healing for recovery. The body remembers trauma, even after the wounds close.”

Gnarled trees loomed overhead, their skeletal branches swaying though there was no wind. We moved carefully through the graveyard, our footsteps crunching over dead leaves and brittle grass. The weight of Astarion's gaze flicked toward me more than once, though he said nothing.

We found the first sign just before nightfall. A small wooden pendant, half-buried in the damp earth beneath the roots of a tree. I knelt, brushing away the dirt with careful fingers. A bear, carved with a child’s clumsy strokes.

Arabella’s.

Wyll was studying the ground. “Heading northeast. Can't be more than a day old.”

“Then we're on the right path,” Freya said, adjusting her pack. “The lute should be in that direction anyway, if your... vision... is correct.”, she whispered, only hearable for me. 

I caught her subtle emphasis on 'vision' and managed not to wince. The lie about my foreknowledge still sat uneasily, but it was better than the truth.

A few steps ahead, there were more small, hurried footprints. But not alone. Larger tracks followed—deeper, deliberate. Not human.

Shadowheart’s grip tightened around her spear. “She’s being hunted.”

Astarion exhaled sharply, irritation laced in his voice. “Wonderful. So we’re chasing a half-feral child through cursed lands, hoping she hasn’t already been eaten.”

I shot him an annoyed look. “She’s not dead.”

He arched a brow. “Hope is sweet, darling, but hardly practical.”

I ignored him and pushed to my feet, pulse steady. “She’s alive.”

We hadn't gone far when the woodland gave way to a clearing. Then—a breath.

Quick, sharp. Small. Ragged.

I turned, scanning the dim ruins. Then I saw her.

Arabella.

Curled beneath the remains of a fallen pillar, arms wrapped tight around herself, wide eyes gleaming in the dark. Dirt-smudged. Terrified. Alive.

Relief crashed through me—until I saw what loomed beyond her.

A Justiciar.

Shadow-wreathed, armor dark as night, the cursed warrior of Shar stood poised above her, blade gleaming in the gloom.

Arabella’s lips parted—a silent, shaking cry.

As I moved, my scythe materializing in my hands with a whisper of shadow. It met the Justiciar's blade in a ringing clash that sent tremors up my arm, the impact testing my barely-healed ribs. But I held firm, refusing to yield.

Arabella scrambled back, her small form pressing against the gravestones as the others surged forward. Lae'zel struck first—a brutal, calculated slash that caught the Justiciar's side, her blade singing through the air. The creature barely reacted, its helm tilting toward her with an eerie, unnatural calm that made my skin crawl.

Gale's magic followed, tearing through with a familiar hum. A burst of force and heat lit up the clearing, causing shadows to dance across the weathered stones. 

The Justiciar staggered under the assault, but didn't fall. 

“They don't die easily,” Wyll muttered, his rapier gleaming.

“Then we hit harder,” Freya replied.

The Justiciar moved with impossible speed—a blur of shadow and steel. Its blade whistled through the air, but not at me. At Arabella.

Her scream cut through the night, high and terrified.

Karlach was faster.

Her infernal core roared to life, flaring bright as she barreled into Arabella, knocking her clear just as steel bit into the stone where the girl had stood moments before.

I lunged, my scythe carving deep into the Justiciar’s shadowed form. The resistance was strange—like cutting through something half-there. Wyll was at my side in an instant, his rapier striking in tandem, sliding with precise fury into the gaps of the creature’s spectral armor.

The Justiciar staggered, its form wavering like smoke in wind.

Shadowheart raised her spear. Divine magic thrummed through the air.

Radiant light erupted from her hands, cutting through shadow like dawn breaking through night.

The Justiciar released a sound—not quite a scream, but a distorted hiss that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Then it simply… crumbled, dissolving into nothing more than whispers and memory.

Silence.

Then a sniffle.

Arabella shifted, her small fingers gripping the fabric of her tunic like it might hold her together. Her voice was small, trembling.

“Is it gone?"

I turned to her, my breath still coming in heavy pulls, and forced myself to smile.

“Yeah. It’s gone.”

Chapter Text

The Justiciar's body was gone, but the chill it left behind lingered. Arabella hadn't moved from where Karlach had pulled her aside, her small fingers digging into the fabric of Karlach's sleeve like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

She was alive. That was what mattered. But as I looked at her—face pale as moonlight, eyes too wide and haunted, breath still catching on every inhale—I knew that wasn't enough. I knew her parents were dead. Breaking the news would be…

I pushed the thought away, focusing on what we could control.

The Justiciar had been hunting her. That much was clear. The question was why.

Lae’zel paced a few steps away, armor creaking softly with each movement, arms crossed.

“We should keep moving.”

“Give her a moment,” Karlach murmured, her voice softer than usual, her engine’s glow casting warm light across Arabella’s tear-stained face.

“She’s had a moment.”

I shot Lae’zel a look, but I knew she wasn’t being cruel, just practical. We were still standing in a graveyard with a dead Justiciar dissolving into shadow at our feet. This wasn’t a safe place to linger. Unlike in the game, the shadow-monsters hadn’t attacked Arabella yet, which meant they could still appear at any moment.

I crouched next to her, lowering my voice. “Arabella. Can you tell us what happened? How did you end up here?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers toyed with the wooden pendant at her neck—the little bear, worn smooth from countless worried touches. When she spoke, her voice was small, fragile as spun glass.

“I… I was looking for my Ma and Pa.” Her lip trembled. “I thought maybe they were here. I heard something. Like… like a whisper.”

A glance passed between the others, heavy with unspoken concern.

“A voice?” Gale asked, his interest piqued. 

Arabella shook her head hard, tangled hair whipping around her face. “No. Not words. It was… inside me. Like when you know something is there, even when you can’t see it.”

Shadowheart stiffened, grip tightening on her spear. I didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked toward the tombstones around us—some had unfamiliar, barely visible markings etched into their weathered stones.

“It wasn’t random,” Shadowheart murmured, gaze lingering on the space where the Justiciar had fallen. “Justiciars don’t hunt without reason.”

Astarion made a frustrating sound. “Perfect. So she wandered into a cursed graveyard because of a feeling.”

Arabella flinched at the sharpness in his tone. Karlach glared. “Knock it off.”

“She was being hunted, darling,” Astarion pointed out, moonlight catching the tension in his jaw. “That doesn’t strike you as something we should be worried about?”

He wasn’t wrong. I turned back to Arabella. “When did you notice the Justiciar?”

Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Since last night. I ran. I thought I lost him. But he kept finding me.” Her small fingers tightened into fists. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Something cold curled in my stomach. The Justiciar hadn’t stumbled upon her by accident. It had been following her. Tracking her.

Shadowheart’s gaze met mine, something unspoken passing between us.

Why would a Justiciar be after Arabella?

“I—” Arabella’s voice cracked. “I think they wanted to take me. Not kill me.”

Shadowheart’s expression was unreadable, but something flickered behind her eyes—recognition. She stepped forward, lowering herself to Arabella’s level.

“Did you feel it in your blood?”

Arabella hesitated, then nodded.

Shadowheart exhaled slowly. “Then it wasn’t just a Justiciar. It was a calling.”

Arabella’s breath hitched. “What does that mean?”   

Shadowheart looked at her for a long moment, shadows deepening the lines of concern on her face. “It means Shar wants you.”

Arabella’s face crumpled, her small body trembling as she shook her head.

“I don’t— I don’t want her! I don’t want anything to do with her!”

Karlach wrapped a protective arm around her.

“Then you won’t,” she said firmly, her engine flaring brighter. “We won’t let them take you.”

I clenched my fists, mind racing.

Why Arabella? What did Shar see in her?

Could it have anything to do with her growing magical abilities? I remembered her connection to the Idol of Sylvanus in the game, how it had changed her.

“Then that means she’s in more danger than we thought.”, Freya said.

Wyll was scanning the ground, his experienced eye reading the darkness. “Let’s look for her parents first. They can’t be far.” His voice was firm, but not unkind. “If we move now, we might still find them before anything else does.”

Karlach squeezed Arabella’s shoulder, her warmth a stark contrast to the graveyard’s chill. “We’ll find them, kid. I promise.”

Chapter Text

“I’m staying with her.”

Karlach’s voice left no room for argument. She stood with her arms crossed, her presence as solid as a fortress, one hand resting protectively on Arabella’s shoulder.

“Karlach—” Freya began, but Karlach cut her off with a shake of her head.

“She needs protection. Real protection. And right now, that’s me.” Her voice was softer when she looked down at Arabella, who had barely let go of her since the Justiciar’s attack. The girl clung to her sleeve like it was a lifeline, her small fingers curling into the fabric with desperate strength.

“Besides, I think we both know you’ll need someone to keep her safe while you deal with whatever’s in that House of Horror.”

The others exchanged glances. Karlach’s strength would be missed, but her logic was sound. More than that, Arabella’s grip on her made any argument feel hollow.

Arabella swallowed hard. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered, voice small, trembling.

“Never,” Karlach promised. The glow of her infernal engine cast a faint red light over the girl’s pale face. “We’ll find a good place to hole up, just ‘til the others come back.”

Freya nodded. “Alright. Keep her hidden. And keep yourself safe.”

Karlach grinned. “Don’t worry, boss. You won’t get rid of me that easy.”

As we prepared to leave, I noticed Shadowheart had grown quiet. She lingered a step behind the rest of us, her gaze distant, her fingers absently tracing the symbol of Shar on her armor. The tension in her shoulders spoke volumes, but she said nothing.

---

The House of Healing loomed ahead.

Its structure still held the bones of something once respectable, maybe even welcoming—but the decay ran deep. Stains blackened the stone like old bruises, and a heavy, cloying scent hung in the air. Not just rot. Something sweeter. Overripe. Like fruit left too long in the sun.

I covered my nose with my sleeve. It didn’t help.

“Delightful,” Astarion muttered, his nose wrinkling. “If I ever need medical attention, do remind me to simply die instead.”

Inside, the surgical tables stood in careful rows, clean, orderly. Occupied.

Some of the figures strapped down still breathed—barely. Chests rose and fell in shuddering, uneven gasps. Some were too shallow to be called alive, others forced open by crude metal frames that left their ribs splayed apart like broken wings.

A low, keening moan echoed through the chamber. It came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

I swallowed, throat tightening. Holy shit.

Lae’zel made a disgusted sound as she stepped around a broken table where a pair of fingers—just fingers—lay in a shallow dish of blackened fluid.

Then, a voice—gentle, soothing. Completely out of place.

“You must be in pain.”

They emerged from the dimness in their tattered clerical robes, the color long lost beneath layers of old blood and filth. Their faces—if one could call them that—were wrong. Skin stretched too smooth, too tight, like wax poured over something not quite human.

A sharp inhale left Gale’s throat.

“I can help with that,” the nurse continued. Their scalpel twitched in their hands.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Gale muttered under his breath.

We moved as one, stepping away. The nurses did not follow.

“They’re waiting for something,” Wyll whispered. “I wonder for what though.”

At the sound of his voice, their heads snapped toward him in unison.

A shiver ran through me, deep and visceral. It felt wrong to move, to speak. Like we were already under their care. Already patients.

“Let's not find out,” I replied to him.

---

Silence stretched between us as we navigated deeper into the House. It wasn’t fear that held us quiet—it was something more insidious. A feeling that we were being watched. Measured. Assessed.

Gale was the first to break the stillness. Maybe also to distract himself of the horrors of the house.

“Shadowheart,” he said, voice careful. “You know something about the Justiciars, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers traced the edges of Shar’s symbol, lost in thought.

It's Shar calling to Arabella.”

Astarion tilted his head. “Care to share with the rest of us what you mean by that?”

“Some souls shine brighter in the dark. Shar sees them. Claims them.” Her jaw tightened. “But this is different. The Justiciars don’t hunt. They guide. They teach.”

A pause. Then, with more certainty: “Shar does not act without reason. If the Justiciars wanted Arabella, there was a purpose to it.”

Gale, who had been studying the grotesque remains of a patient strapped to a nearby table, turned at that. “You say that so easily.”

Shadowheart didn’t look at him. “It is easy. If Arabella was chosen, then she has value.”

Wyll frowned. “You don’t seem particularly disturbed by the thought.”

Shadowheart’s eyes flashed with something sharp. “Would you rather I pretend to be ignorant? I was raised in Shar’s embrace. I know how she operates. But even I find it strange that they chased Arabella.”

Something flickered in her expression—doubt, maybe. A hairline fracture in her certainty.

Before I could press, the sound of laughter cut through the stillness.

I stiffened. It came from deeper within the House.

Lae’zel had already drawn her blade. “We are being toyed with.”

A slow, dragging shuffle echoed from down the corridor. Then a voice.

“Ah,” it sighed. “Visitors. How… lovely.”

Malus Thorm stepped into the dim light, and for a moment, he almost looked ordinary.

Then he smiled.

His mouth stretched just a little too wide. His robes were immaculate, pressed, utterly spotless, despite the carnage around him.

His eyes landed on me, and I felt it again—that weight. The cold pressure of something unseen slithering down my spine.

“Do you require my services?” His voice was warm. Inviting. “My nurses and I are quite skilled.”

My stomach twisted.

“Oh, wonderful,” Astarion muttered. “I did need a lobotomy today.”

Chapter Text

“There, there,” Malus murmured, his voice thick with forced patience. “I see such troubled souls before me.”

I forced myself not to step back as his gaze landed on me. His presence pressed in on me like a damp cloth over the mouth—suffocating and smothering. Cold unease curled down my spine, my skin prickling as though unseen fingers had brushed over it.

“Don’t worry,” he continued, his tone soothing, almost fatherly. “You’re in my care now.”

Freya shifted beside me, magic crackling at her fingertips. “I think we’ll pass on that.”

Malus tilted his head, watching us with the patient condescension of a physician dealing with stubborn children. “Now, my dear. Everyone suffers. And I can help.”

Something about the way he said it burrowed under my skin. It was too calm, too assured, as if he truly believed we needed his treatment.

The weight in my chest returned, that strange pressure curling at the edges of my mind. I had felt it before—like a whisper on the verge of being heard, a thread waiting to be pulled.

I knew what it was. And I wanted to test it out again. 

The words simply happened, slipping free from my lips before I could think better of them.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

The air shifted.

It was subtle, but undeniable. A stillness settled over Malus, his composure cracking ever so slightly. His pupils dilated, his fingers twitched at his sides. Something unseen stretched between us, taut as a thread ready to be plucked.

For a fraction of a second, his lips parted, as if trying to voice an objection. But no words came.

“Of course,” he murmured instead, his voice oddly distant. “Trust is vital between patient and doctor.”

The others had gone still, watching me, waiting to see where this would lead. Even Astarion, usually quick with a quip, remained silent.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, my pulse thrumming in my ears. This magic moved like a current, flowing through me rather than simply from me.

I stepped forward, careful to keep my voice steady. “Then tell me, Doctor. Don’t you think you deserve some care?”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his face. The idea seemed foreign to him, as though it had never even occurred to him before.

I took another step, the connection between us tightening, the energy around me coiling like an unseen force waiting to strike. “You’ve worked so hard,” I continued,  “Your nurses have tended to so many. Shouldn’t they tend to you, too?”

His breath hitched, his fingers twitching again.

From the edges of the room, the nurses responded.

Their heads tilted in perfect unison, fingers flexing—long, skeletal hands twitching with an unnatural eagerness. Their movements were stiff at first, jerky like marionettes waiting for their strings to be pulled. But as Malus’ lips parted, as he began to agree, they shuddered to life.

“Yes,” he said, his voice distant, like someone waking from a dream. “Yes… of course.”

He turned to them, arms spreading in welcome. “Go on, then. Do what must be done.”

The nurses descended.

The first seized his shoulder, fingers clamping down hard enough to puncture skin. Blood welled instantly, seeping around their grasp. Malus didn’t flinch. He exhaled slowly, like a man easing into a warm bath.

Another took his wrist in both hands, cradling it almost tenderly before twisting with a sharp, wet pop. The joint tore apart, bone pushing against flesh in ways it was never meant to.

And then came the scalpels.

Thin, gleaming blades sliced into him, parting skin with practiced precision. They worked methodically, peeling back flesh as if it were nothing more than parchment. Blood dripped in thick rivulets, staining their pale fingers, but their movements remained eerily measured—controlled.

Malus did not scream.

His breath remained slow, steady, as if he had accepted this as the inevitable conclusion. One of the nurses cupped his face, tilting his head to the side with gentle care before sliding a scalpel along the seam of his jaw. The flesh split open, revealing red beneath white, but Malus only sighed.

A dull nausea churned in my stomach.

Astarion let out a low whistle, breaking the silence. “Well. That was efficient.”

Gale on the other hand, was rubbing his temples. “Efficient and unsettling.”

I barely heard them. The room felt too large, the air pressing in too thick around me.

Lae'zel was watching me closely. “That was more than mere persuasion.”

“I think I… I compelled him.” I replied to her remark.

“It worked. That’s what matters.”

Wyll, however, looked less certain. His brow furrowed, thoughtful. “But why did it work?” His eyes flickered toward me. “You’ve tried things like this before, haven’t you? With Kagha, for example?”

I hesitated, my fingers curling into fists. “Yes. But it doesn’t always work. It didn’t work on Oskar.”

Gale was the first to catch on, his breath hitching. “The tadpoles,” he said, voice quiet but certain.

The realization hit like a slow-moving tide, creeping in until it could no longer be ignored.

Oskar had resisted me. So had the others—anyone with a tadpole had slipped through my grasp, as though something stronger had blocked my influence. And I knew what that something was.

Chapter Text

The Last Light Inn was quiet when we returned. 

Karlach saw us first. Her expression flickered between relief and tension, her gaze darting behind us as if expecting someone else to step forward. Arabella wasn’t far, standing stiffly by a table, hands balled into fists at her sides. She met my eyes, searching, and I didn’t need words to tell her what she already knew.

Her mother was dead, as expected. But unlike in the game, her father was missing.

Freya was as surprised as I was, when my "vision" turned out not to be correct–but since Shar seemed to be involved somehow, I started to not get my hopes up, as I feared he will go through the same fate as Shadowhearts parents. 

Karlach crouched next to her, murmuring something too soft to hear. Arabella didn’t cry. She just nodded, jaw tight, as if locking something away before it could surface.

Halsin took the lute reverently, as if he could already feel the weight of its magic. It would be the key to waking Art Cullagh, but it wouldn’t be enough.

“He is out there, Thaniel.” Halsin said after a long moment, eyes dark with something like grief. “I must go into the Shadowfell to retrieve him.”

“Not tonight,” I said, my voice steady despite the exhaustion present. “We’ve been running on empty. We rest, and we tackle it tomorrow.”

Halsin inclined his head, though I saw the way his fingers curled around his staff. He didn’t want to wait. Neither did I, but running headfirst into more danger when we could barely stand was a death wish.

The group dispersed slowly, the weight of the day dragging at our heels. My body ached, but my mind refused to settle, thoughts rattling in my skull like a restless specter. I needed air.

I wasn’t alone for long.

Astarion found me on the balcony, leaning against the railing. He was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, gaze drifting to the inky abyss of the Shadow-Cursed lands beyond the flickering wardlight.

Then, without preamble, he reached for me.

Not in a way that demanded. Not in a way that pushed. Just... offering. A brush of fingers against my wrist, his touch cool and grounding. I let him, until he put his arm around my waist.

It had become easier, this closeness.

“You know,” he murmured, “I do enjoy our little quiet moments.”

I huffed a laugh, wanting to tease him a little bit. “Oh? Astarion, enjoying something without an ulterior motive? Shocking.”

He smirked, but didn’t banter. Instead, he exhaled. Then, deliberately, he shifted closer.

I could feel the hesitation before he spoke. “I wanted to tell you something.”

I turned to face him fully. “That sounds serious.”

“It is. Maybe?” His fingers brushed against the small of my back, a deliberate touch. A reassurance before he said something I wouldn’t like.

“Raphael made me an offer,” he said smoothly. “A simple exchange, really. Kill Yurgir, and in return, he’ll read my scars.”

“And you accepted.”

His smile was small. “I did.”

I studied him, searching for regret, for hesitation, but there was none. He had already made his choice. I knew why. The markings on his back were a chain, an unspoken threat of something worse. He had spent two hundred years in the dark, never knowing what they meant, only that they were Cazador’s.

And yet, something about Raphael’s involvement left a sour taste in my mouth.

Astarion must have noticed, because he tilted his head, a ghost of amusement at his lips. “You disapprove.”

“It's just that I don’t trust him.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted. “But I trust what he wants.”

I let out a slow breath, nodding. “Then we’ll deal with Yurgir.”

Something in him eased at that. Relief, maybe. Or just quiet understanding.

For a moment, there was only the night, the distant murmur of the inn below us. The hush of breathing.

My fingers traced lightly over the marks on his back again, following the jagged patterns of the scars. Astarion didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into the touch, just slightly.

Astarion turned to me, something bitter curling at the edges. “Cazador has always had an artist’s touch, hasn’t he?” His voice was lighter than it should be, masking something darker beneath.

A pause. Then, “He liked to make sure I never forgot who I belonged to.”

His throat worked around the words, as if trying to swallow something that refused to go down.

“When I disobeyed Cazador the first time, I thought he would kill me.” A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. “I almost wished he had.”

I wasn't ready for what was about to come.

“He didn’t just punish me,” he continued, voice steady but hollow. “That would’ve been too kind. No, he locked me in a coffin. Chained it shut. Buried me alive beneath the estate.” His lips curved upward, but there was no mirth in it. “One hundred years. No light. No air. Just hunger, and the sound of my own screams.”

My breath hitched.

I tried to imagine it—tried to picture what it would feel like, that vast and crushing dark. The way time must have warped, stretching endlessly as he lay starving, suffocating, losing himself in a place where no one would ever find him. This was not just a phrase that you read in the game. Glossing over it and moving on. No. It was real. This did in fact happened. And I couldn't imagine the sheer horror and terror of it all.

“I forgot who I was,” he admitted, voice so soft I barely heard it. “After a while, I forgot words. Forgot what it felt like to move. I think I went mad, and then… past it. I stopped being anything at all. Just hunger, and hate. A thing, instead of a person.”

His fingers curled into the fabric of my sleeve, gripping it tight.

“And that was just the beginning,” he murmured. “Because when he finally let me out, I was willing to do anything just to avoid going back. Anything.”

Chapter Text

“I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my Master. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered. So when I wasn’t locked away, I was his.” His lips twisted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I learned how to be what he wanted. I learned how to please him. How to let him take what he wanted without fighting back, without making it worse. Because when I fought, he enjoyed that too. When I struggled, he reminded me why I was nothing more than his possession.”

His fingers curled against the railing, gripping so tightly I could see his knuckles go white. “I have bedded thousands of people. Half of them I barely remember. Most of them didn't even grant me temporary bliss.” His throat bobbed. “I mean, there's nothing more desirable in the world than a vampire, is there?” His voice was a mix of disgust and anguish. “Sometimes, I felt pity for the victims. But I stopped quickly when I learned that most of them only wanted to use me in a different kind of twisted way. A moment of unpleasantry, gritting my teeth and letting people have me the way they wanted.”

A wave of nausea rolled through me. The air felt too thick, my own skin too tight. I could picture it too clearly—Astarion, his body used like a tool, like a weapon, like something that didn’t belong to him at all. 

He took a moment before he continued, his gaze falling on the horizon. “I could have lived eternally in Cazador's pleasure chambers. I'm not afraid to die. I'm afraid I'll never have a new life after that.”

“You already have a new life.” I said, squeezing his hand.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Not while he’s still alive. I still feel him. Still hear him. Like I’m just waiting for him to reach out and drag me back.”

I didn’t know what to say to him. To ease his pain, his anger, his sorrow. So instead, I decided to share something with him.

“I-I also know a twisted man.”

Something in his expression faltered then, and he turned his gaze toward me. 

My pulse roared in my ears. My throat felt tight, like my own words were trying to choke me before I could say them.

I forced myself to breathe, slow and even. “I saw him,” I whispered. “In my dreams. In… Penelope’s memories.”

I let go of Astarion’s hand. “Her father sold her. To a man who promised him power.” I laughed, brittle and bitter. “Not that he needed much convincing. He wanted her gone. Never saw her as more than something to own and trade.”

I shuddered. The memories weren’t mine, but they might as well have been. I could feel them, crawling beneath my skin, leaving filth where they touched. The weight of hands that weren’t my own, pressing, grasping, taking. A mouth against my throat, the sickly heat of breath against my skin, the burn of fingers bruising into my flesh. The sound of her screams—my screams—ringing in my ears, muffled only by the sound of laughter.

“He hurt her.” The words scraped their way out of my throat. “He didn’t just own her—he made sure she knew it. Made sure she felt it in every way imaginable.” My fingers dug into my own arms, trying to ground myself against the sickness curling in my stomach. “Every night, every time he touched her, it wasn’t just about power. It was about breaking her. About making her believe she was nothing but a body for him to use, and the title she brought along with her.” My breath came unevenly, but I forced myself to go on. “He told her she belonged to him now, that no one would ever come for her. That she could scream all she wanted, but it would never matter.”

I swallowed against the bile rising in my throat. “And he enjoyed it. He relished the way she struggled, the way she cried, the way her fear made her small. He would whisper to her while he did it, telling her how sweet she was when she cried, how much he loved watching her tears fall.” I looked down on my feet. “And when she stopped fighting, when she learned it was useless—he liked that even more.”

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, like I could wipe away the images burned into my mind. “She could feel him everywhere. His hands, his breath, the bruises he left behind. She stopped feeling like she existed beyond them. And that… that was the worst part. Not just the pain, not just the violation—but the way he made her believe she was nothing more than what he took from her.”

Astarions eyes darkened—but then something shifted in his expression. His brow furrowed slightly, and his lips parted, like he was about to say something—his throat working around the words before they finally broke free.

“That’s why you screamed,” he said, almost to himself. His gaze flickered over my face as if seeing me anew, fitting the pieces together. “Back at the grotto. Why you were overwhelmed.”

His face was carefully composed, but his eyes betrayed him. There was no anger in them, no cold fury like I might have expected—just something deeper, something far worse. It was pain , naked and unguarded, carved into every line of his expression. His lips were parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t trust the words to come. His fingers twitched where they rested, like he was resisting the urge to reach for me. He did nothing to mask the heartache in his gaze.

It was grief. Not for himself, but for me.

“You felt it,” he murmured, his voice rough at the edges. “You lived it.”

His hand lifted absently, fingers grazing over his own throat, as if remembering the sound of it. His realization carried through his whole body—a slow, quiet stillness settling into his limbs, like something fragile had just cracked open inside him.

I pressed a trembling hand against my ribs, as if I could force the erratic rise and fall of my breath to slow. “It was… real .” My voice cracked. “It felt real.”

Astarion didn’t move for a long moment. Then, finally, his hand lifted. “Do you remember his face?”

“No.”

He hesitated, wanted to say something—just for a breath—before his fingers brushed over my wrist, light as silk. A grounding touch.

“I know what that does to a person,” he said quietly. “What it makes you feel. How it gets inside you and makes you doubt everything you are.”

He shifted closer.

I didn’t think. My body moved before my mind could catch up, turning toward him as if drawn by something deeper than logic. His arms were around me before I could question it, and mine around him. I felt the inhale he took as I pressed against him, the way his hold tightened, hesitant at first—then desperate. We clung to each other, silent, shaking, as if bracing against a storm neither of us could see but both could feel.

His breath was warm against the curve of my shoulder, and mine shuddered against his skin.

He wasn’t just holding me. He was curling into me, into the space where my warmth could reach him, where he wasn’t alone. My fingers curled into the fabric at his back, not wanting to let go, and he held me just as fiercely, his hand pressing between my shoulder blades as if trying to steady himself.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone.

And neither, I thought, did he.

Chapter Text

Warmth. That was the first thing I noticed. Not the stiff bedroll beneath me, not the distant murmur of the waking inn, but the solid, steady warmth against my side.

Astarion.

My breath caught, the memories of the night before settling over me like a second skin. The words we had shared, the wounds we had bared—it was all still there, hovering in the quiet between us. But instead of tension, there was something softer, something almost fragile in the way his presence lingered so close.

I cracked one eye open, greeted immediately by a familiar pair of red ones watching me. He was propped on one elbow, his silver hair a tousled mess, his expression unreadable. His fingers traced absent patterns against the sheets between us, close but not quite touching.

“How long have you been staring?” I mumbled, my voice still thick with sleep.

His lips curled into something smug. “Oh, not long. Just long enough to confirm that you do, in fact, snore. Quite endearingly, I might add.”

I huffed, rolling onto my side to face him fully. “I do not snore.”

His grin deepened. “Mm, of course not, darling. And I certainly haven’t spent the better part of an hour debating whether or not to wake you with scandalous whispers in your ear.”

Heat bloomed in my cheeks. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I very much would.” He lifted a hand, his fingertips trailing up my forearm in a featherlight caress. “But after last night, I thought I’d be merciful. Let my dear, exhausted Artemis rest.”

There was something in his voice—not quite teasing, not quite serious. Just… careful.

I turned my hand over, letting his fingers graze my palm before curling lightly around them. His touch was cool against my skin, but not unwelcome. Never unwelcome. “Thank you,” I murmured, unsure of what exactly I was thanking him for—his patience, his presence, the quiet understanding in his gaze. Maybe all of it.

Astarion’s expression softened, the usual edges of his smirk smoothing into something quieter. “I should be the one thanking you.”

The moment hung between us, delicate and full of things unsaid. And maybe that was alright. Maybe not everything needed to be spoken aloud just yet.

A loud creak from the floorboards outside shattered the quiet, followed promptly by Karlach’s unmistakable voice echoing down the hall. “Alright, lovebirds! Get your arses out of bed before I start kicking down doors!”

I groaned, flopping onto my back. “Gods above.”

Astarion chuckled, already rolling to his feet with the kind of grace that made me resent him just a little. “And here I thought we’d have a few more moments before the wolves came sniffing.”

I sat up, running a hand through my hair. “It’s Karlach. She doesn’t sniff, she storms.”

“Mm, fair point.” He offered me a hand, pulling me easily to my feet. His grip lingered a fraction longer than necessary, his thumb brushing over the inside of my wrist before he let go.

By the time we stepped into the main hall, the scent of fresh bread and something vaguely meaty filled the air. The others were already gathered at a table near the hearth, Shadowheart sipping her tea with a faintly amused expression while Karlach grinned at us over the rim of her tankard.

“Well, well,” Karlach mused, elbowing Gale beside her. “Look who finally decided to grace us with their presence.”

I folded my arms, leveling her with a deadpan stare. “We were sleeping.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were.”

Astarion let out a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart. “It’s truly scandalous, isn’t it? A man and a woman sharing a bed for warmth and only warmth?” He shot me a sly look. “Or so she claims.”

I smacked his arm, my face burning. “Do not start.”

Karlach outright cackled. “Stars above, you two are adorable.”

I dropped into the seat beside her with a groan, snatching a piece of bread from the table. “I hate you all.”

“Oh, please.” Karlach nudged me with her elbow. “You love us. Now eat. We’ve got a mission today.”

Astarion slid into the seat beside me, his knee pressing lightly against mine beneath the table. Just a touch, just enough to remind me of the night before.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He met my gaze, and in the flickering firelight, I caught it—that same soft understanding from earlier, tucked beneath the usual mischief.

Chapter Text

Thaniel was safe.

Or at least, as safe as he could be.

I watched Halsin kneel beside him. He had been so determined, so certain that this child—this lost child—was the key to everything. And he had found him, had pulled him back from the brink, while we protected the portal that bridged his way home. But the curse still lingered, thick as ever, shrouding the land in its suffocating grip.

Because Thaniel was only half of a whole.

Finding Oliver had been our next step. And surprisingly, it had taken less time than expected.

I had told Freya where to start, knowing where he would likely be. She and Lae'zel, together with Wyll, had set out, determined to find him–and within hours, they had returned with news.

The reunion had been... strange? Oliver had been hesitant at first, lingering on the edges of our reach, like a wounded creature unsure if it could trust the hands being offered to it. His eyes had held shadows deeper than the curse itself—the kind that spoke of nights spent alone, of trust broken and hope abandoned. But Thaniel had called for him, voice cracking with emotion, had welcomed him with open arms that trembled with exhaustion and relief. Little by little, the shadows in Oliver's eyes had lessened, replaced by something fragile but healing. Piece by piece, they had drawn together—two halves of the same soul, reforging what had been lost.

But even now, the curse still clung to the land like frost on morning grass. Because to break it, we had to face the one who had caused it.

Ketheric Thorm.

---

A soft breeze stirred through the Last Light Inn, carrying the distant sound of voices, of clinking mugs and hushed conversation. A strange kind of normalcy, given all that had happened.

I glanced toward the others.

Gale hunched over a thick tome at a corner table, his fingers stained with ink as he gestured animatedly to Wyll. The candlelight caught the silver in his hair, casting strange shadows across the pages before him. Karlach dominated another table entirely, her plate piled high with food—how she was still eating, I had no idea—but she waved a half-eaten piece of bread in Shadowheart and Arabella's direction, her booming laugh warming the very air around her. Shadowheart's lips twitched despite her obvious attempt to maintain her usual composure. Halsin remained where he was, gaze steady on Thaniel.

Lae’zel and Freya were nowhere to be seen, likely off somewhere sparring or scouting ahead. Or causing trouble, I thought dryly. With those two, there was no telling.

And Astarion—

He was beside me.

He had been quiet since we returned. His fingers ghosted along the rim of his goblet, tracing patterns in the condensation as he studied the candlelight flickering against the wine's surface. There was something almost mesmerizing about the movement, about the way his hands never seemed to still completely. He seemed lost in thoughts, though.

I glanced down at my hands before finally breaking the silence. “Are you alright?”

His lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smirk. “Darling, I just spent hours fighting off abominations in the name of a child who can barely form a proper sentence. I suppose I’m as alright as one can be.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, nudging him with my shoulder. “That’s not what I meant.”

Astarion tilted his head slightly, looking at me now. And then—gods, he softened. Just enough that something in my chest ached at the sight.

“I’m here,” he said simply. And for him, that was an answer that carried more weight than any lengthy explanation could.

Warmth bloomed in my chest, slow and quiet as sunrise.

The past few nights had been… heavy. There were things between us now that hadn't been there before, or maybe had always been there, waiting to be uncovered. Fractured things—moments of vulnerability neither of us had expected, confessions whispered in the dark when neither of us could sleep. But honest things.

And maybe that honesty was what brought me to this moment.

I hesitated. There was something I wanted to ask him—something real.

What do you feel for me? What am I to you?

But I knew Astarion wouldn’t have an answer for that. Or if he did, it wouldn’t be one I could make sense of. Neither do I know if I even want to hear it.

So I asked for the next best thing.

“Astarion, how do you feel about...”

I swallowed. “Kissing? With me kissing you.”

His crimson eyes widened slightly, catching the firelight like garnets. And then—then—a slow understanding settled over his face, melting into something achingly tender, something that made my heart skip.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The sounds of the inn seemed to fade away, leaving just this space between us.

Just as my stomach started to twist with the creeping uncertainty of whether I had overstepped, Astarion let out a quiet, breathy laugh that seemed to warm the very air between us.

“You don’t have to ask, darling.” His voice was warm, touched with something that made my breath hitch. “But thank you for doing so regardless.”

I exhaled, something tight in my chest easing like ice melting in spring.

His free hand lifted, fingers tracing an idle path over my knuckles before turning my hand over entirely. He lifted it to his lips, pressing the lightest of kisses to the center of my palm. His lips were cool against my skin, but they left a trail of warmth in their wake.

I barely had time to process the sensation before he moved, closing the space between us—

And then his lips met mine.

It was soft at first, a tentative brush of lips, a careful thing. Like neither of us wanted to shatter whatever fragile moment had formed between us. His breath ghosted across my skin, carrying the faintest hint of wine.

Astarion's fingers slid along my jaw, his touch featherlight but leaving trails of electricity in their way. His lips parted slightly, a slow exhale slipping from him as he leaned in, deepening the kiss. I felt the way his hand curled around mine, how his other ghosted down to my waist, like he wasn't sure where to rest it—if he could rest it—before he finally settled, just holding me there. The fabric of my shirt bunched slightly under his fingers.

The kiss was everything he was—controlled yet searching, teasing yet reverent. Cool lips that somehow burned, gentle touches that held barely restrained strength. And I matched him, meeting him where he was, tasting the hint of wine on his lips, feeling the way his breath hitched as my fingers tangled in his hair. The silver strands were impossibly soft against my skin.

When we finally parted, my lips tingled from the lingering press of his. My heart thundered in my chest, and I wondered if he could hear it, if he could feel how he affected me.

His eyes searched mine and with a small, almost shy smile that I had never seen on his face before, he leaned in once more, brushing his nose against mine in the faintest, most tender of gestures.

I let my forehead rest against his, breathing him in. He smelled of wine and night air and something uniquely him, like old books and winter frost.

This was something neither of us had ever truly known.

Not possession. Not expectation.

Just choice.

And gods, it meant everything.

Around us, the inn continued its quiet existence—the murmur of voices, the crackle of the fire, the soft notes of a lute. But here, in this moment, we had carved out something that belonged only to us. Something fragile and new and terrifying in its possibility.

Something worth choosing, again and again.

Chapter Text

The air hummed around me, thick with the eerie stillness of something not quite alive. My breath was steady, my fingers splayed as I focused on the energy thrumming beneath my skin. It was there, waiting, coiled in the space between life and death—a whisper of a scream that could tear the soul from a body. Pale green wisps curled around my fingertips, casting an otherworldly glow across the small clearing where we practiced.

Opposite me, Gale stood with his arms crossed, watching with an expression that teetered between curiosity and exasperation. His robes rustled softly as he shifted his weight, the arcane symbols embroidered along the hem catching the light.

“You’re overextending,” he noted, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Again.”

I was shaking out my hands as the wisps of spectral energy faded with a soft hiss. The tension in my shoulders eased, but the familiar ache of exertion lingered in my chest. “You think I’d have gotten the hang of this by now.” 

Gale tilted his head, considering. The scar on his chest peeked from beneath his collar, a reminder of his own dangerous power. “Mastering the abilities of a banshee is not exactly standard curriculum. Even for someone as… uniquely talented as yourself.” 

I rolled my eyes but didn't argue. The power inside me was an untamed thing—like an unfinished song, its melody just out of reach. Wielding it with precision? That was proving far more difficult. Some of the attempts left my throat raw, as if I'd been screaming for hours.

“Again,” Gale instructed, stepping back. “This time, pull rather than push.”

I closed my eyes, gathering the unnatural stillness, reaching into the place where my voice became a weapon—

And then the sky split open with fire.

A shockwave of heat slammed into me, sending me staggering back as Gale cursed, throwing up an arm to shield his face. The acrid scent of brimstone filled the air, heavy and cloying, burning my nostrils and coating my tongue with the taste of ash. The trees around us groaned as their branches swayed violently, leaves scattering in the sudden gust.

At the center of it all—

Golden horns gleaming in the dim light, red silk swirling like flames, wings spread in an obnoxiously dramatic display. The ground beneath her feet smoldered, thin tendrils of smoke rising from scorched earth.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered, already regretting the next ten minutes of my life.

Mizora.

She stood in the clearing like she owned it, golden eyes gleaming with wicked delight. Her presence seemed to darken the very air around her, as if she absorbed the light rather than reflected it. “Ah, I do love a grand entrance,” she purred, inspecting her nails. “Nothing quite like making an impression, wouldn’t you say?”

I was brushing ash from my sleeves. “I can think of several other ways you could have appeared that wouldn’t have involved nearly setting me on fire.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Mizora's smile sharpened as her gaze flicked from me to Gale, then past us toward the Inn. The scent of her perfume—something like burnt sugar and blood—mingled with the brimstone.

Gale straightened beside me, his voice perfectly measured though I could feel the tension radiating from him. His fingers twitched slightly, ready to cast if needed. “Mizora. To what do we owe the… pleasure?”

Mizora barely spared him a glance before her attention zeroed in on me, her smirk widening. The gold flecks in her eyes seemed to dance with malicious amusement.

“Oh, don’t worry, this one isn’t about you,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. The movement left a trail of sparks in the air. “I have business with dear Wyll.”

I exchanged a quick glance with Gale, noting the tightness around his eyes, and without a word, we both turned toward the Inn. The path back was short but winding, roots and stones threatening to trip us as we hurried. Behind us, Mizora vanished in another flash of flame, the heat of it prickling against my back.

---

We found the others behind the Inn, frozen in various states of alarm. Freya stood with a hand on her staff, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Beside her, Astarion lounged against a tree, the picture of ease—except for the predatory stillness that told me he was ready to strike. Lae’zel had already drawn her blade, its silver edge catching the dim light.

Karlach, Shadowheart, and Halsin were nowhere to be seen.

Wyll stood stiff-backed by the fire, his jaw set in a tight line as Mizora lounged in front of him like a cat that had cornered its prey. Her wings flicked lazily behind her, her entire presence dripping with amusement. The campfire between them flared unnaturally high, casting dancing shadows across Wyll's face, highlighting the tension in every line of his body.

“There he is,” she crooned, tilting her head. “Ever so loyal. Ever so obedient.” Her voice carried a musical quality that was both beautiful and unsettling.

Wyll's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white with strain, but he didn't rise to the bait. I could see the muscle in his jaw working as he fought to maintain his composure. “What do you want, Mizora?”

Mizora sighed, placing a hand dramatically against her chest. The gems adorning her fingers caught the light, sending prisms of color dancing across her skin. “Straight to business? No ‘how have you been, my dear patron’? No ‘my, you look positively radiant today’?” Her eyes gleamed. “You wound me.”

I folded my arms, already tired of whatever game she was playing. The banshee power still hummed beneath my skin, responding to my irritation with soft whispers at the edge of my consciousness. “What’s the job?”

Mizora’s gaze flicked to me, her smirk deepening. “Oh, I do love it when you get straight to the point.” She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the stone. With each step, the temperature around us seemed to rise a fraction. “It seems my dear employer has found themselves in a bit of a predicament. The Cult of the Absolute has managed to capture a rather important asset of Zariel’s.”

The words rang in my head, familiar, expected—because I knew exactly who she was talking about.

Mizora herself.

She was playing her own game, spinning this in a way that left her leverage intact. I'd seen this tactic before, in another life, another time. 

Wyll frowned, his scar pulling tight across his face. “A powerful devil? What does that have to do with me?”

Mizora sighed, as if he were an exasperating child. “Because, my dear, you are going to rescue them.”

Gale muttered something under his breath beside me. I didn't catch the words, but I caught the tone: something between amusement and disbelief. His fingers traced a subtle pattern at his side—a ward against eavesdropping, I realized.

Wyll straightened, his expression dark. “Why should I? Zariel’s war isn’t mine.”

Mizora’s smile remained fixed, but there was an edge to it now. “Because if you don’t, the consequences will be most unpleasant.” Her voice remained light, almost playful, but the threat beneath it was unmistakable.

I took a slow step forward, catching Mizora’s gaze. “And what do you get out of this, exactly?”

Mizora blinked, feigning innocence. “Why, I am but a humble messenger—”

“Cut the shit.” My voice was low, even, but there was steel in it. The banshee power stirred in response, a cold pressure building in my throat. “You’re the one they have, aren’t you?”

Chapter Text

Silence.

Her perfect composure slipped for just a heartbeat, revealing something desperate beneath.

Then, in a blink, Mizora laughed.

“Oh, you really are delightful.” She tilted her head. “And what if I was?”

I ignored the way Wyll turned toward me, confusion flickering across his face. Instead, I stepped closer, feeling the heat of her presence against my skin. “Then we have something to discuss.”

Mizora arched a brow. “Do we?”

I folded my arms, feeling the weight of my next words. I hoped I still remember the scene correctly. “Clause Z, Section 13.”

Mizora stilled. The flames around us seemed to freeze in place for a moment, time itself holding its breath.

Wyll frowned. “What?”

I didn't look away from Mizora, watching as her eyes narrowed, amusement flickering into something more calculating. The air between us crackled with unseen energy.

I continued, each word deliberate and clear. “‘If the soul-binder consents to separation, she will release the soul-bearer from all obligation within six months.’” I smiled, slow and deliberate. “That is part of your contract, isn’t it?”

Mizora's wings twitched, a subtle tell that I'd struck true. The scent of brimstone intensified. “My, my. Someone has been reading the fine print.” Her voice was light, but her eyes were reassessing me with newfound interest.

Wyll was still staring at me, bewildered. His hand had unconsciously risen to his chest, where I knew his pact mark burned beneath his clothing. “How do you—”

I raised a hand, silencing him for now. “You want to be freed. We want Wyll out of this contract.” I tilted my head. “I’d say that gives us some room for negotiation.”

Around us, our companions had gone utterly still, watching the exchange with varying degrees of shock and interest. Gale's eyes were wide, while Lae'zel looked grudgingly impressed. Astarion's lips had curved into a small, appreciative smile.

Mizora's lips pressed together, but I could see the gears turning. She wasn't dismissing the idea outright, which meant I had her attention. Her wings folded slightly, a subconscious gesture of consideration.

I took another step. “One month.”

Mizora laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, darling, let’s not get greedy.”

I clenched my jaw, feeling the weight of Wyll's future in my hands. “Six months is too long.” My voice dropped lower. “And you know it.”

Mizora considered me for a long moment, her golden eyes searching mine for weakness, for deception. Then she exhaled dramatically, a sound like wind through a cavern. “Three.”

I glanced at Wyll, whose expression was still shifting between confusion and stunned disbelief. 

“What do you say, Wyll?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His eyes was wide, his expression a tangled mix of hope, fear. He swallowed hard, as if struggling to find his voice.

“Three months,” he repeated, as though testing the words, making sure they were real. Then, more desperate—“And you’ll honor it?”

“Oh, Wyll,” she purred, “Have I ever gone back on my word?”

No one dignified that with an answer.

The silence dragged, until finally, Wyll gave a short, reluctant nod. “Fine. Three months.”

Mizora clapped her hands together, a delighted gleam in her eye. “Wonderful! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an imprisonment to escape.” She smirked. “See you soon, darlings.”

With a crackle of energy and the scent of sulfur, she vanished.

The moment she was gone, Wyll turned to me, still staring as though I’d grown a second head. “How in the hells do you know all of that?” His voice wavered slightly. “That clause—I didn’t even know it existed.”

The others moved closer now, their faces full of questions. Gale's expression was particularly shrewd, as if pieces of a puzzle were falling into place.

I hesitated, scrambling for something, anything that sounded reasonable. “I, uh—” I cleared my throat. “I read a book, about the intricacies of infernal contracts. Couldn’t sleep one night at camp, so I memorized a few things. That clause just… stuck with me.” I shrugged, hoping the gesture appeared more nonchalant than I felt. “The way she approached us, her urgency—it seemed too personal. I took a gamble.”

Wyll continued to stare, disbelief etched into every line of his face. Freya, on the other hand, just looked proud.

“Well, well,” Astarion drawled, stepping closer, his smirk widening. “That was quite the display. So commanding, so deliciously devious…” He tilted his head, eyes dark with amusement—and with something far more wicked. “If I didn’t know any better, darling, I’d think you were trying to get me all worked up.”

I shot him a flat look, though the corner of my mouth twitched. “I think you do that just fine on your own.”

He let out a low, pleased hum. “Mmm, perhaps. But watching you outmaneuver a devil? Now that’s the kind of thing that makes a man weak in the knees.” His fangs flashed as he grinned. “Do feel free to boss me around anytime.”

Gale let out a weary sigh. “Gods help us.”

I rolled my eyes, but Astarion just winked at me, clearly enjoying every second of this.

Wyll, still reeling, let out a breath. “A win,” he echoed, half to himself. His gaze met mine, searching. “You really think she’ll keep her word?”

I hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “She has to.”

Because if there was one thing I’d learned from playing this game before, it was that contracts—especially infernal ones—were everything.

And this time, I intended to make damn sure Wyll got out of his.

Chapter Text

My fingers were idly tracing the strap of my satchel as I took stock of what we had gathered. Supplies, weapons, anything that might aid us in the Gauntlet of Shar. My stomach twisted as I counted our meager resources for the third time. It wasn't enough. It never felt like enough.

I turned, my gaze landing on Shadowheart. 

She sat apart from the others, near the edge of the Inn where the grass gave way to rocky terrain. Her hands were curled around a simple piece of cloth—her gloves, I realized. She was turning them over in her fingers, smoothing the fabric with an almost obsessive precision, her expression calm but her shoulders tense with unspoken weight.

A part of me hesitated. Shadowheart had a way of closing herself off when things weighed on her, building walls so practiced they seemed almost natural. She would either deflect or retreat further into herself, and I wasn't sure which response I'd be met with.

Still, I crossed the space between us, the dew-dampened grass crushing softly beneath my boots. I settled down beside her, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to give her space.

“Hey,” I murmured.

She glanced at me briefly before returning her gaze to the gloves. “Hey.” The word was quiet, almost lost in the morning air, but there was a tension in it that belied her casual tone.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The quiet stretched, comfortable but heavy with unspoken thoughts.

“You’ve been quiet,” I finally saidd. “More than usual.”

Shadowheart exhaled, shaking her head slightly. The motion caused a strand of hair to fall across her face, but she made no move to brush it away. “I suppose I have.” She hesitated, then met my eyes. “We're close now. To Shar. To... whatever she intends for me.”

I nodded, choosing my words carefully. “And how do you feel about that?”

Her fingers stilled against the cloth, knuckles whitening slightly. A muscle in her jaw twitched. “It should be an honor. A blessing.” Her voice was steady, but there was something fragile that threatened to crack. “I have devoted everything to her. My purpose, my very being.”

I waited, sensing she wasn't done, watching as emotions flickered across her face like shadows.

Shadowheart's jaw tightened. “So why do I feel like I'm walking toward something I don't understand?” The admission was quiet, barely there, but it hung between us like a physical thing.

I reached out, resting a hand lightly over hers. She didn't pull away. Instead, I felt the slightest tremor pass through her fingers. “Maybe you need to decide for yourself what this means to you, instead of what you've been told it should mean.”

She sighed, something like a laugh, but the sound held years of doubt carefully buried beneath devotion. “Shar knows what's best for me. She always has.” Her voice hardened at the edges, as if trying to convince herself as much as me.

“But do you know what's best for you?” I kept my voice gentle, but the question landed between us with the weight of a stone dropped in still water.

The morning breeze stirred her hair, but she seemed frozen in place, caught between anger and something that looked dangerously like fear. “It doesn’t matter what I think.“ Each word was clipped, precise, a defense against the uncertainty beneath.

“But it does.” I leaned forward slightly, trying to catch her gaze again. “It matters more than anything.”

She scoffed, shaking her head as she finally looked at me—her green eyes held something almost wounded. “I knew you'd say that.” She spat the last words like they were poison. “Always prodding at wounds best left alone.”

It stung more than I cared to admit, but I didn't let it show. Instead, I held her gaze steadily. “Maybe because I think you deserve answers. Real ones. Not just the ones you've been given.”

Shadows deepening in the hollows of her face. “I don't need you putting doubts in my head.” Her voice dropped lower, almost a hiss. “Do you have any idea what it's like? To have faith be the only constant thing in your life, and then to feel it... wavering?”

“I think they were already there,” I softened my voice, but the words still felt like a challenge. “The doubts. I'm just the first person who's acknowledged them.”

Her eyes glistened for a moment before she blinked rapidly, composing herself with visible effort. “I should finish preparing.“ She stood abruptly, pulling her gloves back on with sharp, jerky movements. The leather creaked in protest.

I recognized the dismissal for what it was. The wall slamming back into place, brick by brick, mortared with fear and years of conditioning.

“Alright,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. The morning air had left my legs slightly stiff, but I stood my ground. “But if you ever want to talk—”

“I won't need to,” she cut in, but there was a slight waver in her voice that betrayed her. Our eyes met one final time, and in that brief moment, I saw something beneath the anger—a silent plea I couldn't quite decipher.

I held her gaze for a moment longer, hoping that something had gotten through. That somewhere beneath all that armor was a woman who wanted to be free of her own chains.

Then, without another word, I turned back toward Inn, feeling her eyes on my back long after I'd walked away.

Chapter Text

I walked straight into the next tension.

Wyll had stopped mid-conversation with Karlach, his hand frozen in a half-completed gesture, both of them watching the scene unfolding by the fire with wary anticipation. Even Astarion, usually quick with a sardonic comment, stood silent and watchful, his crimson eyes narrowed with unusual intensity. Gale had closed his spellbook, all pretense of study abandoned.

Halsin stood near the fire, his expression set in hard lines that seemed foreign on his usually serene features. The gentle druid I had come to know was gone. His hands, normally so steady in healing, were clenched at his sides, knuckles white with restraint. Across from him, Minthara stood, her chin lifted in defiance, her posture carefully composed but unmistakably tense

She had only just arrived. I could still see the dust of the road on her boots, the slight dishevelment of her armor. A thin scratch ran along her cheekbone, fresh enough that it hadn't fully healed.

This confrontation was bound to happen sooner or later, I believed. The tension had been building since we first considered allowing her to join us, a powder keg waiting for a spark.

Freya stood to the side, arms crossed, watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. Her fingers drummed against her arm—a tell I'd learned meant she was incredibly irritated

Halsin's voice was low, measured, but there was an edge beneath it that reminded me of thunder before a storm. “She would have commanded her minions to slaughter everyone in the grove, given the chance. It was only because of Kagha’s foolishness that she was denied her bloody prize.

Minthara’s voice was steady, calmer than Halsin's. “It was the Absolute that directed my hand toward your grove—the same Absolute that I am sworn to destroy now that I am free of its influence.” Her gaze was grew softer, something I haven't seen on Minthara before. “I have no quarrel with you.”

“Free?” Halsin let out a breath that was nearly a scoff. The fire behind him sparked violently, as if responding to his anger, sending embers dancing into the night air. “The Absolute was just an excuse to indulge your base instincts. You shall find another.”

Minthara’s lips pressed together, and for a moment, something like genuine pain flashed across her features, cracking her perfect mask. “Lolth has discarded me, and the cult of the Absolute abused me.” Her voice sharpened, like a blade dragged over stone. “If you stand against them, you stand with me.”

Halsin’s jaw tightened. “I am no stranger to the Underdark. Cruelty comes to Lolth’s followers as naturally as breathing. I have seen it—experienced it.”

“Spare me your sanctimony, druid,” Minthara shot back. “You kill to preserve your natural order, do you not? Or are the claws and fangs simply for show?”

I stepped forward, feeling the weight of every eye in camp turn to me. Even the ground felt uneven beneath my feet, as if the very earth was uncertain of what would come next. “Sending her away is a death sentence.” I said firmly. “If the Absolute regains her, she won’t have the will to fight it. She’ll be a puppet again.”

Halsin’s gaze snapped to mine, and I saw centuries of wisdom warring with present pain. “And you would risk her staying? You would let her walk among us after what she has done? After what she planned for the grove? For the children?” His voice broke slightly on the last word.

I felt the weight of my choice pressing down on me. I wanted to believe that Minthara deserved a chance—not because I was naive, but because I knew what it meant to be chained to a fate not truly your own. And I needed her. Her knowledge, her strength, her hatred for the Absolute—it would be vital in the battles ahead. Against the big three. Against everything waiting in the shadows. I had hoped Halsin would understand, that he would find enough empathy in his heart to work together, even through hatred.

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

A flicker of something passed through Halsin’s eyes—disappointment? Frustration? Maybe both. Behind him, I saw Gale shift uncomfortably, his fingers tracing protective symbols in the air, while Lae’zel watched with sharp interest, her hand resting on the hilt of her weapon.

“If I leave,” Minthara spoke again, her voice quieter but carrying an edge of desperation I had never heard from her before, “I die.” She hesitated. “No… worse than death. If I leave, if I am not protected from the Absolute’s voice as you are, then it will take me again. Body, mind, and soul.” Her fingers twitched at her sides, and I noticed for the first time the fading bruises on her knuckles—evidence of fights we hadn’t seen. “And I would rather die than return to that.” The admission seemed to cost her, each word dragged from somewhere deep and wounded.

For the first time, something like hesitation crossed Halsin's features.

“I am not without sympathy…” Halsin exhaled, his voice quieter now, but still resolute. “But the risk is too great. We may share a foe, but we cannot be allies.”

He looked at me then. “I am loathe to put an ultimatum to you, but either Minthara or I must leave. I shall honour your choice, whatever it may be.”

I looked away. I wanted to believe in redemption. I had to. If people were only the sum of their worst moments, then what hope was there for anyone? For me? Minthara had been a weapon, yes—but every one of us carried blood on our hands, ghosts that lingered in the quiet moments between battle and rest. The only difference was whose name we had whispered when we struck the killing blow.

Still, a part of me had hoped—naively—that Halsin, of all people, would understand. That his empathy, his wisdom, would allow him to see past vengeance and recognize the larger battle ahead. That we could all move forward together. But looking at him now, his face carved from stone, I knew I had already lost him.

And maybe I had lost something in myself, too.

My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms.

Stand by your choice.

“I'm sorry Halsin. Minthara stays.”

The words were simple. But it carried the weight of everything I believed, everything I was willing to sacrifice.

Even if, deep down, I was afraid of what it would cost me.

Halsin’s shoulders dropped slightly, as if a great weight had settled upon them. Then, finally, he shook his head, the movement heavy with finality. “If that is your wish, so be it. I sincerely hope I am proven wrong, but I cannot remain in order to find out.”

I saw a mixture of respect and sorrow in his eyes that made my throat constrict. “Thank you for all you have done. And for Thaniel. May the Oak Father preserve you throughout the challenges that await. You shall be in my prayers, always.”

There was no anger in his tone—only certainty, and perhaps a touch of regret that cut deeper than rage ever could.

Something in my chest tightened. I thought of all the battles we had fought side by side, all the nights spent by the fire listening to his stories, him guiding us through the darkness. But I nodded, accepting the consequence of my choice.

Then, with a slow breath, he turned away, gathering his few possessions with deliberate movements that spoke of countless departures throughout his long life.

Freya hesitated, caught between loyalties. She glanced between me and Halsin, conflict written across her face. Her hand reached out, almost touching my arm, then dropped back to her side. “I followed you this far, but gods help me, I don’t know if I can understand you here.” Her voice was rough with emotion. “Some choices can’t be unmade.” Then, she turned and followed after Halsin, her steps heavy with reluctance.

Silence settled over us like a heavy blanket. Minthara’s gaze flickered to me across the fire. There was something I couldn’t quite name—perhaps understanding, perhaps respect, perhaps the weight of a debt she wasn’t sure how to carry.

I looked away first, watching as Halsin’s figure disappeared into the darkness, taking with him a certainty I no longer had.

Chapter Text

I needed to get away. 

The fire crackled behind me, its warmth pressing against my back, but I couldn’t stand to be near it any longer. The air felt thick, suffocating. Every glance, every unspoken thought hanging in the silence made my skin itch. I wasn’t ready for their judgment—spoken or not.

I stepped past the edge of the Inn, letting the shadows swallow me. I needed space, needed to breathe, to think without feeling the weight of my own decision pressing down on me.

I barely made it a dozen paces before a voice cut through the quiet.

“You know, if you wanted to be alone, you picked a poor spot.”

I stiffened, my pulse jumping before I turned. 

Could I be not left alone for one goddamn minute in this world? What cruel joke is that?

Jaheira leaned against a thick oak, arms crossed, watching me with that knowing gaze of hers. She looked comfortable there, like she’d been waiting.

“I didn’t think anyone would follow,” I muttered, annoyed.

She tilted her head slightly. “I didn’t follow. I was already here.”

Of course she was.

Jaheira pushed off the tree and stepped toward me. “So. You made your choice.”

It wasn’t a question. Did she watch from afar?

A humorless laugh escaped me. “Did I?” I glanced back, where Minthara sat apart from the others, the light flickering over her expression. “Because no matter what I did, I was losing something.”

Jaheira studied me, her silence stretching just long enough to make my frustration bubble over. 

“That’s war ,” she said at last. “You fight, you bleed, and sometimes you leave people behind. It’s never easy, and it’s never clean.” She paused, her voice quieter. “But you already knew that.”

How should I know that? I’ve never had to make choices like this, let alone live through war? Before all this—before mind flayers and tadpoles and gods—I had been privileged. Naïve. A young woman who thought herself clever, who believed she understood hardship because she had seen glimpses of it from a safe distance. My biggest worries had been rent, relationships, maybe what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Even the betrayals I’d suffered, the whispers behind my back, the judgment in my previous life—none of it had prepared me for this.

For war.

Now I was bleeding for my choices, watching others bleed for them, too.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

“I thought Halsin would understand,” I admitted, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

Jaheira let out a breath—not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. Just a quiet sound full of knowing. “Halsin is a good man. But he is also a man who has spent his life tending to things that grow.” Her eyes found mine. “You cannot ask a gardener to shelter a viper in his soil.”

Something in me bristled.

I clenched my jaw. “I don’t think Minthara is a viper.”

Jaheira raised a brow. “Not yet.”

An immediate heat burned through me, and before I could stop myself, the words spilled out. “She wasn’t even given a chance .” I turned to fully face her, bitterness seeping into my tone. “She’s fought her way back to herself, she’s trying —and none of you can see past what she was forced to do.”

Jaheira’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in her eyes, something measuring. “ Forced ?”

“Yes.” I stepped forward, heart pounding. “How is it any different from someone being turned into a mind flayer? When someone is taken, shaped into something they never wanted to be?” My voice wavered, but I held her gaze. “Or are we only allowed compassion when it suits us?”

Jaheira exhaled, slow and even, like she was reminding herself to keep her patience. “Compassion does not erase consequence.”

I scoffed. “Oh, but it’s fine when it’s you , isn’t it?” I threw a hand toward her. “You were a Harper, Jaheira. You made impossible calls. I’m sure you killed for the greater good. How many people judged you for that?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. I knew it was a low blow, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“And Halsin?” I continued, my chest tight. “He talks about the innocents lost, but what about the goblins we killed? I bet not all of them were monsters. Not all of them had a choice .” I shook my head. “But no one questions that. No one questions our own bloodstained hands.”

The face of that tiefling girl slipped into my mind again. I pushed it down as hard as I could.

All the while, Jaheira studied me in silence. I hated how raw I felt. How exposed.

I turned away, crossing my arms over my chest. “I just—I hate the hypocrisy . I hate how easily people decide who is beyond saving.”

Something in my own words struck a deeper chord, rattling loose memories I usually kept buried.

I was staring down at the dirt. “People love to pretend they know who you are,” I whispered. “That you’ll never be anything more than what they decide you are.”

Jaheira sighed, and when she spoke again, there was no judgment in her voice. “You are hoping she chooses another path. That’s admirable,” she paused. “But hope is a dangerous thing to lean on.”

“Then what would you have done?” I asked in return.

She didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her voice was steady, certain. “I have fought too many battles to waste my time on maybes and second chances.” She crossed her arms. “But I have also fought too many battles to ignore the power of change. I have seen men who deserved death become heroes. I have seen noble warriors fall into ruin.” Her expression darkened slightly. “You want to believe Minthara can be more than what she was? Fine. But ask yourself something, Artemis.”

Jaheira stepped closer, her presence grounding, solid. “If the moment comes when she fails—when any of your beloved companions fail—will you be ready to do what must be done?”

A cold knot settled in my stomach. I wanted to answer yes. I needed to. But the truth tangled in my throat, refusing to come out.

Jaheira studied me for a long moment, then nodded, as if she had expected my silence. “Think on it.”

She turned and strode back toward the Last Light Inn, leaving me alone with the weight of my own thoughts. 

Chapter Text

The road ahead was nothing but endless shadows. I had grown accustomed to darkness, but this—this felt different. The entanglements had shifted the dynamics of our little traveling circus in ways that left an undeniable tension in the air. 

I let my gaze drift, scrutinizing the individuals who made up this strange, unwieldy alliance.

Wyll, ever the dutiful son, walked with his usual measured stride, though the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed him. I'd seen that look before—the exhaustion of someone who bore responsibility like a chain around his neck. How noble of him. How utterly miserable.

Karlach, on the other hand, carried her burdens differently. Loud, blazing, a wildfire of laughter and rough edges. But even she had grown quieter, her usual joviality dampened by the decisions that had been made. The glow of her infernal engine pulsed with a subdued rhythm, casting fleeting shadows across the path. I had the distinct impression she was still grappling with the choice to allow Minthara among us. She was the sort who felt things deeply, though she tried to smother it beneath bravado and wry remarks.

Shadowheart—Shar’s ever-devoted pet. She had an certain arrogance that was almost amusing, as if she alone bore the weight of some grand, unknowable truth. That kind of blind faith had always baffled me. To dedicate oneself so wholly to a god, especially one as cruel as hers—it was foolishness, really. And yet, beneath all that devotion, beneath the sarcastic tongue and the veil of secrecy, there was something else. Empathy.

And Gale—ah, our resident scholar, forever caught between pomposity and self-recrimination. He had been the most vocal in expressing his concerns about Minthara, though even he had the sense to know that arguing further was a wasted effort. He kept to himself mostly, his fingers twitching as if itching for a quill or a book to bury himself in. The faint shimmer of arcane energy occasionally rippled around him, not unlike the protective ward he'd drawn during Artemis'... incident in the Grotto. I imagined he'd rather be anywhere else, studying anything else, instead of trudging toward whatever horrors awaited us in that tomb.

Then there was Lae'zel, who, predictably, cared little for the politics of the situation. To her, strength dictated worth, and Minthara was still standing, which was apparently enough. I had to admire that kind of ruthless simplicity, even if it lacked a certain nuance.

My eyes flickered toward Minthara herself. She was difficult to read, her expression a careful mask of neutrality, but there was no mistaking the way she held herself—wary, poised for a fight even when there wasn't one. She had not yet been accepted, not truly, and I wondered if she ever would be. There was something familiar in her isolation—a reflection of my own position not so long ago.

Oh and Freya? Now, she was an interesting one. Most githyanki were blunt instruments—quick to anger, quicker to violence, and utterly convinced of their own superiority. But her? She was different. Calculating. Smarter. She had the same ruthless efficiency as the others of her kind, but there was patience in her too. A willingness to observe, to weigh a situation before cutting it apart. It also meant she wasn’t easily swayed by sentimentality. And yet, she usually followed Artemis’ lead without hesitation. That was what made her truly dangerous—not her strength, not her discipline, but her loyalty. The quiet, unwavering kind.
Loyalty like that could be a weapon or a weakness. I wondered which it would be.

Halsin had left with a rather dramatic exit, in my opinion, though the druid had always carried himself with the kind of gravitas that made it clear he saw himself as the voice of wisdom. And yet, for all his talk of balance, of nuance, he refused to bend even an inch.

A shame, really. He was useful.

And then there was Artemis, who had chosen Minthara. It wasn't a surprise, not truly—she had always carried this stubborn belief in second chances, in redemption. It was foolish, and yet… admirable, in its own way. I watched her now, walking ahead with that determined stride, though I could see the weight of her decision in the set of her shoulders. She carried too much—the burden of her choices, responsibilities, and that strange, terrible power that had erupted from her in the Grotto. I had never seen anything like it—that scream that had bent reality itself, that had brought even Lae'zel to her knees. It had terrified and fascinated me in equal measure.

And then there was me. Someone who, through all the chaos, seemed worth it enough for Artemis to care for, and that was the part I couldn't seem to make sense of.

She had seen me at my most monstrous. The hunger. The desperation. The cruelty. And still, she stayed with me. She reached for me in the quiet moments, offered me something I barely understood. A tenderness I had not been afforded in centuries, if ever.

And I was beginning to want it.

That was the problem, wasn't it? I wanted her, but in ways I wasn't prepared for. Not just her body—though that was certainly part of it—but her presence, her laughter, the way her mind worked, sharp and quick, always surprising me. I wanted the way she looked at me, like I was someone worth knowing beyond the charm and the fangs. I wanted to believe in whatever she saw when she looked at me.

But she wasn't staying. None of this was real, not truly. She had another life, one waiting for her far beyond this world. And I—

I didn't know how to handle that. The thought coiled inside me like a parasite as I walked. 

I glanced at her. She looked exhausted. More than that—frayed at the edges, like a thread pulled too tight and ready to snap. She hadn't spoken much since we left Last Light Inn, her gaze fixed somewhere far ahead, lost in thoughts I couldn't decipher.

It was an infuriating thing, this sudden, unbidden awareness of her moods. How my gaze sought her out instinctively. How my thoughts lingered, turning over each of our conversations, each touch, each lingering glance.

I knew what this was. I wasn't a fool. I just didn't know what to do with it.

Beside me, Freya studied me with an amused glint in her eye.

“So,” she began, her voice casual, “what do you think of all this?”

I waved a hand dismissively toward the horizon. “The view is quite stunning, isn’t it?”

Her eyes flicked to the looming mausoleum ahead. “Right. Because tombs and impending doom are such a feast for the senses.”

I let out a low chuckle. “Well, it certainly adds a touch of drama to the landscape, don’t you think?”

She snorted softly, clearly unimpressed. “You know that’s not what I meant, Astarion.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific, darling. Our lives are a never-ending parade of catastrophes.”

A smirk played at the corners of her mouth. “Minthara. Artemis deciding to let her stay. I’m curious—what’s your take on that?”

I hummed, tilting my head slightly. “Oh, I don’t particularly care either way. Let the drow stay, let her go—it makes no difference to me.”

Freya’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”

I sighed dramatically, my hand coming to rest on the hilt of my dagger—a habit more than a threat. “Fine. If I must have an opinion… she’s useful.And I do enjoy a good bit of chaos now and then.” My lips curled. “And what an absolutely fascinating little fracture this has created among our dear companions.”

Freya rolled her eyes. “Always so theatrical.” Her gaze drifted toward Artemis, her expression softening ever so slightly. “But I get it. I understand why Artemis made that choice.”

“Do you?” I asked, my voice laced with skepticism.

She nodded. “I’ve thought about it. I don’t trust Minthara. But I trust Artemis. And I think… she’s tired of seeing people cast aside. Left behind.”

A muscle in my jaw tightened, but I kept my expression carefully neutral. “How very noble of her.”

Freya’s eyes flicked back to me. “She’s not the only one who feels that way.”

I scoffed. “Oh? Are you implying that I have a sentimental streak?”

She shrugged, a hint of a smirk on her lips. “Just… don’t let your own issues cloud your judgment, Astarion.”

I opened my mouth, a retort forming—something sarcacstic, something dismissive. But nothing came.

Instead, I simply exhaled and looked away.

Chapter Text

This place felt heavy. It wasn't just death that lingered here—it was grief, old and festering, seeping into the stones, curling through the stale air like breath from something long dead.

And yet… it wasn’t silent.

Not for me.

Beneath the hush of my companions' careful movements, I heard them—the whispers. They slid through the cracks in the walls, skittered beneath the ancient tombs, an aching, sorrowful melody just beneath my hearing. I clenched my fists, willed my breath steady. A cold shiver traced down my spine.

No one else seemed to notice. Yet.

“Gods, this place reeks,”  Karlach muttered, wrinkling her nose. “Like someone’s been keeping old bones in a damp cellar. Which, I guess, they have.”

“It’s a mausoleum, darling,” Astarion said, stepping around a fallen stone slab as if he were navigating the ballroom of a palace. “Old bones are the entire point.”

Karlach shot him a glare. “Doesn’t mean it has to be so… I don’t know. Wrong. It’s like the air itself is rotting.”

“That would be Myrkul’s influence,” Minthara said.

We all turned to look at her. The drow stood stiff-backed, arms crossed, her red eyes unreadable. She had been quiet since we entered, staring at the darkened hallways and the grotesque sculptures of bones.

“Death is meant to be a transition,” she continued. “An ending, yes, but a return to the cycle. Myrkul’s touch twists that—it hoards, it stagnates. There is no peace in this place. Only greed.”

“Well,” Wyll muttered, eyes flicking over the profane sculptures, “whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

“That makes two of us,” Karlach added.

Astarion, for his part, let out a quiet chuckle. “Gods, it’s just a few corpses. Hardly our most gruesome discovery.”

“Oh?” Lae'zel arched a brow. “You seem oddly at ease, considering this place is steeped in death.”

He flashed a sharp grin. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s rather nostalgic, really.”

Shadowheart exhaled a small laugh at that, stepping forward to trace her fingers over an emblem of Shar carved into the wall. Her expression softened—if only slightly.

“Ketheric built this place in grief,” she mused. “His pain led him to her. Shar.”

“His pain led him to murder,” Wyll countered, tone cool.

Shadowheart’s fingers curled against the stone before she pulled her hand away.

I glanced between them, feeling that all-too-familiar tension creeping in again. I didn't have time for another argument, not here. My pulse had begun to thrum in my ears, the weight of the whispers pressing heavier against my mind.

Then, beneath it all—another presence.

I turned toward the center of the room, my breath catching.

A single sarcophagus. White marble, veined with deep gold. A woman’s figure carved into its lid, serene, peaceful. But there was no peace here.

Melodia Thorm.

The sorrow in the air thickened, curling around my throat. My vision blurred for half a second, the edges of the world smudging. The temperature plummeted, a bone-deep chill that seemed to affect only me. And then, just as quickly, a voice—

Soft. Faint.

“He never meant to… I tried… I tried to…”

I blinked, heart lurching. The voice wavered, barely more than a breath. But it was there. She was here.

A hand brushed my shoulder. I jolted.

“You all right?”

Freya. Her worried gaze flicked over me, brow furrowed. She hadn’t missed my reaction.

I swallowed hard, forcing my expression into something neutral. “Yeah,” I said, too quickly.

Freya didn’t look convinced, but she said nothing.

Instead, she turned toward the three large paintings on the walls. “I assume these are important,” she mused.

Astarion hummed in agreement, stepping forward to inspect them. “Ah, yes. Our dear Ketheric’s grand tragedy. From glory to ruin, to the service of a dark god. Poetic, really.”

Shadowheart’s lips pressed together. “He lost his family,” she said quietly.

“And sold his soul for it,” Minthara finished. Her gaze flicked to me.  I turned to the paintings. One by one, I pressed the buttons beneath them.

Moonrise Towers. Grief. General.

The stones groaned. Dust spilled from the seams in the walls as the hidden door began to shift.

Freya sighed. “Well, that wasn’t ominous at all.”

The door opened fully, revealing the lift within.

I stared at the darkness beyond the lift, my skin prickling. The whispers had gone silent, but something worse had taken their place—a weight, thick and pressing, the echo of something waiting below.

Karlach looked down as well, her face turning into a grimace. “I hate this already.”

Wyll nodded grimly. “No argument here.”

Shadowheart stepped forward, her expression carefully blank. “It’s the way forward,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “The Gauntlet of Shar waits below.”

Astarion tsked. “Oh, let’s. I so love stepping into ancient, cursed tombs with a reputation for consuming the unfortunate souls who enter.” He waved a hand. “After you.”

Chapter Text

The Gauntlet of Shar had a way of burrowing under your skin. It wasn’t just the shadows that clung to the walls, shifting when you weren’t looking. It was something deeper—a sense that the very place was watching, waiting.

We had navigated through obscured rooms and forgotten halls, past puzzles and doors that yielded only to those willing to embrace the darkness. The deeper we ventured, the more I felt it—a heaviness coiling around my ribs, slithering beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.

And then there were the whispers.

They had been with me since the Mausoleum, but here, they grew stronger. No longer faint murmurs slipping through cracks, but something closer, like breath against my ear. They didn’t belong to the dead; they belonged to the dark.

I hadn’t shared this with the others.

“What a charming little ruin,” Astarion murmured as we passed beneath a crumbling archway. “Desolate and absolutely filled with deadly traps. I can almost hear the priestesses whispering, ‘ Come, join our wonderful cult. You’ll fit right in .’”

Karlach nodded. “I’ll tell you this much—I’m getting real tired of being tested by gods.” She gestured ahead, where another doorway yawned open. “When are we done with this bullshit?”

Minthara answered before Shadowheart could. “The Gauntlet is meant to strip away weakness,” she said, her voice steady. “It will not end until we have proved ourselves worthy.”

“What a twisted game of power,” Gale muttered.

He wasn’t wrong. Now, we stood before another trial.

My breath caught as we entered a circular chamber. I recognized it immediately—reflections that weren’t reflections. They stood poised and waiting—perfect mirrors of ourselves, but their eyes... their eyes were empty.

A prickle of unease crept up the back of my neck.

“What in the hells is this?” Karlach muttered, tightening her grip on her axe.

Shadowheart’s expression remained unreadable, but she exhaled softly. “The Self-Same Trial.”

Minthara nodded. “A battle of the self.”

Astarion arched a brow. “Oh, delightful. We get to fight ourselves now? What a treat.”

For a long moment, no one moved. Then, the figures stepped forward—not in unison, but each considering us, deciding something.

And then they attacked.

My own scythe came for my throat.

I barely managed to throw myself back in time, the blade slicing through the space where my neck had been a second before. My twin advanced without hesitation, the wicked curve of her weapon gleaming in the dim torchlight. She moved with an ease I lacked—fluid, sure-footed, as if she had wielded this weapon a hundred times longer than I had. Unfair .

I raised my own scythe in time to meet the next strike, but the force of it nearly knocked the weapon from my hands. My grip faltered, fingers tightening instinctively, struggling to hold steady. The impact rattled up my arms, throwing me off balance, and she capitalized on it immediately, driving forward, pressing the attack with relentless precision.

She moved the way I should —the way I had wanted to since first picking up this weapon. Every step calculated, every strike purposeful. There was no hesitation in her, no second-guessing. She didn’t have to think—she just acted.

I gritted my teeth, trying to focus, trying to predict her next strike. But she wasn’t just faster. She knew me. Every hesitation, every instinct, every bad habit. When I overcommitted, she was already sidestepping. When I tried to deflect, she turned my momentum against me.

And then she raised a hand.

Dark tendrils of necrotic energy crackled at her fingertips, the same magic I had wielded countless times before. But when she cast it, there was no uncertainty, no delay. Shadows twisted and lashed out, striking me square in the chest. Cold flooded my veins, hollowing me out from the inside, my limbs stiffening as if the life had been momentarily wrenched from my body.

I gasped, stumbling back, vision swimming.

She didn’t relent. 

My arms ached, my movements sluggish from the lingering effects of her magic, and she knew it. I could see it in her expression—or rather, the lack of one. There was no arrogance, no satisfaction, only certainty.

A whisper curled through my mind, cold and cruel.

“You hesitate.”

Her blade came for my ribs. I twisted away just in time, but the edge of the scythe still scraped against my leathers, the sting sharp against my side.

“You falter.”

I tried to create distance, but she moved with me, closing the gap before I could even raise my weapon.

“You don’t deserve this power.”

She caught me off guard.

Her palm slammed into my chest, another burst of necrotic energy surging through me like frostbite in my veins. The force sent me sprawling, my back hitting the cold stone floor. My scythe clattered from my grasp, spinning out of reach.

I struggled to move, but my limbs felt heavy, weighed down by the lingering chill of her magic. Above me, she stood poised, weapon raised, my own face staring down with quiet, emotionless judgment.

"You will always be weak."

The scythe came down.

A burst of instinct surged through me—pure, primal survival. I flung out a hand, reaching for anything, and darkness answered.

Shadows erupted from my palm, thick and writhing, colliding with her in a violent blast. For the first time, she stumbled back, her footing briefly lost.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

I rolled to the side, ignoring the burning ache in my limbs as I scrambled for my weapon. My fingers wrapped around the familiar weight of it just as she recovered, her expression unchanged.

She lunged. And this time, I didn’t retreat.

I met her head-on, our scythes colliding with a force that sent sparks skittering across the stone. I adjusted my grip, shifting my stance, trying to mimic the certainty in her movements. She pressed down, trying to overpower me, but I threw my weight into the clash, forcing her back.

She stepped wrong. A miscalculation—small, but just enough to throw her off balance.

I didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp twist, I turned my scythe, dragging the blade through her ribs. The moment it struck, her body shattered—not like flesh and bone breaking, but like a mirror fracturing, shards of shadow splintering away into nothingness.

The cold that had settled in my chest vanished.

The whispers faded.

I staggered, breath coming in ragged gulps, my hands still trembling from the fight. Around me, the others were finishing their own battles. 

One by one, the reflections fell, their forms dissolving like mist at dawn.

Silence settled over the chamber, thick and heavy.

Astarion was the first to break it, letting out a loud sigh. “That was thoroughly unpleasant.”

Gale scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “Unpleasant? That was miserable. ”

Freya shot me a glance, eyes filled with concern. “You good?”

My body ached from the fight, the echoes of my twin’s magic still lingering beneath my skin. “Yeah,” I murmured. “I think so.”

But something still felt off.

The Gauntlet of Shar was filled with illusions, with tricks, with tests designed to push us toward the darkness. And this—this had been one of them.

Yet, as I scanned the chamber, the shadows still clung to the walls, deeper than before. They didn’t fade. They lingered, curling at the edges of the room, waiting.

And the whispers—

They weren’t truly gone. They had only gone silent.

Chapter Text

Yurgir stood at the center of the chamber like a living monument to ruin. His massive, armored form was still, his feline features twisted in irritation, as if our very presence was an inconvenience rather than a threat. His Merregon soldiers flanked him, their infernal visages unreadable behind their helms, weapons held at perfect attention.

But the moment his slitted eyes found us, something changed. His ears flattened against his skull. His nostrils flared, and his expression soured into something instinctively hostile.

“You reek of him.” he snarled, voice like gravel over steel.

“You are his pawns,” Yurgir continued, the sheer hatred in his voice thick enough to choke on. “Sent to mock me? To revel in my torment?”

Freya didn’t flinch. “We know about your contract.”

His fur bristled. His claws twitched toward the hilt of his sword. “You know nothing.”

I took a slow step forward. “He won’t let you go. No matter how much you bleed for him.” I said softly. “No matter how much you bleed for him. No matter how many you kill in his name.”

“Darling,” Astarion murmured next to me, low and warning. “What are you doing?”

His voice was quiet, careful. He thought I had compassion for Yurgir.

He thought I was trying to save him. But he didn't see the way my fingers curled around my ring, the metal warming against my skin.

I wasn't here to fight Yurgir. I wasn't here to save him.
I was here to kill him. For him.

My scythe materialized in my hands with a whisper of shadow, and I lunged forward. The blade's arc was heavy, not precise, but it struck true. It cut deep, sinking into his side with a wet, tearing sound that sent a spray of hot blood across my face. The impact shuddered through my arms, the blade catching on bone before ripping free.

Yurgir staggered but didn't fall. His claws wrenched into my shoulder with brutal force, yanking me forward with a snarl that sprayed spittle across my face. His teeth bared in fury, yellowed fangs inches from my throat. I barely twisted away in time, feeling the rush of air as his jaws snapped shut where my neck had been a heartbeat before.

And then the hall erupted into chaos.

Merregons surged forward, swords unsheathing in perfect, mechanical unison. The sound of metal scraping against metal filled the air as they advanced, their movements unnaturally synchronized.

Nessa leapt from the shadows with a feral scream, her form blurring midair before she collided with the closest one. They went down in a tangle of limbs and armor, her claws tearing through infernal flesh with wet, ripping sounds. Blood—dark and thick—splattered across the stone floor.

She was taking revenge after we revealed that Yurgir has been dosing her, using succubus spittle to be his lust toy. Disgusting. 

Karlach roared as she met another head-on, her axe biting deep into its chest with a sickening crunch. The Merregon staggered, black ichor pouring from the wound, but still it fought, its sword slashing across Karlach's arm. She didn't flinch, her engine flaring bright as she brought her axe down again, this time cleaving through its helm and the skull beneath.

Freya's staff cracked with magical energy, lightning arcing between three Merregons, their bodies convulsing as the magic tore through them. Gale's hands wove through the air, shaping lightning and ice in rapid succession, his face a mask of concentration as he froze one solid before shattering it with a blast of force.

Yurgir was still standing, blood soaking his fur, his expression twisted with something beyond rage—desperation.

I braced as he lunged again, his massive form blurring with speed. This time, something else cut in.

A flash of movement—Astarion.

His dagger drove deep into Yurgir's ribs, twisting viciously as he used the momentum to dance away from the counterattack. Yurgir let out a pained, guttural growl, but he didn't go down. His tail lashed violently, striking Astarion hard enough to send him flying into a pillar with a sickening crack.

My heart lurched at the sound. “Astarion!”

Yurgir seized the moment of distraction, barreling into me with the force of a battering ram. The air left my lungs in a rush as I slammed into the ground, his weight crushing down on me. His claws dug into my shoulders, pinning me as his jaws descended toward my throat.

I twisted, driving my knee up into his wounded side. He howled in pain, his grip loosening just enough. I slipped my arm free and drove my dagger I had strapped around my thigh up under his jaw.

Yurgir choked, a wet, rattling sound gurgling up from his throat. His golden eyes flared wide with rage, but he didn’t stop. Even with my dagger buried under his jaw, even as dark ichor spilled down my arm in thick, steaming ribbons, he kept fighting.

His claws raked down my side, carving deep. A strangled cry tore from my throat as pain burned through my ribs, my vision swimming red. I tried to twist free, but he was too heavy, his grip unrelenting.

He slammed me down again, skull cracking against stone. My breath fled my lungs in a sharp, stunned wheeze. The chamber blurred around me—torches flickering, shadows stretching, steel clashing in rapid, merciless strikes.

I heard Minthara’s voice, low and cold—

“Weak.”

Then—a flash of silver.

Minthara’s blade sank into Yurgir’s side, twisting viciously.

The Orthon reeled, his claws tearing free of me as he staggered back. His breaths came ragged, choking. But still, he stood.

Gods, why won’t he die?

I forced myself up, my vision swaying. My scythe was out of reach, slick with his blood across the stone floor. My dagger was still lodged in his throat, trembling with each shuddering breath he took.

And yet—he growled low and vicious, his fur bristling as his claws flexed anew.

“I will not fall for him!” he spat, his voice a strangled snarl.

Lightning cracked through the air—Freya’s magic, arcing toward him with terrifying speed. Yurgir twisted at the last moment, avoiding a direct hit, but the bolt grazed his shoulder. His flesh sizzled, a howl ripping from his throat as smoke curled from his burned fur.

Karlach charged, her axe wreathed in fire.

She swung—hard.

The impact sent Yurgir skidding back, but he caught himself, claws digging into the stone. His tail lashed out, catching Karlach across the chest. She grunted, knocked back a step, but her grip tightened on her weapon, teeth bared in a battle-crazed grin.

“I could do this all day, kitty,” she growled.

The Merregons were still coming. Two broke through our defensive line, one making a beeline for Gale. The wizard barely had time to summon a shield before the demon’s blade crashed against it, shattering the barrier in a spray of arcane sparks.

Gale staggered, eyes widening as the Merregon raised its sword again.

A spear burst through its chest before it could finish the swing.

Lae’zel.

She ripped the blade free with a wet, brutal twist, sending the Merregon crumpling. Her armor was slick with blood—both hers and her enemies’—her breaths coming hard and fast. But she barely had time to register the kill before another Merregon slammed into her from behind.

Its sword drove deep into her side.

Her mouth parted—no scream, no cry of pain—only a breath, sharp and strangled.

She staggered.

The Merregon yanked its blade free, and Lae’zel collapsed to her knees. Her hands clutched at the wound, blood gushing through her fingers in thick, glistening waves.

For the first time, she hesitated.

Her gaze flickered—not with fear, but something close to it. Then, her body gave out and she crumpled to the floor, unmoving.

My heart seized, but I had no time to reach her.

Yurgir lunged—straight for me. I didn’t have time to reach for my scythe, didn’t have time to dodge, but I had enough time to react.

I braced, waiting until the last possible second—then dropped low.

He sailed past me, momentum carrying him forward.

I seized my scythe from the ground, gripping it tight.

And as Yurgir turned, snarling, I swung. The blade sang through the air—

—and met flesh.

It sliced clean through his torso, cleaving from his shoulder down through his ribs, severing muscle, bone, and infernal sinew. His body jolted from the impact.

A beat of silence.

Then—his legs collapsed first. The rest of him followed in a sickening slump, folding onto himself like a marionette with its strings cut.

Yurgir choked, blinking slow, unfocused. His mouth opened, but no sound came. Only blood—so much blood—gushing from his wounds, pooling beneath him in a thick, steaming lake.

The moment Yurgir's body slumped against the stone, his remaining Merregons froze. Their movements faltered—joints locking, weapons slipping from their grips. Then, as if an unseen force had severed their ties to existence—

—they collapsed into nothing.

A hollow silence followed, broken only by the ragged breathing of my companions.

Minthara was beside me, her fingers curling around my arm, steadying me. Her grip was firm, her crimson eyes scanning my wounds before flicking back to my face.

“This was your kill,” she murmured, voice unreadable. “How surprising.”

I only blinked up at her, exhausted, blood still running hot down my skin.

It’s done. Yurgir was dead and Raphael’s deal had been sealed. In blood.

Then—

A weak, shuddering gasp.

Lae’zel.

I turned just in time to see her eyes flutter once—then close. Her body went still.

Freya was already dropping to my knees beside her, fingers pressing against her pulse. 
“It there—barely,” she said before turning to Lae'zel again. Her skin was deathly pale beneath the blood.

“We need potions—now!” Wyll shouted.

Gale was already moving, rummaging through his pack with shaking hands. Karlach crouched beside Lae’zel, her own hands hovering over her unmoving form.

Chapter Text

After fighting our way here, we finally reached him.

Balthazar.

His face was a grotesque patchwork of scars, jagged and uneven, as if someone had stitched him together in the dark with shaking hands. Deep, raw-looking wounds crisscrossed his pale, bloated skin, the crude threads holding them shut barely containing what lay beneath. His lips were split and torn, the corners of his mouth yanked into something that might've once been a smirk, but now only looked like a fresh wound refusing to heal.

And his eyes—gods, his eyes.

Sunken deep into his skull, they gleamed like wet stones in the dark. They held something foul, something unnatural, a hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with taking. The longer I stared, the more I felt that same cold shiver that had traced down my spine in the mausoleum—a recognition of something beyond death. The stench of rot that seeped from his robes didn't help either, curling into the air around him like a disease waiting to latch onto the living.
His hands were pale and gnarled, with blackened nails that looked more like claws. They twitched at his sides, eager, like a puppeteer waiting to pull at invisible strings. And around his neck, across his chest, dangled trophies—bones, teeth, things that used to be part of someone.

Balthazar was not a man.

He was a thing pretending at being one. A walking corpse dressed in power, held together not by will, but by something far worse. And he was smiling at us.

“Well,” he drawled, folding his hands together, “I suppose I should thank you.”

My grip tightened on my scythe, the weapon humming with a strange resonance in the presence of so much death. Lae'zel stood beside me, her breaths shallow and pained, a testament to the injuries she had sustained in our last battle. Her wounds were bound tightly, but the grimace on her face revealed the depth of her discomfort. Despite her pain, her eyes burned with determination, refusing to yield to weakness.

“For proving just how uncooperative the Justiciars have become,” he said smoothly. “They were meant to clear the way, but it seems they’ve forgotten their purpose. And so, you dealt with them. How convenient.”

I felt Shadowheart tense beside me.

“True Souls, sent to walk the path. So why not finish what you’ve started? The Gauntlet must be cleared.”

Astarion let out a quiet, mirthless chuckle. “Ah, I see. You want us to do your job for you. I regret to inform you, dear Balthazar, that we are remarkably bad at taking orders.”

Balthazar’s expression didn’t change. “It is not an order. It is an inevitability.”

I stepped forward, feeling the whispers stir at the edges of my mind. “And what of the relic?”

The ghouls flanking him did not move, but something in them bristled, sensing the shift in their master's mood. The temperature in the chamber dropped several degrees.

Balthazar's head tilted ever so slightly. “Relic?”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” I said. “I found your notes. Aylin Nightsong—you keep her bound. And you’ve spent years perfecting your craft in preparation.”

That also attracted the attention of my companions.

Balthazar laughed. It was not a human sound.

It was hollow, rasping, something that scraped against the bones rather than the ears. His amusement was brief, but in that moment, I saw it—that flash of pride beneath his skin, curling like a parasite in his ribcage.

“My,” he murmured, “you have been prying.”

Balthazar chuckled. “I am no fool. You think you know something of my work, but you understand nothing. You see, there are those who practice necromancy, and then there are those who perfect it.” His eyes gleamed with an unnatural light. “I have done what no other has dared. What no god has allowed.”

He lifted a hand, and the air turned cold enough to sting.

The ghouls twitched like marionettes. The thing of flesh beside him shuddered, its hollow chest rising in an unnatural gasp. The shadows along the walls thickened, curling inward, pooling toward him like ink drawn to a well. So it was him all along? 

“And yet,” Balthazar mused, “I suspect you did not come here to marvel at my craft.”

I lifted my scythe.

“No,” I said. “We came to end it.”

Lae'zel straightened beside me. The pain in her eyes was overshadowed by a fierce resolve, a silent promise to see this through to the end.

“Let's get this over with,” she said, before starting the first attack.

Chapter Text

The Shadowfell pressed against us like a physical weight, the atmosphere full with grief and memory. Everything here was wrong—colors leached away, sounds muffled as if heard underwater, even time itself seemed to stretch and contract unpredictably. We had defeated Balthazar and Yurgir, went through trials designed to break both body and spirit, and now we stood before her.

Dame Aylin, the Nightsong. 

She knelt in the center of the chamber, suspended in a cage of shadow and light. Her once-proud form was hunched, her golden hair hanging limp around her face. Yet even diminished, there was something regal about her—a quiet dignity that centuries of imprisonment hadn't managed to break.

Shadowheart stepped forward, her movements stiff, uncertain. Her fingers curled around the Spear of Night, knuckles white with tension. I could see the conflict warring behind her eyes—duty to Shar battling against something deeper, more instinctive.

I caught Freya's eye, giving her the slightest nod. We had discussed this before entering the Gauntlet—how pushing Shadowheart would only harden her resolve, how she needed to make this choice herself. Freya understood, though I could see the tension in her jaw, the worry that our friend might make the wrong choice.

“So,” Shadowheart said, her voice echoing strangely in the chamber. “This is the great heretic.”

Aylin lifted her head, her eyes finding Shadowheart's with unerring precision. “And you are her chosen. Her faithful.” There was no mockery in her tone.

“I am a cleric of Shar,” Shadowheart replied, but her voice wavered slightly.

“Yes,” Aylin said softly. “As was I, once.”

Wait, what?

The chamber fell silent. I could feel the others shifting uneasily behind me—like Astarion's barely contained impatience or Wyll's growing suspicion as he supported Lae'zel.

Shadowheart circled Aylin slowly, her expression unreadable. “You betrayed her. Turned from her teachings.”

“I remembered,” Aylin corrected gently. “I remembered what came before. What she was before.”

Shadowheart's hand moved to her spear, and my heart lurched. I took half a step forward before catching myself.

“You speak heresy,” Shadowheart said, but there was a question in her voice.

“I speak truth,” Aylin replied. “And truth is what she fears most.”

Aylin's eyes softened with recognition as she studied Shadowheart's face. “I see it in you—the same confusion I once felt. You believe they rescued you, don't you?” She shook her head slowly. “That's what they want you to believe. But the truth is that the Sharrans didn't find a lost child in need of salvation. They created one, through ritual and memory manipulation.” Her voice dropped lower. “They didn't save you. They unmade you, so they could rebuild you in their image.”

As they talked about Shadowheart's past, I kept looking over at Freya, who had the same nervous look on her face as I did.

Shadowheart drew her spear in one fluid motion, the metal gleaming dully in the strange half-light of the Shadowfell. “The Lady of Loss demands your life.”

I felt Freya tense beside me, ready to intervene. I placed a hand on her arm, a silent plea for patience. This moment balanced on a knife's edge.

“Does she?” Aylin asked, her gaze never wavering. “Or does she demand your obedience?”

Shadowheart raised her blade, and for a terrible moment, I thought we had miscalculated. That in this timeline, this reality, she would make a different choice.

Then, with a sound that was almost a sob, Shadowheart fell to her knees. The blade clattered to the ground beside her, the sound echoing through the chamber like a bell.

“I can't,” she whispered. “I can't do it.”

Relief flooded through me, so intense it made my knees weak. Shadowheart reached forward with trembling hands, breaking the magical bonds that held Aylin captive.

Aylin reached out, her fingers brushing Shadowheart's cheek with impossible gentleness. “You are what you have always been,” she said. “A seeker of truth.”

The air around us began to shimmer, reality itself bending as the Gauntlet recognized the completion (or failing) of its final trial. Light erupted from beneath our feet, blinding and sudden. The last thing I saw was Aylin flying away.

And then we were falling, tumbling through space and time, the Shadowfell releasing its grip on us with reluctant fingers.

What the hell? Were we not supposed to go through a portal?

We landed hard at the entrance of the mausoleum, the sudden return to our world jarring after the muted tones of the Shadowfell. Shadowheart came seconds later, standing apart from the others, her expression distant, lost in thought.

As the others gathered themselves, I felt a pair of eyes lingering on me longer than they should have.

Wyll.

He stepped closer, voice low so only I could hear. “You need to start being honest with me, Artemis.”

I stiffened, turning to face him fully. There was something guarded in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You knew,” he said once we were out of earshot. “You knew Shadowheart would spare her.”

I didn't insult him by denying it. “I hoped.”

“No.” His voice was firm, unyielding. “You knew. Just like you knew about the Nightsong, about the trials we would face.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping lower. “Just like you knew about my father, about the details of my pact.”

I met his gaze steadily. “Wyll—”

“No more half-truths,” he said. “No more evasions. I deserve better than that. We all do.” His expression softened slightly. “We've followed you, trusted you. But I need to know—what aren't you telling us?”

He was piecing together the impossible knowledge I shouldn’t have had. Wyll was a warlock. He understood deals, secrets, and fate better than most.

He was growing suspicious.

The weight of his question pressed against me, heavier than the Shadowfell had been. I glanced back at the others—at Shadowheart, still processing her choice; at Astarion, watching us with barely concealed curiosity; at Freya, whose loyalty had never wavered despite the mysteries I kept.

“You're right,” I said finally. “You deserve the truth. But now isn't the time.” I gestured toward Moonrise Towers. “We're so close to ending this. Once Ketheric is defeated, once the immediate danger has passed—I promise, I'll tell you everything.”

Wyll studied me for a long moment, weighing my words. “Everything?”

“Everything,” I promised. “But I need you to trust me a little longer.”

Wyll nodded slowly. “After Ketheric, then. No more delays.”

“No more delays,” I echoed.

Chapter Text

The road to Moonrise Towers stretched before us like a wound carved into the landscape, each mile more desolate than the last. Twisted trees clawed at the perpetually overcast sky with branches that looked more like gnarled fingers than wood, their bark weeping a substance that might have been sap or something far more sinister.

Astarion fell into step beside me, his movements deliberately casual.  I could feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a forge, though his expression remained as carefully neutral as always.

“So,” he began, his voice carrying that deceptively light tone he used when he was fishing for information. Each word was perfectly modulated, almost airy. “What did our noble Blade want with you back there? He seemed rather... intense about whatever private conversation you two were having.”

I kept my eyes on the path ahead. “Just strategy talk. Nothing worth repeating”

“Strategy," Astarion repeated, drawing out each syllable like he was rolling them across his tongue, tasting them for a lie. “Of course. How silly of me to wonder why such mundane tactical discussions required such privacy and those delightfully serious expressions you were both wearing.”

I sighed, glancing at him. “It really was nothing important, Astarion. Just... logistics.”

There was an edge creeping into his voice now, sharp enough to draw blood if I wasn't careful. I recognized this tone—I'd heard it directed at others before, usually right before he said something cutting.

I sighed, finally glancing at him.

His crimson gaze was fixed on me now with laser focus, and I could see something coiled beneath the surface; something more unsettled than his usual jealousy. “How strange, then, that it looked quite important from where I was standing. All that earnest whispering and meaningful eye contact.”

“Astarion—”

“You know,” he cut in smoothly, though his voice held no real smoothness anymore, only something taut beneath the surface, “I thought we weren’t keeping secrets from each other. And yet here you are, deflecting my perfectly reasonable questions like I'm some stranger you can't trust with the truth.”

I stopped walking, turning to face him fully. The hurt in his eyes was carefully masked, but I'd learned to read the micro-expressions he couldn't quite control. “What’s gotten into you? I just bloodied my hands for you.”

Well shit. Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I was deflecting again, throwing my recent actions up like a shield to avoid the real conversation. But the damage was already done.

His smile appeared instantly, quick and brittle as thin ice over deep water. “Yes,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You did.”

It wasn’t gratitude in his voice. It wasn’t teasing, either.

The words stung more than I wanted to admit, like he was dismissing everything I'd done, reducing them to mere transactions in some cosmic ledger book. But even as the hurt bloomed in my chest, I understood where it was coming from. To Astarion, secrets had always been weapons—tools of control wielded by those with power over those without. And now, after all the trust we'd built between us like a bridge across an abyss, I was keeping something from him. Even if it was small, even if it truly didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, how could he not see it as a betrayal?

---

Moonrise Towers erupted from the cursed landscape like a monument to malevolence, its dark spires clawing at the perpetually storm-wracked sky with the desperate hunger of damned souls reaching for salvation they would never find. The fortress loomed against the horizon like a cancer on the world's flesh, its black stone walls seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating an aura of wrongness that made my skin crawl with primitive terror.

But what drew my attention wasn't the tower itself—it was the familiar figures gathered at its base like pieces on a chess board, armed and armored and ready for war.

Jaheira stood at their center, her weathered features set in lines of grim determination that spoke of battles fought and victories earned through blood and sacrifice. When she spotted our approach, she stepped forward with the fluid grace of someone who had never forgotten how to move like the predator she was beneath all that druidic wisdom and maternal concern.

“About time,” she said, though there was no real bite to her words. “We've been waiting.”

---

The entrance hall had the torches lined the walls in pools of flickering orange light that only served to make the shadows deeper, more oppressive, more alive with whispered promises of pain and despair. Our footsteps echoed through the vast space like the tolling of funeral bells, each impact announcing our presence to whatever horrors waited in the darkness above.

And then I saw her.

Z'rell.

She stood on the far side of the hall like a queen holding court in hell, flanked by a small army of cultists whose armor gleamed with the dull sheen of spilled blood and twisted devotion. The sight of her hit me hard, driving the air from my lungs and replacing it with the taste of copper and bile. That same expression of cold, calculating devotion, the same unwavering gaze that had watched—no, orchestrated—as she forced my hand into becoming something monstrous.

The memory crashed over me like a tide of acid and broken glass. The tiefling girl's face, so young, so terrified, so completely innocent of any crime worthy of death. Bird bones beneath silk skin, trembling with the desperate flutter of someone who knew they were about to die. The sickening resistance of flesh and bone beneath my blade as I drove it home, the wet sound of steel parting skin, the way her breath had cut off mid-sob like someone had severed the strings holding her soul to her body.

A spark of rage flickered to life in my chest, small at first but growing with each heartbeat until it roared into an inferno that threatened to consume everything I'd built of myself since that moment of forced damnation.

Z’rell’s lips curled into a smirk. “Well. The heretics return.” Her eyes flicked to Minthara. “The traitor's pet, and her collection of strays.”

Minthara stepped forward, shoulders squared, her sword already in hand.  Everything about her posture screamed deadly competence, the fluid readiness of someone who had killed with artistry and would do so again without hesitation. “The Absolute has no further use for failures like you, Z’rell.” Her voice was smooth, but there was steel beneath it.

Z’rell’s smirk twisted. “The drow traitor speaks. How perfectly fitting that you've found common cause with these pathetic weaklings.” Her gaze raked over me, eyes glinting. “But not you. No, you were promising. I saw it in you—something raw, something waiting to be shaped. What a terrible waste.”

The fire inside me burned brighter, hotter, threatening to escape through my skin and turn everything around me to ash and memory.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” I said, voice low.

“It doesn't matter,” Z’rell took a slow step forward. “It doesn't matter what pretty lies you tell yourself. The moment you took that child's life—felt her blood warm between your fingers—you became something else entirely. Something more honest than what you pretend to be now.”

What fucking truth?

That I wake up every gods-damned morning with her face burned into my retinas like a brand? That I hear her final breath in the space between my own heartbeats, feel the phantom warmth of her blood slipping between my fingers like it was happening all over again? That no matter how many times I tell myself it wasn't really my choice—that you held the knife to my soul and forced my hand—my fingers were still the ones that struck the killing blow?

I know exactly what she's saying. I know what poison she wants me to drink, what truth she wants me to accept as gospel. That I've been twisted into something fundamentally different, something tainted and wrong and irredeemable. That the moment steel met flesh, I crossed a line that can never be uncrossed, became a killer in the deepest, most essential sense of the word.

And maybe—gods help me—maybe she's right.

Because it does hurt. It aches like a wound that won't heal, a scar that throbs with every heartbeat, a stain that no amount of good deeds or noble intentions can ever quite scrub clean. I carry it with me like some perverse trophy, this knowledge of what I'm capable of when pushed to the absolute edge of human endurance.

The worst part? The question that eats at me in the dark hours before dawn, when sleep flees and I'm left alone with the weight of what I've done?

I can't even tell if I deserve to be rid of it.

Chapter Text

Minthara moved like a striking snake, lunging forward. Z’rell was ready though. Dark energy erupted around her fingers like corrupted starlight, weaving patterns in the air that made reality itself seem to bend and twist. When Minthara's sword cleaved through the space where Z'rell's throat should have been, it met only empty air and malevolent laughter. The shockwave of necrotic force that followed hit the drow like a battering ram, lifting her off her feet and hurling her backward with bone-jarring impact. She struck the stone floor with a grunt that echoed through the hall, but rolled to her feet with fluid efficiency, her blade already seeking new angles of attack.

The guards advanced.

The cultist guards surged forward like a tide of steel and fanaticism, their weapons gleaming with the dull shine of blood and devotion. But I was already moving, closing the distance between Z'rell and myself in a heartbeat, my scythe cutting through the air in an arc of silver death that sang with hunger for her blood.

She barely managed to conjure a shield of crackling energy, my blade scraping against its edge with a sound like breaking reality. The impact traveled up my arms like lightning, but I didn't stop—couldn't stop, not when her face was right there in front of me, wearing that same expression of cold satisfaction.

Minthara flanked her, striking at her exposed side. Z’rell snarled, necrotic magic rippling outward from her like a tide. They had no effect on me though. My scythe cut through them, but they dragged at Minthara, forcing her to a knee.

Z’rell turned to finish her.

I lunged without thought, without plan, driven by pure instinct and fury. My shoulder slammed into her midsection with all the force I could muster, sending us both crashing to the stone floor in a tangle of limbs and desperate violence. My knee drove into her ribs with a wet crack that spoke of breaking bone, and she spat blood across my face, the taste of copper coating my lips.

But before I could capitalize on the advantage, her hand clamped around my wrist with crushing force.

Pain.

It erupted along my arm as her fire magic burrowed beneath my skin like molten parasites, searing flesh and nerve with surgical precision. My vision blurred, the world dissolving into fragments of red and black and screaming sensation. I tried to wrench free, but her grip was iron wrapped in flame, unbreakable.

Through the haze, I saw Astarion move like a ghost made of vengeance. He flowed between the remaining guards, his daggers finding the gaps in their armor with the precision of an artist completing a masterpiece. One choked on his own blood, hands clawing futilely at his throat, while the other toppled before he could even scream—a puppet with severed strings.

And then Astarion was behind Z'rell, silent as shadow.

“This,” he whispered, his dagger pressing into her back, “is for Artemis.”

He struck deep, twisting the blade as Z’rell arched with a ragged cry. Her grip on me slackened for just a breath.

It was all I needed.

I felt the grief first. The sorrow. It hit me like a wave, a scream echoing inside my ribs. The tiefling girl’s final sob. Her blood on my hands.

And then the rage. A furious, aching thing.

The Banshee inside me rose with it, and I let it take me.

Cold radiated from my fingertips as I seized Z’rell’s shoulders. The necrotic energy surged from me into her, sinking into her flesh like rot consuming a corpse. Veins blackened beneath her skin, spreading outward in sickening tendrils. A strangled gasp tore from her throat as her body convulsed, her very life force unraveling beneath my touch.

Veins blackened beneath her skin, spreading outward in sickening tendrils that painted roadmaps of decay across her face and throat. A strangled gasp tore from her lips as her body convulsed, her very life force unraveling beneath my touch like a tapestry being pulled apart thread by thread. She struggled, tried to break free, but the more she fought, the more the magic took. It was siphoning her essence, consuming everything that made her who she was and feeding it back to me.

I drove my scythe forward; not for a clean kill, not for mercy or efficiency, but to make her feel it. The curved blade sank into her gut with the wet sound of splitting silk, parting armor and skin and muscle with surgical precision before pinning her to the stone floor like an insect beneath glass.

She choked, blood frothing from her lips in crimson bubbles as her fingers scrabbled weakly at the weapon's shaft. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish drowning in air, trying to form words that would never come.

“Choke on your blood, you bitch.” I whispered.

Z'rell's eyes widened as I wrenched the scythe upward, opening her from gut to sternum in one brutal motion. There was a wet, tearing sound—the sound of fabric ripping, but made of flesh and dreams and the last gasps of a dying monster. Her strangled scream cut off abruptly as her body spasmed one final time. And then—silence.

The hall felt suddenly empty, hollow, filled only with the distant sounds of battle beyond these walls and the labored rhythm of my own breathing.

I stepped back, my hands trembling with residual adrenaline and a satisfaction that felt like justice, even if it was the kind of justice that left stains on your soul.

Astarion stood nearby, his daggers still slick with blood, studying me with that look that seemed to see everything and judge nothing. Minthara had regained her feet, her face maintaining its usual impassive mask, but I caught the flicker of satisfaction in her red eyes.

“Feel better?” Astarion asked.

I met his gaze, my pulse still roaring in my ears.

“No,” I said honestly. My hands tightened around the scythe. “But it’s good to see her dead.”

Chapter Text

The anticipation that had been coiling in my chest like a serpent preparing to strike—bracing for Ketheric's inevitable presence, for the clash of steel and magic—collapsed into something far more unsettling: confusion wrapped in dread.

The rooftop stretched before us, empty as a tomb.

What the fuck?

I swept my gaze across the barren expanse of cracked stone and twisted metal, my weapon's grip growing slick with sweat as my knuckles whitened around its handle. This wasn't just wrong—this was impossibly wrong. The confrontation should have been waiting for us like a stage set for tragedy, Ketheric posed at its center with that terrible patience of his, ready to deliver whatever apocalyptic monologue he'd been rehearsing in his centuries of undeath.

But instead—nothing. Just wind whispering through the abandoned spires like the last breath of dying gods.

I caught Freya's eye and saw my own bewilderment reflected back at me, magnified by the kind of fear that came from having your expectations, however terrible, ripped away and replaced with the unknown.

My breath came faster, each inhalation sharp and shallow as panic began its familiar dance along my nerve endings. I turned toward the others, mouth opening to voice the thousand questions clawing at my throat—

The tower cracked.

The sound was deafening, stone and steel groaning as something vast and unnatural forced its way through. Dust and debris cascaded down in choking clouds that turned the world into a nightmare of gray fog and falling death, but through it all I could see movement.

A grotesque appendage coiled and writhed, slamming into the rooftop like a living battering ram. A pulsing, grotesque thing of dark muscle and unnatural intent, sweeping across the broken stone.

A warning shout cut through the chaos—Karlach's voice, rough with terror and determination as she grabbed Lae'zel and began to run. The others followed her lead, their survival instincts finally overriding the paralysis, but my body was frozen for a fraction of a second, locked in the sheer wrongness of what was happening. Then the tentacle surged forward.

I barely had time to react before the tentacle surged forward, lashing out toward my position with the speed of a striking viper. I threw myself sideways in a desperate dive, feeling the rush of displaced air as the appendage whistled past my head, close enough that I could smell the reek of otherworldly decay that clung to its surface like perfume made from rotting corpses.

The ground beneath my feet shuddered and bucked like a living thing as the tentacle's missed strike pulverized stone into powder, creating craters where moments before there had been solid footing. My balance abandoned me entirely, arms windmilling as I struggled to stay upright while the world tilted and swayed around me.

Desperation gave me clarity. I lunged forward with my scythe, the blade singing through the fetid air as it bit deep into the tentacle's flesh. A sickening, viscous fluid sprayed out, coating my hands and face. The tentacle recoiled, a guttural, inhuman scream echoing through the air.

But my victory lasted exactly as long as it took for the creature to realize I was a threat.

The tentacle lashed out again, moving faster than thought, faster than the desperate curses falling from my lips. It wrapped around my waist with crushing force, the alien flesh molding itself to my body. Air exploded from my lungs in a whoosh of agony as I was lifted off the ground, my ribs creaking under the pressure of a grip that could have crushed stone to powder.

Astarion shouted my name, his voice barely reaching me over the wind roaring past my ears. Hands reached, weapons flashed, but I was already yanked back, dragged toward the gaping abyss below.

The tower shrank, my friends becoming distant figures on the ledge—Astarion, Minthara, Jaheira, Freya, everyone—all reaching, all shouting, their horror-mixed voices swallowed by the void. The pressure around my ribs tightened, the tentacle’s grip constricting like a noose.

No.

I wasn’t going to let it take me.

Fighting against the crushing grip, I wrenched one arm free through sheer bloody-minded determination, my fingers fumbling for the dagger strapped to my thigh. With every ounce of strength I possessed, I drove it into the slick, rubbery flesh.

The result was instant.

A wet, piercing shriek split the air, vibrating through my bones with such intensity that I thought my skeleton might simply shake apart. The tentacle spasmed in what might have been surprise or pain or simple alien fury, its grip loosening just enough to let me taste the possibility of escape.

That's when gravity remembered I existed.

I plummeted. Wind tore at my clothes, my stomach lurching as I plunged into darkness. The world spun—flesh, stone, glowing veins of pulsing purple flashing past. My mind screamed to orient myself, to grab onto something, anything—

Then the ground slammed into me like a hammer.

Chapter Text

I woke in darkness.

Pain radiated through my body in a slow, throbbing pulse. My ribs ached, my limbs sluggish and unresponsive as if my bones had been replaced with lead. I coughed, my throat thick with something wet and sickly.

And I was submerged in it.

A thick, viscous substance clung to my skin, warm and stinking, the consistency somewhere between stagnant water and blood. I pushed myself up, gasping as the slime sloughed off in thick ropes. My fingers sank into the ground beneath me—

No. Not ground.

It was soft. Wet. Pulsing. The walls, too, glistened with a bioluminescent sheen, veins of sickly light twisting through organic, alien matter. It was alive. Everything here was alive.

My stomach turned violently, bile rising in my throat like liquid fire. I staggered to my feet on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else, trying desperately to ignore the way the fleshy floor squelched beneath my boots.

Shit, I’m about to vomit.

The thought had barely formed when a new sound cut through the organic ambiance of this living hell. Skittering.

I turned fast, my heart lurching into my throat. Shadows moved along the walls, shapes slinking between the twisted structures of organic horror. 

Intellect Devourers.

They crept forward on too many limbs, their grotesque, brain-like bodies gleaming wetly under the sick light. Small, twitching mandibles clicked, sensing me. Their tiny claws made a soft, rhythmic tapping against the fleshy floor, like the ticking of some demented clock.

I forced down the revulsion curling in my gut. 

And just behind them—watching. A single Mind Flayer.

It stood with unnerving stillness, its elongated form draped in robes that seemed to shift between dimensions, never quite settling on any single shade of wrong. Long, articulated fingers twitched at its sides like a pianist warming up for a particularly challenging piece, while the deep purple of its skin shifted and flowed in the damp glow like oil slicks on poisoned water.

A ripple passed through the air between us—not sound, not sight, but something that bypassed my sensory organs entirely and pressed directly against the soft tissues of my consciousness. It was speaking to me without words, communicating through the direct application of psychic pressure that felt like icicles being driven through my skull.

Run, it whispered into the intimate spaces of my mind, the voice carrying overtones of amusement and anticipation. Let us hunt. Let us make this interesting.

The Devourers lunged.

Claws raked my leg, searing pain blooming along my thigh. My scythe wasn’t in my grasp—I must have lost it in the fall—but my dagger was still in my hand. Gritting my teeth against pain, I drove the blade into the nearest Devourer's side with all the fury and desperation I could muster.

It screeched, writhing as black ichor sprayed from the wound. I yanked the dagger free with savage satisfaction, but the other creatures were already closing in, their unnatural bodies twitching with eager hunger. 

Fuck them. I am not dying here.

A pulse of energy surged through me—cold and angry. Shadows twisted around my fingers, crawling up my arm like living ink. I barely had time to register the feeling before the power lashed out, a wave of necrotic energy exploding from my skin.

The magic struck the Intellect Devourers like a tsunami of concentrated entropy, and their shrieks of agony were music to my ears—a symphony of justified retribution. Flesh withered, tendrils curled and blackened, their bodies collapsing inward as if drained of life itself. One managed to stagger back, limbs spasming, but I was on it before it could recover. My boot slammed down on its skull, cracking it beneath my heel.

I had to move. Had to find a way out, find my scythe before—

The Mind Flayer emerged from the darkness like a fever dream given form. It stopped a few paces away; close enough to kill me instantly if it chose, far enough to suggest this was theater rather than simple predation. Its head tilted with scientific curiosity, as if I were a particularly interesting specimen that had just performed an unexpected trick worth studying.

I raised my dagger, my muscles coiling. “Try it,” I hissed, through teeth clenched so tight they threatened to crack.

The mind flayer didn’t lunge. Didn’t attack. Instead, it only observed. Wait. Was it smiling?

The realization hit me like a brick to the face: this was entertainment.

My grip tightened on the dagger until my knuckles went white. They wanted to play games? Let them try.

If they wanted a show, I'd give them one they'd never forget. Assuming any of us survived long enough to remember it.

Chapter Text

I barely had a second to brace before the pressure in my skull spiked, a splitting pain ripping through my mind like claws raking through flesh. My knees buckled, vision blurring as a voice that wasn’t mine whispered—no, persuaded—in my thoughts.

Let go. Stop struggling. You are already lost.

My vision went white at the edges. Every muscle in my body wanted to go slack, to just... stop. But I've been through worse than some tentacle-faced nightmare trying to redecorate my brain.

I bit my tongue hard enough to taste blood and used the pain to anchor myself. The alien presence recoiled like it had touched something hot.

Then I bolted.

The corridors pulsed around me, the grotesque walls shifting like a living thing, and the distant click-click-click of intellect devourers echoed through the passageways. But I didn’t have time to care about them.

I had bigger problems, because the mind flayer was faster than it looked.

A shadow flickered at the edge of my vision. I twisted just in time to see it materialize yards ahead, cutting off my escape route with casual efficiency.

Shit.

I skidded to a stop, the ground beneath me squelching like raw flesh.

Its voice slithered into my mind.

Run, little prey. Make this enjoyable for me.

A sick, twisted mockery of a hunt. It was toying with me.

I lunged, feinting left before rolling right, barely slipping past its outstretched hand. It lashed out, fingers grazing my shoulder, and for a moment my entire body seized, a cold paralysis sinking into my limbs.

I snarled and poured everything into breaking free. The weight lifted just enough—a fraction of a second, but I'd take it.

I dove into the nearest tunnel, twisting through the slick, pulsing corridors, moving blindly through the nightmare of the colony. The walls shifted, flesh peeling back to reveal more paths, shifting and reforming like a labyrinth made of rot and hunger.

It was leading me somewhere.

And I couldn’t let it. I needed to change the rules of this hunt.

I spotted an offshoot—a narrow, almost collapsed passage, barely wide enough to fit through. I swerved, plunging into the suffocating tunnel, the slick walls pressing against me as I shoved forward. The air was thicker here, damp with the stench of decay.

Behind me—the scrape of claws. It was following.

But down here, it couldn’t blink ahead. Couldn’t cut me off.

Good.

I kept moving, my pulse hammering. Then—up ahead—a sharp turn, a dead-end of fleshy tendrils and something else. A ruptured pod.

Its contents had spilled across the floor—a melted husk that might once have been human, skull caved in, face frozen in eternal agony. The pod's restraints were still sparking, fluids around it fresh and warm.

Recently opened. Someone—or something—had broken free not long ago.

A chill ran down my spine. I didn’t have time to dwell on it. The mind flayer was close.

I pressed myself against the wall, waiting. Heart pounding. Muscles coiled.

One step. Two.

A shadow stretched across the tunnel entrance.

The moment it crossed the threshold—I struck. My dagger went in clean between two vertebrae. The mind flayer convulsed, tentacles whipping wildly as it tried to turn. I rode it down, driving the blade deeper until something vital gave way with a wet snap.

It staggered forward, and before it could recover, I reached out—and the air around us contracted, necrotic energy wrapping tight around its form like a crushing fist.

For the first time, it faltered.

I bared my teeth, voice ragged. “Not so fun when the prey bites back, is it?”

The shadows collapsed on it—crushing, suffocating, siphoning every last spark of heat and life from its body. It convulsed, its form buckling inward as necrotic energy consumed it from the inside out.

When the magic finally released, it collapsed, its body shriveled, its skin stretched taut like a husk left to dry.

The adrenaline slowly ebbed away, leaving me with a profound sense of exhaustion and relief. But this was far from over. The Mind Flayers would send more thralls, more hunters. I needed to keep moving.

Chapter Text

I forced myself forward, each step sticking slightly to the pulsing floor. 

There were more chambers, more pods, scattered between organic columns that pulsed with an eerie, lifelike rhythm. My fingers hovered near the hilt of my weapon, tension coiling in my gut.

Then I saw him.

One pod, half-obscured by the sickly glow of the colony’s living walls, held a figure slumped inside. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. The body was curled inward, his face shadowed, but I recognized the tattered remnants of his clothing. My stomach twisted.

Oh, fuck. It was him.

Locke.

Arabella’s father.

I took a slow step forward, my pulse pounding in my ears. He was supposed to be dead. The last I’d heard, he’d vanished from the inn—no body, no signs of survival. But here he was, alive. Or something close to it.

I pressed my hand against the glassy surface of the pod. “Locke?” My voice came out quiet, wary.

For a long, agonizing moment, there was no response. Then—his fingers twitched. His head lifted sluggishly, as if he had to drag himself out of some nightmare. His eyes fluttered open, clouded with exhaustion, confusion. And then they widened.

His fingers twitched. His head lifted sluggishly, like he was dragging himself out of some nightmare. His eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused at first—then suddenly sharp with recognition.

And panic.

His mouth moved, breath fogging the inside of the pod’s glassy shell. It took me a second to piece together what he was saying.

“Please.” His voice was hoarse, barely audible through the barrier. His hands pressed weakly against the inside, his fingers trembling. “Please—get me out.”

My hands skimmed the slick surface of the pod, searching for any kind of latch, a seam, something I could pry open.

“I’ve got you,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. My pulse pounded as I scanned the panel beside the pod—similar to the one I’d seen before, veins of bioluminescent energy pulsing faintly beneath its surface. I’d seen this setup before. One wrong move, and I’d be triggering something worse than alarms.

“I—” Locke’s voice broke, his eyes darting wildly around the chamber. “They— they put something in me.” His breath came in shuddering gasps. “I can hear them. I—”

My stomach twisted. I knew what this meant. Gods, I knew what this meant.

A seed planted. A timer set.

Locke wasn’t just injured. He was infected.

It could happen at any moment. One wrong step, one slip, and he would be gone—no longer himself, no longer the man desperate to return to his daughter. The parasite was already inside him, curling its way into his mind, sinking invisible hooks into everything he was. Maybe he had hours. Maybe days. But the outcome was the same—without protection, without the artifact shielding him, the change would come for him.

I swallowed hard, forcing the thought down. We weren’t there yet. Right now, he was still Locke. Still breathing. Still himself.

I could still save him.

“Hold on,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. 

I pressed my hand to the control panel as I forced my will into the alien mechanism. It resisted at first, twitching like a living thing, but then—something clicked. The glow intensified, and the pod gave a sickening, wet hiss as the seal broke.

The fluid inside rushed out in a thick, gelatinous wave, and Locke collapsed forward, coughing violently. I caught him before he could hit the floor, his body shuddering, weak from whatever the bastards had done to him. His skin was damp, clammy.

His fingers clawed weakly at my sleeve. “I—I don’t know how long I was in there,” he rasped, his breath shallow. “I kept—kept hearing them. Feeling them.”

I gritted my teeth. “You’re out now. Stay with me.”

He nodded weakly, but his legs buckled as he tried to stand. I braced him, looping his arm over my shoulder. He was heavier than he looked, but I forced myself to bear his weight.

No time to rest. We had to move.

I cast a quick glance around the chamber. There had to be a way out—another passage, another corridor. Maybe even another way up. I just had to keep him alive long enough to find it.

Or until someone found us first.

And judging by the distant sound of movement—the wet, deliberate sound of something shifting in the tunnels beyond—we wouldn’t be alone for long.

Chapter Text

The place felt endless, an ever-shifting maze designed to keep its victims lost. None of it matched what I had seen before in the game, making it impossible to navigate. Every turn felt like stepping deeper into something I wasn’t meant to escape.

Locke staggered beside me, his grip tightening on the front of my armor like a man drowning, desperate for something solid. His knuckles were bloodless, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Sweat clung to his skin, and his eyes—wild, unfocused—darted over the grotesque walls, searching for something familiar, something real to hold onto. But there was nothing.

Then he jerked in my arms, letting out a strangled gasp. His fingers twitched against my armor—a sharp, involuntary spasm. His entire body tensed, and I could feel the change rippling through him like a dark tide.

Fuck fuck fuck. Already?

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

“Locke?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my own heart.

His body convulsed violently. The veins along his throat darkened, bulging and twisting like living things beneath his skin. His pupils dilated into vast, endless black pits, swallowing the light. He let out a strangled sob—or maybe it was a snarl. His grip on me tightened, fingers clawing, no longer seeking support but something else entirely.

Something violent.

“Locke, listen to me!” I pleaded, stepping back. My pulse thundered in my ears, and a cold sweat trickled down my spine. “Think of Arabella. She's waiting for you!”

He let out a breath—a rattling exhale that twisted into a sickening gurgle. His eyes, now entirely black, locked onto mine with a chilling intensity.

And then he lunged.

I barely dodged in time. His fingers, gnarled and inhuman, swiped inches from my throat, his strength unnatural, driven by the parasite taking root inside him. He moved too fast, too erratic, his breath coming in guttural snarls, his body twitching as it fought itself—fought me.

I drew the dagger, the weight of it suddenly unbearable in my grip. The metal felt cold and foreign, a stark reminder of the countless times I’d held it in moments like this. But this time, it was different. This time, it was Locke.

I had to do this. I had to. But my arms wouldn’t move. My breath caught in my throat, my hands trembling. Not again. Not again.

I saw her. The tiefling girl. Her terrified eyes, the way my blade had cut too fast, too deep—the way her life had poured from her like water slipping through my fingers. The memory clung to me like a shroud, paralyzing me with guilt and fear.

Locke lunged again, slamming into me with enough force to send me crashing onto my back. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs, and pain exploded through my body. The dagger skittered across the floor, lost in the sickly pulsing light. Locke loomed over me, his face twisted in pain—in hunger.

His hands closed around my throat.

I choked, my fingers clawing at his grip, struggling against his impossible strength. Stars burst behind my eyes, and the world began to fade into a haze of red and black. I kicked, writhed, but he held me firm, his own body wracked with spasms as the parasite took its final claim.

I had to do something. I had to stop him. But my arms felt like lead, my body frozen in that awful memory of a girl who never had a choice. The room spun around me, and the sound of my own heartbeat filled my ears like a drumbeat counting down the seconds until the end.

A ragged snarl tore through the chamber—but it wasn’t Locke’s.

His body convulsed against mine, his grip slackening. Blood sprayed across my face, hot and wet. A violent shudder ran through him—then his body slumped forward, lifeless.

I gasped, shoving him off me, sucking in desperate gulps of air. My lungs burned, and my throat felt raw and bruised. I rolled onto my side, coughing and sputtering, as the world slowly came back into focus.

Minthara stood over me, her sword buried deep in Locke’s back. Her expression was cold, her face splattered with his blood. The sight of her sent a shiver down my spine, a mix of relief and dread washing over me.

“Mercy will not save you,” she remarked, cutting through the chaos in my mind.

I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. The weight of her words pressed down on me like a physical force, and I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. She was right.

She wrenched her blade free, and Locke’s body crumpled beside me, a lifeless husk. The finality of it hit me like a punch to the gut.

Arabella’s father was dead. And I had failed to save him.

Chapter Text

The familiar weight of my scythe settled into my palm before I even realized Minthara was holding it out to me. Blood streaked her face in the flickering torchlight, but her eyes seemed to see right through me.

"You’ll need it," she said simply. She'd watched me freeze when Locke's hands closed around my throat, watched me fail when it mattered most. Watched her finish what I couldn't.

I took the weapon without a word. The weight of it was familiar, grounding. I gave it a quick twirl, feeling the balance settle into my grip. It was ridiculous, but somehow, I felt better with it in my hands.

“We split up,” Minthara was already moving, expecting me to follow. “Some are searching for Ketheric. The others—” she glanced at me, her expression assessing, “—came for you.”

Something flickered in my chest at that. Warm and unexpected.

My legs wobbled as I followed her through the winding corridors. Each step sent fresh pain shooting through my torso, but I forced myself forward. One foot, then the other. Don't think about how close you came to—

Voices echoed ahead. Familiar ones that made something in my chest unclench.

Minthara stepped aside just as figures emerged from the shadows.

Karlach’s fiery eyes landed on me first. Her face split into a grin, and relief flooded her features. “There she is!” she bellowed, already stepping forward. “Fuck, we were about to tear this place apart!”

Before I could even open my mouth, she had me wrapped in her arms, her warmth seeping through my battered armor and into my bones. My ribs screamed in protest, but I let her crush me anyway. After everything that had happened, I needed this—needed the proof that I was still here, still whole enough to be held.

When she finally released me, I caught sight of Astarion hanging back a step. He hadn't rushed forward like Karlach. He was just... watching.

I met his gaze and felt my stomach drop.

He wasn't looking at my face. His eyes were fixed on my throat, and I could see the exact moment he catalogued every bruise blooming there—probably the purple marks that were forming on my collar, that did nothing to hide. His jaw tightened, and something dangerous flickered behind his carefully controlled expression.

“Hey.” I said, trying to shift his attention to me.

Gods, I must look like absolute hell. I could feel it—the exhaustion clinging to me, the way I swayed on my feet despite trying to stand straight. Nothing got past Astarion, especially not when it came to signs of violence.

“I—” His voice was quiet, but I caught the self-recrimination underneath. “I should’ve been there sooner.”

I swallowed against the raw ache in my throat. “I managed.” The words came out rougher than I'd intended, but I forced what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “You know me—always landing on my feet.”

A scoff, sharp and unimpressed. “Barely,” Minthara muttered.

Astarion's expression shifted—relief warring with something that looked suspiciously like guilt. “That’s not the point,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

And then, whatever hesitation had been holding him back, broke.

He closed the distance between us in two quick steps, his hands finding my face with careful reverence. When he kissed me, it wasn't desperate or hungry—it was confirmation. Proof that I was breathing, that my heart was still beating against his chest. His lips were cool against my fevered skin, soothing in a way that made me melt into him. I fisted my hands in his shirt, anchoring myself to this moment, to him. For a few precious seconds, the pain faded. The fear receded. There was just this—just us.

He pulled back only when breathing became necessary, staying close enough that I could still taste the faint copper on his lips.

He pulled back only when breath became necessary, lingering so close that I could still taste the hint of copper on his lips.

Karlach made a pleased little sound. “Ahh, I love a good reunion kiss.”

Minthara, however, just crossed her arms with a derisive snort. “I don’t understand how you people have the energy for this nonsense.”

Astarion smirked against my lips before pulling back just enough to glance at her. “Oh, darling, you wouldn’t know romance if it stabbed you in the chest.”

Minthara arched a brow. “And yet, here you are, kissing someone who looks one gust of wind away from collapsing. Should I be impressed, or should I be concerned?”

Astarion's mouth curved into that familiar smirk, though he didn't step away from me. “Both.”

Karlach let out a chuckle, shaking her head as she patted my shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get the hell out of here.”

I nodded, grateful beyond words to have them at my side.  And with that, we kept moving—together.

Chapter Text

“Not far now,” Minthara murmured, her voice barely audible over the faint echoes of our footsteps. Her tone was detached, but her eyes scanned the shadows with an intensity that betrayed her calm demeanor. “If they followed my instructions, they should be just ahead.”

Relief washed over me as we rounded a bend and found the others waiting. Wyll noticed us first, his shoulders sagging slightly with relief before he schooled his features into a neutral expression. Freya let out a breath, a genuine smile spreading across her face before she strode forward and clapped a hand on my shoulder—nearly knocking me off balance.

“Glad to see you in one piece,” she said, her voice warm with sincerity. Then her gaze darkened slightly as she took in my injuries. “You alright, Artemis?”

I forced a smirk, but it felt thin and unconvincing. “Never better,” I lied, trying to ignore the ache in my bones.

A soft, disbelieving scoff came from my right. Astarion. I could feel his gaze burning into me, but before he could comment, Minthara cut through the moment with her usual efficiency. “We don’t have time to linger.” She gestured forward. “We’re not alone down here.”

---

We moved cautiously, wafted through the tunnels, setting my nerves on edge.

Then we saw them.

Below us, in the depths of a cavernous chamber, stood Ketheric Thorm. A monolith of death and shadow, his presence was an oppressive force that seemed to suck the very air from my lungs. Even from this distance, the unnatural aura surrounding him set my teeth on edge. The absolute authority in his stance, the death clinging to him like an extension of his own will. My stomach turned, nausea curling at the edges of my awareness.

But it wasn’t just him.

Orin stood beside him, wrapped in an air of twisted delight, as if every breath she took was filled with the anticipation of bloodshed. Her movements were languid yet precise, a predator savoring the inevitable carnage to come.

And then I saw him.

The air in my lungs turned to stone.

Gortash.

The moment my gaze landed on him, something inside me cracked, splintering apart like fragile glass. A sharp pain bloomed behind my eyes, stabbing deep into my skull, and I barely had time to brace before the memories came—

Not mine.

Hers.

His hand, cold and unyielding, gripping too tight. Fingers digging in, bruising, owning. The cruel curl of a smile, lips moving over her body, violation of her body—words that stripped her bare, made her feel small, made her feel like nothing. But the meaning was drowned beneath the high-pitched ring of terror.

Penelope’s voice—raw, desperate—screaming his name. Begging. Breaking.

A hand around her throat, pressing just enough to remind her she had no power here. Pain, sharp and lingering, inescapable. His breath at her ear, his presence a cage.

The world tilted violently. My vision blurred at the edges, dark spots swallowing the torchlight. My knees buckled, and I might have collapsed had it not been for the phantom touch at my wrist.

“Artemis?” Astarion's voice was low, taut with worry. “What is it?”

I couldn’t answer. My throat locked, strangled by the whirlwind of rage and horror crashing through me. It churned inside me like a storm, suffocating. My body rebelled against it, my breathing erratic, heart hammering painfully against my ribs.

Everything after this was a blur. An argument—something about power, control. A clash of egos, a struggle for dominance. Orin moved, the sharp glint of a blade flashing in her hand as she stepped between Ketheric and Gortash. Her voice dripped with mockery, but whatever she said was enough to cut through the tension. Someone was shoved forward. A man, forced to his knees, his features twisted in pain. The name echoed around me, half-spoken, half-lost in the chaos of my mind. Ulder Ravengard. Wyll’s father.

But I wasn't there. I was trapped in a nightmare I had never lived but somehow remembered in every shattered, unbearable detail. 

I barely registered the warning signs before it clawed its way up my throat, burning like acid, like the desperate, keening scream trying to tear free from my lungs.

I was going to lose control, again. I was going to give us away.

Astarion’s grip on me tightened. “Artemis—”

Before he could stop me—before I could stop myself—Gale moved.

A sharp crack of magic, swift and decisive, snapped through the air, wrapping around me like an unseen hand. The spell struck, silencing me before the wail could escape. The force of it sent me on my knees, my body locking up as if I’d been doused in ice water. The raw, volatile energy inside me recoiled violently, the backlash lashing through my bones like lightning.

I gasped, stumbling, my balance lost to the disorienting aftershock. My head spun. My pulse thundered in my ears.

But it was too late.

For what felt like the barest fraction of a second, they turned.

The weight of Gortash’s gaze pinned me in place, heavy with something I couldn’t name. But in the flutter of the next moment, he and Orin disappeared.

Gale released his hold on me, and as I tried to stand I staggered, my legs made of water, the magic burned out of me leaving only raw, hollow exhaustion.

Jaheira broke the tension, her voice steady and commanding. “We need to go. Now!”

Chapter Text

The Mind Flayer colony breathed around us.

That was the only word for it—breathed. The walls pulsed with a rhythm too close to a heartbeat, veins of diseased crimson light threading through corrupted flesh that had once been stone. And at the center of it all, waiting with the patience of the already damned, stood Ketheric Thorm.

His armor had seen centuries. Tarnished black plate that should have rusted to nothing, held together by something far worse than craftsmanship. It didn’t reflect the colony’s pulsing light—it consumed it, drinking in illumination like a man dying of thirst. The metal seemed to ripple occasionally, as though something beneath it was trying to get out.
Or something inside it was trying to get in.

“You come here like carrion birds.” His voice was soft, almost gentle. That made it worse somehow. “Circling, waiting, hoping to feast on the fallen.”

He took a single step forward. The sound of his boot on the colony floor echoed wrong.

“Do you think yourselves different? Better?” The question hung in the fetid air. “You fight against death, yet you will all kneel before it in the end. The only choice you have is whether you kneel with grace... or with your spine broken.”

Karlach rolled her shoulders, flames already licking along her arms. “Yeah, yeah, big words for a walking corpse.” She spat to the side, never breaking eye contact. “How about we shut you up already?”

The moment—the instant—the final syllable left her mouth, Ketheric raised his hand.

Reality convulsed and the ground opened. Fissures spread like infection through diseased tissue, and from those wounds in the world, they came.

Skeletal hands first. Then arms. Then entire bodies hauling themselves up from whatever hell existed beneath the colony. Warriors who’d been buried in armor that had long since fused with bone. 

The stench hit next. Death, yes, but not clean death. This was the smell of bodies left too long in summer heat, of meat gone to maggots, of graves opened before their time. It coated the back of my throat, made my eyes water.

They formed around Ketheric like an honor guard welcoming their king home.

Karlach moved first.

Three skeletal warriors intercepted her charge. She shattered the first with a haymaker that sent bone fragments spinning through the air. Her axe came around, bisecting the second at the spine. The third managed to raise its rusted sword to block.

The weapons met with a sound like a church bell being struck by lightning.

Astarion was already gone—he’d vanished the moment Ketheric’s hand rose. Now he reappeared behind the fallen paladin, a ghost made of silver and spite. His daggers, coated in something that steamed in the colony’s humid air, drove toward the gap between helmet and gorget.

They never landed.

The force that hit him came from nowhere—or everywhere. It wasn’t a spell I could see, wasn’t an attack I could track. One moment Astarion was striking, the next he was flying, his body ragdolling through the air. He hit the far wall with a sickening crunch, the impact driving the breath from his lungs in a sound that was half gasp, half scream.

He slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood, and didn’t get up.

“Astarion!” I started toward him, but Minthara’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Focus!” She was already moving, her form blazing with divine light that made the shadows recoil. Her voice rang out, powerful and clear, words in a language that predated the common tongue. “Myrkul’s corruption ends here!”

The sigil that formed above her head was beautiful and terrible—concentric circles of radiant energy, each one inscribed with glyphs that burned themselves into my vision. She drove her sword point-first into the ground, and the sigil dropped.

The wave of divine energy that burst outward was like standing too close to a lightning strike. It washed across the nearest cluster of undead, and they came apart. Shattered. Bones exploding into powder. Shadows burned away to nothing. For one glorious moment, the tide seemed to turn.

Then Ketheric raised his hand again.

The undead didn’t just reform—they rewound. Like watching a broken vase reassemble itself, like time running backward for them alone. Bones flew back together, finding their original positions with sickening precision. Shadows knit themselves back into coherent forms. Within heartbeats, the army stood whole again.

“You cannot kill what has already embraced death.” Ketheric’s voice held something that might have been pity. His hand twisted, fingers curling into an arcane gesture, and the shadows moved like living things—wrapping around the undead, pulling them upright, stitching them together with threads of darkness. “Why do you persist in this futility?”

I turned to Freya, grabbing her arm. “Aylin.” The name came out urgent. “We need to free her first. He won’t fall until she’s unchained.”

Understanding flashed across Freya’s face. “On it.”

She broke away, moving toward the far side of the chamber where Dame Aylin hung suspended in chains that glowed with necrotic runes. But between Freya and her target stood a wall of the undead.

Gale was already weaving the spell before Freya finished her first step. His hands moved through the familiar patterns, but faster than I’d ever seen him work, each gesture leaving trails of crimson light that hung in the air. Energy was building, intensifying, the temperature around him spiking until the very air began to shimmer.

“Move!” He thrust both hands forward, and the world turned orange. It roared across the intervening space, a tsunami of flame that consumed everything in its path.

The undead caught in its wake didn’t burn, they vaporized. Bone turned to ash turned to nothing. The shadows tried to protect them, tried to shield them, but the fire was too much, too hot, too absolute.

“You fight like children.” His voice was almost sad now. “Clawing at something beyond your comprehension. Do you not see? I have transcended. Death is no curse—it is freedom.”

Jaheira planted her staff, the wood sinking into the corrupted floor with unnatural ease. The air around her began to crackle, filling with the scent of ozone and growing things. “This rot has spread far enough.”

The spell she wove wasn’t flashy. There were no grand gestures, no dramatic effects. She simply spoke three words in the Old Tongue, and the world listened.

Vines erupted from the floor. Not normal vines—these were thick as a man’s torso, glowing with primal energy. They moved with predatory intelligence, wrapping around the undead, crushing them, pulling them down.

I heard bones snapping like dry kindling. Watched as the vines constricted, pulverizing ancient warriors into component pieces. But for every one that fell, two more shambled forward.

Jaheira caught my eye across the chaos. “We must be quick, Artemis—before he summons worse.”

Worse. Right. Because an army of unkillable undead wasn’t bad enough.

I reached for my own power, feeling it coil in my chest like a living thing. Necrotic energy—Myrkul’s domain, death magic, the power of endings. It flowed through me, cold and eager, wanting to be used.

I shaped it, directed it, sent a pulse of pure entropy toward Ketheric. The spell should have hit like a battering ram, should have aged his armor to rust, should have reminded even his immortal flesh what it meant to decay.

Instead, it lingered.

The energy left my fingers, but slowly, reluctantly, like it didn’t want to go. Or like something was trying to keep it. I could feel Myrkul’s influence wrapped around my magic, could feel the god’s attention turning toward me like the eye of a great and terrible beast.

The spell finally released, crossing the distance to Ketheric. It struck him square in the chest. He didn’t even flinch. Of course he would be immune as well.

“I see you.” His voice dropped to something intimate, conspiratorial. He took a step toward me, and the undead parted before him like courtiers before a king. “You are more like me than you care to admit.”

I clenched my jaw hard enough that something in my skull clicked. Forced the cold down, pushed back against that awful pulling sensation. My magic was mine. Death was my tool, not my master. I would not kneel.

But I could feel it—the similarity Ketheric mentioned. Necrotic against necrotic. Death magic recognizing its own. My resistance made me his equal in some twisted way. But equals meant opposition. Meant conflict. And he knew it.

“You could be magnificent,” he murmured. “If you would only stop fighting what you are.”

Then his hand rose, fingers splaying wide, and the cavern trembled.

The undead that surged forward this time weren’t the shambling skeletons from before. These were abominations—creatures stitched together from multiple corpses, standing twice the height of a man, their bodies a nightmare fusion of bone and rotting flesh. Their mouths, multiple heads grafted onto single torsos, opened in silent screams that somehow made sound anyway—a keening wail that scraped against my eardrums.

Bone-forged giants lumbered behind them, their bodies armored in the skeletons of their victims, their fists the size of shields. Where they walked, the ground cracked under their weight.

We were being overwhelmed. I could see it happening, could see our formation fracturing, could see the exhaustion setting into everyone’s movements. We needed to change the game.

Freya had the same thought. While the rest of us held the line—barely—she’d been working her way around the edge of the battle, using the chaos as cover. Now she reached Dame Aylin’s chains, her weapon already glowing with divine energy.

She brought it down on the first chain with everything she had.

The metal shrieked but held. Runes flared along its length, burning bright enough to leave afterimages. Freya snarled, wound up, struck again. And again. Each impact sent sparks flying, each hit weakened the bindings a little more.

Ketheric noticed.

His head snapped around, and for the first time, I saw something other than serene certainty on his face. Fear. Rage. Desperation. All three at once, twisting his features into something inhuman.

“NO!” The word came out as a roar that shook loose dust from the ceiling.

Necrotic energy gathered around his hand, that same sickly green-black I’d felt moments before, but concentrated now, focused, deadly. He thrust his arm forward, and a bolt of pure entropy screamed across the cavern toward Freya’s unprotected back.

Shadowheart was moving before I could shout a warning. She crossed the distance in a desperate sprint, her shield already raised, divine light blazing from it like a second sun. The bolt struck her barrier, and the impact drove her to her knees.

I could see her teeth gritted, could see her arms trembling as she held the shield up, could see the divine energy flickering as Myrkul’s power tried to overwhelm it. The light and darkness clashed, throwing wild shadows across the walls, the sound of their collision like reality tearing.

Behind her, Freya kept striking. The chain was weakening, cracks spreading along its length, the runes beginning to sputter and fail.

Then—a sound like the world breaking.

The chain snapped.

Dame Aylin fell forward, collapsing to her knees, the other chains still holding her but no longer able to support her weight. For a moment, nothing happened. She knelt there, head bowed, wings dragging on the ground.

Then light erupted from her.

Not gentle light. Not holy light. This was wrathful light—the light of stars going supernova, of divine judgment made manifest, of a goddess’s daughter finally, finally free after a century of torment. It poured from her wounds, from her eyes, from between her teeth when she opened her mouth in a scream that was equal parts agony and triumph.

The very air shifted. The colony’s pulsing rhythm stuttered. The undead flinched back, their necrotic energy drawing back from the sheer concentration of divine power.

Dame Aylin rose. The remaining chains shattered, unable to contain her any longer. Her wings unfurled, each feather blazing with golden light that cut through the colony’s crimson gloom. Blood—or something that looked like blood—wept from a hundred wounds across her body, but the light poured from those same wounds, cauterizing, healing, transforming pain into power.

When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of a hundred years of suffering, and the promise of vengeance for every single one.

“You will regret keeping me prisoner.”

She looked at Ketheric, and in her eyes burned something older than spite, deeper than hatred. This was the wrath of the wronged, the fury of the forsaken, the rage of someone who’d had everything taken and was now reclaiming it in blood.

“You will regret every breath you drew while I hung in chains. Every moment you lived while I merely existed. Every single instant of peace you stole from me.”

Then she moved.

I’d seen fast before. I’d seen Astarion blur into motion, seen Lae’zel strike like lightning. But Aylin was something else. One moment she was there, the next she was on Ketheric, her fists glowing with celestial fire, each strike hitting with the force of divine judgment.

And we followed.

Karlach came in from the left, her axe trailing flames. Gale unleashed another barrage of magic, this time from the right, cutting off escape routes. Lae’zel recovered her fallen weapon and drove in low. Jaheira’s vines wrapped around Ketheric’s legs, trying to root him in place. Minthara’s blade sang with holy radiance. Shadowheart channeled healing into Aylin even as the aasimar fought, keeping her standing, keeping her strong.

I added my own magic to the assault, but this time I didn’t hold back. I let the necrotic energy flow, let it build, and I aimed it not at Ketheric but at the ground beneath him. At the colony floor. At the foundation of Myrkul’s power here.

The battle turned.

Ketheric, who’d seemed untouchable moments before, now reeled under our combined assault. His armor cracked. His movements slowed. That serene smile finally, finally faltered. I could feel it in my bones, in my magic, in the way the air itself seemed to lighten—the tide was turning.

But he was not finished.

Even as Aylin’s fist cracked against his helmet, even as Karlach’s axe bit deep into his shoulder, even as my magic tore at the very ground he stood on—he smiled again.

This smile was different. Peaceful. Almost loving.

“You think this is victory?” His voice was soft again, barely audible over the sounds of combat. Almost reverent, like a prayer. “No. This is only the beginning.”

He dropped to his knees. Arms spreading wide in a gesture of surrender that was also somehow an invitation. Dark energy began to swirl around him and the very air seemed to drink in his form.

“No!” Aylin roared, lunging forward, her hand outstretched, her fingers almost reaching him. “You will not escape me! NOT AGAIN!”

But it was too late.

The shadows didn’t just surround him—they consumed him. Pulled him down, pulled him in, dragged him into an abyss that opened beneath his knees like a mouth eager to swallow. I caught one last glimpse of his face, and he was smiling. Actually smiling, with genuine joy.

He’d won after all.

With one final whisper—a sound that might have been a prayer, or a thank you, or simply a name spoken with absolute devotion—Ketheric Thorm was gone.

The silence that followed was somehow worse than the battle had been.

We stood there, breathing hard, weapons still raised, waiting for the other boot to drop. Because it would drop. This was too easy. Too clean. Too—

The shadows in the chamber stirred.

The temperature dropped again and the colony’s pulsing light dimmed, as though even this corrupted place feared what was coming.

Myrkul was coming.

Chapter Text

Bone emerged first. Not bleached white, but yellowed with age, slick with the residue of decay. A hand—impossibly large, fingers like sword blades—gripped the cavern's edge. Then another. The skeletal arms pulled, and the thing that had been waiting below finally ascended.

Myrkul didn't simply appear. He manifested—reality buckling under the weight of his existence. His form towered three stories high, a cathedral of death constructed from bone and shadow. Skulls of every size and species adorned him like baroque armor, their empty sockets weeping that same sickly green light. Tattered veils of black silk—or perhaps the darkness itself—draped from his frame, moving independent of any wind, each fold seeming to contain glimpses of other places. Other deaths.

The scythe in his grip curved like a question mark made of malice. Its blade caught no light because it was the absence of light, a rent in the world where hope went to die. Along its edge, something darker than blood glistened—the condensed essence of final moments, last breaths, terminal regrets.

From his crown, two additional skeletal arms rose like the mandibles of some cosmic insect. They swung thuribles—censers of tarnished bronze that leaked fog thick enough to taste. The smoke carried memories: the last thoughts of plague victims, the confusion of those who died alone, the bitter tang of lives cut short.

My knees weakened. Not from fear—though terror clawed at my throat—but from the sheer gravitational pull of him. Standing before Myrkul felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall was inevitable, feeling your body already beginning to lean forward.

Then he spoke.

“I am the smile of the worm-cleansed skull. I am the regrets of those who remain, and the restlessness of those who are gone.”

The incense burners swung wider. The fog spread. I watched it roll across the floor like a living thing, and where it touched, life retreated. Moss blackened and crumbled. The faint bioluminescence of cave fungi guttered out. Even the stone itself seemed to age, cracks deepening, surfaces roughening.

“I am the haunt of mausoleums, the god of graves and age, of dust and dusk. I am Myrkul, Lord of Bones, and you have slain my Chosen.”

The words resonated through the cavern, through my bones, through the marrow inside them. I felt my teeth ache with the frequency of his voice.

“But it is no matter, for I am Death. And I am not the end—I am a beginning.”

The shockwave hit like a battering ram made of pure entropy.

I was airborne before I understood what happened. The ground beneath us didn't just crack—it aged. Stone that had stood for millennia became powder in seconds. The force threw me backward, and I twisted mid-air, managing to land in a crouch that sent jolts of pain up my legs.

But the pain was nothing compared to what came next.

A pulling sensation, deep in my chest. Something reached into me, past flesh and muscle, seeking the vital spark that separated living from dead. My heart stuttered, forgetting its rhythm for one terrible moment. My lungs seized, air turning to ice inside them.

Around us, the dead answered their master's call.

The floor erupted. They weren't clawing up from graves. These corpses were being assembled, pulled together from the raw material of death that permeated this place. Bones fused together in impossible configurations. Flesh that had been dust moments before reconstituted itself into approximations of life.

A revenant hauled itself upright before me, seven feet of stitched-together corpses wearing armor that had rusted into its skin. Its eyes were pits of that green light, intelligent and hungry. Behind it, skeletal warriors formed ranks, their bones clicking together with military precision. Wraiths coalesced from the fog itself, faces I almost recognized—almost wanted to recognize—stretched into eternal screams.

“Move!” Jaheira's voice cut through the horror, sharp and clean. “Don't cluster—scatter!”

Training overrode terror. We exploded into motion, each of us instinctively putting space between ourselves and our companions. Making ourselves harder targets. Denying Myrkul the opportunity to destroy us all at once.

Wyll was fastest. He'd already begun weaving the gestures before Jaheira finished speaking, his hands describing patterns in the air that left trails of crimson light. Fire bloomed around his fingertips, not the friendly warmth of a hearth but the savage heat of a forge pushed beyond its limits.

“Divinity or not—” He thrust both hands forward, and the words came through gritted teeth. “—you will fall.”

The spell he unleashed wasn't a single attack. It was a symphony of destruction. Fire spiraled outward in three separate streams, each one hot enough to make the air shimmer and warp. They converged on Myrkul's chest, and where they struck, the world turned white.

The detonation shook loose stalactites from the ceiling. The heat washed over me even at a distance, making my eyes water, singeing the fine hairs on my arms. Arcane lances followed—pure force given shape and velocity, each one capable of punching through castle walls.

They struck home with sounds like reality cracking. The cavern filled with smoke and steam and the acrid stench of magic pushed to its absolute limit.

The smoke cleared.

Myrkul stood unchanged. Not unharmed—unchanged. As though the attack had occurred to someone else, in some other reality, and this Myrkul existed outside such petty concerns as damage.

“You misunderstand the nature of death, warlock.”

The god's voice held something that might have been pity in a creature capable of such emotion.

“You think it is something to be conquered. But death is not your foe—it is your god.”

One skeletal hand rose, fingers spreading.

“And I am your worship.”

The shadows moved. They peeled away from walls and pillars, from the corpses of our enemies and the folds of our own cloaks. They surged toward Wyll like a tide of liquid night.

He tried to dodge. He was fast—I'd seen him move like quicksilver in battle, seen him dance between sword strokes that should have killed him. But these shadows didn't follow the rules of the physical world. They were already where he was going to be.

They wrapped around him like chains, like burial shrouds, like the arms of drowned lovers pulling him down. Where they touched, his skin went gray. Not pale—gray, the color of corpses three days old.

“No—” The word came out as a rasp, his vocal cords stiffening.

I watched the life drain from him in real-time.

Shadowheart was moving before I could react. She crossed the distance in a sprint, her holy symbol blazing with silver light that seemed to pain her even as she channeled it. The radiance struck the shadows, and they recoiled, hissing like cats thrown into water.

Wyll collapsed, gasping. Color flooded back into his face, but his hands trembled violently. 

“On your feet!" Shadowheart grabbed his arm, hauling him upright. “We're not done.”

But Karlach wasn't waiting for coordination or strategy. 

“Oh, fuck all of this!” Her voice was a roar that rivaled Myrkul's own, all fury and defiance. “We take him down! Now!”

She charged. Not recklessly but with absolute commitment. Her infernal engine roared to life, flames erupting from her shoulders and back, turning her into a comet of righteous anger. The greataxe in her hands caught the light of her own fire, its edge already singing with the velocity of her approach.

She closed the distance in five strides. Drew back the axe. The weapon came down in an arc that could have split a giant in half, could have carved through stone and steel and the space between atoms.

The axe stopped.

Not slowed. Not deflected. Stopped. As though it had struck an invisible wall, or as though the universe itself had decided that this particular piece of metal would advance no further.

Myrkul had raised a single finger.

Karlach snarled, veins standing out on her forehead as she pushed with every ounce of her considerable strength. The axe didn't budge. I could see her feet sliding backward on the stone, could see the muscles in her arms trembling with effort.

“Move, you bastard! Move!”

Myrkul's response was almost casual. He flicked his wrist.

The force that hit Karlach was some type of magic. She flew backward, her trajectory too straight, too fast to be natural. She hit a column of solid stone with a sound like a hammer striking meat.

The stone cracked. Karlach crumpled, blood spraying from her mouth in a fine mist. She tried to stand, got halfway up, then collapsed again. Each breath came with a horrible wheeze that said broken ribs, punctured lung, possibly worse.

“Lae'zel!” Freya's voice cut through the chaos. “Flank right—now!”

The githyanki was already moving. She'd positioned herself during Karlach's charge, using the distraction exactly as intended. Now she struck from Myrkul's blind side—if a god of death could be said to have a blind side—her greatsword held in both hands, the silver blade inscribed with glyphs that blazed with astral fire. It came down toward the exposed vertebrae of Myrkul's spine, a strike that would have decapitated a dragon.

Myrkul turned. Not his whole body—just his head, rotating on his neck vertebrae with a grinding sound like millstones at work. He caught the blade between two fingers.

Lae'zel's eyes widened. I'd never seen shock on her face before. Fear, sometimes. Rage, frequently. But never this—never the expression of someone who'd done everything right and discovered it didn't matter.

Myrkul squeezed.

The metal screamed. Literally screamed, the sound of its molecular bonds being stressed beyond endurance. Cracks spider-webbed along the blade, spreading from where Myrkul's fingers touched. The githyanki silver crumbled. It didn't break. It became dust, the particles floating away on currents of necrotic energy.

Then Myrkul backhanded her.

The blow would have killed a normal person. Would have separated head from shoulders, or crushed a skull to paste. Lae'zel's conditioning saved her—barely. She flew sideways, hit the ground, and skidded across the stone floor in a spray of sparks where her armor scraped against rock.

She tried to rise. Collapsed. Tried again, got to one knee, one hand braced against the floor. Blood ran from her nose, her ears, the corner of her mouth. But she was alive.

Minthara, Shadowheart, and Freya converged on Myrkul simultaneously. They struck. Blades found purchase. Magic tore through necrotic flesh. For one glorious moment, it seemed like coordination and skill might triumph over raw power.

Myrkul's form shuddered. Bones cracked. The tattered veils around him billowed as though in a strong wind. Wounds opened across his torso, leaking that same green luminescence.

Then the wounds closed.

Not healed—reversed. As though time ran backward for Myrkul alone, as though cause and effect meant nothing to him. The damage unmade itself. The bones knit together. The glow of Freya's celestial magic was absorbed, consumed, added to Myrkul's own reservoir of power.

“Did you believe it would be so simple?”

His scythe moved. One swing, deceptively lazy, covering an arc that should have been impossible for a weapon that size. Minthara rolled under it. Shadowheart raised her shield, and the impact drove her to her knees, the metal of her shield developing frost patterns where the blade passed near. Freya parried, her staff meeting the scythe's edge.

For a moment, they were locked together—celestial against necrotic, life against death. Then Myrkul simply pulled back, and Freya staggered forward off-balance. His other hand came around in a wide sweep, and she barely managed to raise her staff in time.

The force of the blow sent her sliding backward, boots scoring lines in the stone.

Then his gaze found me.

The sensation was indescribable.

My body locked up. Not paralyzed—that would have been mercy. I was frozen in the moment between breaths, caught in the space between heartbeats. My vision tunneled, the edges going dark, the world reducing to those empty eye sockets boring into me.

Something curled around my ribs. Not physical hands, though it felt like fingers—cold, patient, intimate. The sensation reached deeper, past muscle and bone, past organs and blood. It sought the core of me, the part that insisted I was I and not anyone else.

Nausea rolled through me in waves. My stomach clenched. My mouth filled with bile. But worse than the physical symptoms was what came with his attention.

Memories that weren't mine.

A woman's face—my face, but not quite. Penelope's face. Terror in her eyes as she ran through corridors of stone. Her breath coming in gasps. Her heart hammering against her ribs. 

The memories released me like a fish thrown back into the river. I gasped, nearly fell, caught myself with one hand on the cold stone floor.

“Ah.”

The single syllable contained volumes. Recognition. Interest. Something that might have been amusement in a creature capable of such feelings.

“Not Penelope.”

Ice crystallized in my veins. My breath caught, lungs refusing to expand. He knew. 

"Gortash has struck his bargains well.”

The words rolled through the cavern, each one a judgment, a condemnation, a promise.

“She was mine to return. To suffer. And yet, she fled. Clever girl.”

His skeletal head tilted, considering me the way a scholar might consider an interesting specimen pinned to a board.

“A soul adrift. Stolen from me—hidden by Agatha's hand.”

My magic erupted unbidden. Shadow tendrils burst from my fingertips, crackling with energy I hadn't consciously summoned. They writhed in the air, seeking targets, seeking escape, seeking something—anything—to hurt. The power responded to my terror, to my rage, to the violation of having this thing see me so completely.

But underneath the chaos, something else stirred. A pulling sensation, like hooks in my soul, reeling me in. Myrkul's influence wrapped around my mind like morning fog, seeping into every crack and crevice.

“Did you think I would not notice?”

His skeletal fingers flexed, bones grinding together.

“Did you think you could cheat me? You are not beyond my grasp.”

The floor beneath me cracked. Green-black energy erupted from the fissures, tendrils of concentrated death given form. They wrapped around my ankle before I could move.

But Dame Aylin was there in an instant, cutting the tendril off with radiant magic. She stood between me and Myrkul. Her shoulders heaved with exertion, sweat running down her face, but she didn't move. Didn't step aside.

“We finish this.” Her voice was gravel and steel, every word an oath. “Now.”

I managed to get my feet under me, managed to stand. My leg screamed in protest, but it held. Around us, the others were regrouping.

Myrkul's empty eye sockets surveyed us all. His massive form straightened, the shadows around him writhing with renewed purpose. The incense burners swung faster, releasing more of that death-laden fog. The revenants and wraiths drew closer, forming a barrier of undead flesh between us and their master.

“So be it.”

The words resonated through the cavern, through reality itself. 

And somehow, we were going to have to find a way to kill a god.

Chapter Text

Dame Aylin didn't walk toward Myrkul. She launched—a meteor of celestial wrath. Her blade, still glowing from the chains it had shattered, came down. It bit deep into Myrkul's chest, carving through bone and shadow. The impact would have split a mountain. Should have ended anything mortal, anything rational.

Myrkul made a sound.

Not a scream. Not even a grunt of pain. Something closer to... appreciation. Like a connoisseur sampling a particularly bold vintage.

"You shine, little star." His voice carried the weight of eternity, each word a tombstone. "But all light dims."

His scythe moved almost lazily. The curved blade caught Aylin across her midsection. The force behind it defied physics, defied sense. She went airborne, her trajectory a straight line that terminated in the cavern wall.

The impact sounded like thunder trapped in a bottle. Stone cracked in a spider-web pattern around her body. She slid down, her wings spasming as she fought to stay conscious. But even crumpled, even broken, those wings spread wide—defiant to the last breath.

"Dammit." Shadowheart's curse came through clenched teeth. Her hands moved through familiar motions, weaving healing magic into the air. Soft white light spread outward like ripples on a pond, touching each of us in turn.

The ground beneath us groaned. More skeletons dragged themselves up with the patience of things that had literally all the time in the world. Rusted swords. Cracked shields. Dented helmets that had caved in around the skulls beneath. Each one a monument to mortality, to the futility of resisting what came for everyone eventually.

"We can't keep this up." Astarion's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. He stood twenty feet away, an arrow already nocked, his breathing hard and fast. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead despite the unnatural cold. "God or not, we need a damn plan."

Gale stood nearby, his hands trembling—not from fear, but from the sheer amount of arcane energy he'd been channeling. The air around his fingers shimmered with residual heat. He dragged a forearm across his brow, wiping away sweat that immediately reformed.

"We need to overwhelm him." His eyes darted between our group—battered, bleeding, barely standing—and Myrkul, who looked exactly as he had when he'd first risen. Untouched. Eternal. "Something devastating. Something final."

Minthara spat a glob of blood onto the stone. It steamed where it landed. She adjusted her grip on her sword, knuckles white beneath her dark skin. "Any suggestions? Or are we simply cataloging our imminent deaths?"

Karlach's answer was action. The greataxe in her hands glowed cherry-red. She closed the distance in four strides and brought the weapon down with every ounce of strength her engineered body could produce.

Myrkul caught her.

Not the axe—her. One massive skeletal hand closed around her torso, lifting her off the ground as easily as I might lift a kitten. His skull-face, wreathed in that sickly green fog, came inches from hers. She could probably smell the death on him—that rotting-tomb stench that clung to everything he touched.

Then his chest cavity pulsed.

Necrotic energy erupted outward. It washed over Karlach like a wave, and then he threw her.

She tumbled through the air, limbs flailing, no control, no grace. Minthara saw her coming and tried to raise a warding spell—managed to get the gestures half-formed before Karlach crashed into her.

They went down in a tangle of limbs and armor and pain. Karlach's engine sputtered, trying to reignite. Minthara groaned, her spell unfinished, its energy dissipating harmlessly into the air.

I knew Gale was right. We were faltering. Each exchange left us weaker. Each moment Myrkul remained standing eroded our chances a little more. 

Then I felt it.

A presence at the edge of my consciousness and a pull toward something that lived in the same darkness where Myrkul drew his power.

I met Myrkul's gaze across the cavern. Those empty sockets that somehow still saw, that looked past flesh and bone to the truth beneath.

"You want to take from me?" My voice came out raw, scraped across vocal cords that felt like sandpaper. My whole body shook—fear, exhaustion, adrenaline, all of it bleeding together. "Then take this."

I let that pull in.

The necrotic energy erupted. A black firestorm that poured from my hands. It was cold fire, dark light, the power of endings made manifest. It met Myrkul's own power head-on.

And Myrkul—eternal, immutable, impossible Myrkul—staggered.

One step backward. Just one. 

His hollow voice filled my head, cold as a grave in winter. "A mistake. You invite me in."

I could feel him there, at the edges of my consciousness, looking for a way to turn my own power against me.

I clenched my fists so hard my nails drew blood from my palms. "I'm not afraid of you."

The lie tasted bitter. But sometimes lies were all we had.

Freya saw the opening and seized it. Her voice rose in an incantation, each syllable precise. Her hands moved through patterns that left afterimages in the air—golden light trailing from her fingertips, weaving together into something greater than the sum of its parts.

Arcane symbols flared to life around her, floating in three-dimensional space. They rotated slowly, clicking into alignment like tumblers in a cosmic lock. Each symbol pulsed with power that made my teeth ache.

"Fall, wretched thing." She thrust both hands forward, and the symbols launched.

They struck Myrkul in sequence—one, two, three, four—each impact releasing a torrent of radiant energy. Pure light, concentrated to weaponized intensity, carved through shadow and bone. Where it touched, Myrkul's form came apart. Skeletal limbs twisted at unnatural angles. The shadows that held him together unraveled at the edges.

But he didn't scream. Gods, I wished he would scream.

Instead, he laughed. A hollow, deathless sound that held no humor, no joy, no anything except the cold certainty of entropy. The laugh of someone who knew that everything eventually came to him.

Jaheira planted her staff. Blood ran from a cut above her eye. Her armor hung in tatters. But her eyes burned with the fury.

"Let's see how you'll feel about that." She snarled the words through bloodied teeth and reached deep into the power that druids channeled, drawing her bow and arrows.

She infused the arrows with magic—they glowed with bioluminescence, pulsed with life-force so concentrated it was almost obscene. When she shot them loose, the magic left in them wrapped around Myrkul's crumbling frame like serpents, like chains, like the bars of a prison made from vitality itself.

Where they touched his necrotic flesh, they burned. Life against death. Growth against decay. The fundamental opposition of existence made manifest.

Myrkul shuddered, his form wavering like a mirage in desert heat.

Lae'zel needed no invitation, no signal, no permission. She saw the opening and exploited it.

She launched herself at him. The sword she picked up sliced through Myrkul's essence like scissors through smoke, each strike dispersing more of his coherence.

Karlach was right behind her, each strike accompanied by a wordless scream of defiance. Astarion's arrows found gaps in the defense, each one carrying enchantments that made them more than simple projectiles. Minthara channeled divine magic again, her blade blazing with light that should have burned her heretic hands. Even Shadowheart joined the assault, her shield forgotten, her mace swinging in big arcs.

We weren't coordinated. We weren't elegant. But we were relentless.

Myrkul shuddered again. Harder this time. Pieces of him sloughed off like ash from dying embers, drifting away on currents of magic and fury. His skeletal frame showed cracks—actual damage that didn't immediately repair itself.

His gaze found me one last time. Even fragmenting, even falling, he still saw.

"You think you have won." His voice was fainter now, fraying at the edges. "But death is not defeat. It is... inevitable."

Dame Aylin hauled herself upright, wings dragging, one arm cradled against her ribs. But her other hand rose, fingers spread wide, radiant energy crackling between them. Her voice came out as a rasp but carried the weight of a century's worth of rage.

"Not today."

We struck as one. Everything we had. Everything we were. Everything we might ever be. All of it focused on one impossible target.

And then it happened: Myrkul's form shattered.

Not explosively. Not dramatically. Just... dispersed. His skeletal frame came apart into a thousand wisps of shadow that howled as they dissipated. The darkness screamed. Then faded. Then was simply gone.

I staggered, catching myself on my knees before I could collapse completely. My breath came in ragged gasps that burned my throat. Around me, my companions did the same—a chorus of labored breathing, pained groans, bodies pushed past their absolute limits and somehow still functioning.

Blood dripped. From cuts I didn't remember receiving. From wounds I'd been ignoring because stopping to treat them meant stopping to die. It pooled on the stone beneath me, mixing with everyone else's, creating patterns that might have meant something to someone who could still think clearly.

Everything burned. My muscles. My magic. My very existence. Exhaustion pressed down with the weight of continents.

Aylin moved first. Of course she did. She dragged herself upright from the rubble, her wings hanging limp, blood—or what passed for blood in her divine body—streaming from a dozen wounds. But her eyes still glowed. Still burned with that terrible fury that had sustained her through a century of imprisonment.

"It is done." The words came out as a whisper. Not from weakness—from the simple impossibility of making such a statement louder. As though speaking too forcefully might somehow undo it.

I looked around at my companions. 

Karlach's engine sputtered irregularly, the flames barely wisps. Gale swayed on his feet, his eyes unfocused from magical exhaustion. Lae'zel had one arm hanging at an odd angle. Minthara's armor had cracked in places I didn't know armor could crack. Astarion's usual grace had been replaced by the stumbling movements of someone running on fumes. Shadowheart's mace lay forgotten on the ground, the chain broken. Jaheira looked like she'd aged a decade in the past hour. Freya and Wyll bled from wounds that should have been fatal.

We were alive. Barely. 

The wreckage around us told its own story. Shattered stone. Scorched earth. The lingering traces of too much magic discharged too quickly. The bodies of the undead that had finally stayed down.

Chapter Text

Myrkul was gone—defeated—but his presence still clung to me like a specter that refused to leave. The cavern where we had faced him was eerily still, yet the echoes of battle rang in my ears. 

The air felt different as we ascended out of the Mind Flayer colony. Lighter , as if the land itself had been unshackled. And then, as we emerged into the gloom above, I saw it—patches of the Shadow Curse lifting. The sky was still heavy with darkness, but now, streaks of light broke through. The once-oppressive gloom had thinned, and the land, though still wounded, seemed to breathe again.

Freya walked beside me, turning the netherstone over in her palm. It pulsed faintly, dark and alive.

“He spoke to me,” she murmured, voice quiet, unreadable. “The Guardian. Told me what we need to do.”

I turned to her, still catching my breath, already knowing what she was going to say. “…And?”

“We need all three netherstones,” she said, her grip tightening around the artifact. “If we want to control the Netherbrain, we have to claim them all first. Or else…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

I stared at the netherstone in her hand. The victory we had fought so hard for—it was only the beginning.

---

Inside the Towers, Ketheric Thorm’s false empire lay in ruins. His devoted acolytes lay dead, his army scattered, his reign obliterated.

And yet, amid all that destruction, Minthara looked perfectly at home.

She lounged on Ketheric’s throne, one leg draped lazily over the other, fingers tapping idly against the armrest. She looked at ease, but her eyes burned brightly. It suited her in a way that sent a quiet shiver down my spine.

“I will never tire of sitting on dead men’s thrones,” she murmured, a wry smile curling her lips. “Power always has its allure... but I shall not get too comfortable.”

She tilted her head slightly, as if listening to some distant thought, then let out a quiet chuckle—humorless, edged with something bitter. “There are others still waiting. I know one of them all too well… Bhaal’s bloodletter. Orin.”

A sharp chill settled in my gut.

Orin.

The woman who nearly broke her. The woman who played with her, twisted her, remade her into something meant to serve. The thought of meeting her—of facing her—sent a shiver down my spine.

To think, the others didn’t know.

Minthara continued: “I once believed she spoke for the Absolute. I worshipped that woman.” She scoffed, shaking her head, fingers tightening on the throne’s arms. “She was the one who indoctrinated me with the Absolute’s lies. She is fierce, vicious, and cruel. In those respects, we are alike. But she is dangerously unpredictable. If there is a way to twist this design toward slaughter rather than control, she will take it.”

I knew that truth better than anyone. I had seen it in Minthara’s memories.

“She brought you to Moonrise?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

Minthara’s gaze flicked to me, studying, measuring, then nodding. “Yes. She led me into the presence of her so-called god—the Absolute. But now, I know those memories were lies. There was no god.”

Her voice darkened, ice creeping into the edges of her words. “She held me down in a cocoon of flesh while a mind flayer forced a parasite into my brain. And she laughed … at my fear.”

Even knowing the truth, hearing it from her lips—it made my stomach churn with something ugly and helpless. In my playthrough with Freya, I didn’t learn any details about Orin’s manipulation towards Minthara. It must have been more volatile than I read about it later. 

Minthara’s smile was icy cold. “I will find her. I will murder her. And I will smile.”

She meant it, every word. And I couldn’t blame her. Orin was waiting.

And so was he.

---

The reunion between Dame Aylin and Isobel was almost too much to witness. But I couldn’t blame them. Lost lovers, found each other again, even after death. Stuff that is happening only in fairytales or video games. 

Unlike in the original plot, they didn’t ask to stay at our camp. Instead, they were eager to begin rebuilding—restoring Last Light Inn and cleansing Moonrise Towers of its lingering darkness, helping to get it’s “ Holy-Moonmaiden-Glory ” back.

The trek back to Last Light was slow, exhaustion weighing on every step. I barely noticed Gale approaching until he was at my side, arms crossed, a wry smile playing at his lips.

“Well, I, for one, am quite pleased that I didn’t unleash a catastrophic magical explosion,” he mused. There was something teasing in his tone, but beneath it, I could hear the relief.

I blinked. “You still wanted to use your orb?”

He gave a small shrug. “The thought crossed my mind, but in retrospect, thank the gods I didn’t. I would have regretted it.”

A slow breath left me. “So would I.”

Gale nodded, then clapped his hands together. “But that is a conversation for another time. We have more pressing matters—such as finding the nearest drink.”

Karlach groaned in agreement from behind, rolling her shoulders with a satisfying crack. “Gods, yes. We need a feast. We need an entire festival. I want a drink bigger than my head.”

Minthara, who had been walking alongside Jaheira, arched a brow. “Is drowning yourself in wine your answer to victory?”

“Yes,” Karlach and Astarion answered in unison.

Jaheira chuckled, shaking her head. “Then I suppose it’s good we’re heading to Last Light Inn. I believe we have earned at least one night of peace.”

Chapter Text

Last Light Inn felt different when we returned.
Not just lighter—freer. Like the place had exhaled after holding its breath for too long.

It wasn’t only the curse lifting. It was the people.

Halsin was waiting for us near the entrance, arms crossed, expression calm but alert. His gaze swept over our group, pausing a second longer on Minthara before settling on the rest of us.

“You’ve done what many believed impossible,” he said. His voice was steady, reverent. “Myrkul’s grasp is broken. The land will heal. In time.”

A rare smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “Ketheric Thorm is no more. The people here owe you their lives.”

Karlach grinned and clapped a hand against my back hard enough to jolt my ribs. “You hear that? We’re heroes.”

Wyll chuckled beside her. “Let’s hope it lasts.”

For the first time since stepping foot in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, we celebrated.

The inn was buzzing. Drinks passed from one tired hand to the next, laughter echoed from rafter to rafter, and the ache in our bones was dulled by warmth and wine. The horrors we carried didn’t vanish—but for one night, they loosened their grip.

Karlach lifted her mug high, sloshing ale over her gauntlet. “To gutting a god!”

“To victory,” Lae’zel added, raising her cup with all the gravity of a warrior honoring the dead.

Astarion lounged beside me, swirling a dark red vintage in his glass like he was appraising it rather than drinking it. “If only all our battles ended in a feast,” he mused, lips curling. “I might finally start looking forward to them.”

“Feasts don’t usually follow battles with gods,” I muttered.

“Exactly,” he said. “Which is why we should enjoy every bite.”

Gale had already found an audience—namely, the wide-eyed tiefling children crowded at his feet—regaling them with a dramatized version of our fight against Myrkul.

“—and the god of death towered above us, shadow swirling around his scythe—”