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Chapter Text

Interlude: Before the Infection

Year 603 of the 7th Guild Cycle

Planet Toril

Planet status: peripheral planet, category: colonized, aspiration level: candidate

Administration: Biogenesis Guild (until year 521 of the 7th Guild Cycle), currently: none

Security level: unknown

Note: currently no official guild representation on the surface. The planet is under remote monitoring status. Any Resistance activity on Toril territory is subject to immediate administrative penalty (Guild Council Decree, year 591.7GC)

TAV

She couldn’t remember the last time she felt like herself.

What did that even mean? To be yourself?

Maybe it was back when music could stir something in a person, when it wasn’t just background noise?

Because for her, it was just ordinary hum, barely registered by her senses. And yet, loud music filled the room. Local instruments, local musicians... primitive, objectively not without a certain charm. But when she listened to it, she felt nothing.

She stood with a glass in her hand. Glass and metal. A glass vessel and metal rims. All it took was to run a finger over the engravings to recognize the crests of the six guilds that ruled the whole fucking universe. She couldn’t remember when… if she had ever been more than a record of the ambitions of great houses.

Someone laughed below. Someone answered in the same way, then a chorus of false joy exploded. She took a sip of wine, holding back a crooked smile. The whole hall was spinning in a dance older than their civilization: bows, tactical smiles, probing glances. The game of power, influence, and information, and in the background, as always, lies, vows, and betrayals.

A bit like home, she thought bitterly.

She looked at the youth at the nearest table. Local aristocrats, not much younger than her, but smiling and... Oh. Dilated pupils, bodies relaxed, and on the table, purple powder. They were under the influence of mentatyn. She envied them a little. Envied them the courage to let go of control. She herself couldn’t be so light, so carefree.

Maybe… Maybe if she’d ever dared to try that poison, or rather: the product of her own house and the house of Aceveril, which they produced on an industrial scale, controlling sixty percent of supply in the entire colonized universe...

No.

Yes. But… Maybe if she had found the courage, then she would have found the answer too: how to be yourself? But she couldn’t. She felt sick at the very thought that she could be under the influence of that substance.

You should be proud, she told herself, and felt something twist in her stomach.

When her mother said: "This is our pride," she thought: "shame."

When her father said: "We sell people freedom from thought, pain, gray reality," she thought: "We sell a tool of oppression and control."

She felt faint. She reached for another sip. And another. The whole world is rotten.

"Tav?"

There’s no escape, she thought. There’s no escaping your own legacy.

"Tavya?"

You can’t escape what you are… what you were made to be.

"Darling?"

Wait… Did someone say something to her? That name always made her hesitate a little. She blinked. Someone’s hand gently squeezed hers, bringing her back to reality.

Simon.

Right. More roles. Another sum of practiced gestures, opinions, and emotions.

Simon and Tavya. Pretty, simple, ordinary names. For simple, minor aristocrats from the outer colonies. She should remember and respond to that name. To Tavya, not to Reytheyra De’loavalius of the Guild of Mental Strategy, whose crest was on her glass. Damn. She was tired, so unbearably tired.

"Sorry, my dear," she choked out.

"You weren’t listening to me." It wasn’t a question. Simon looked at her with a mix of irritation and concern. "This isn’t a good time for... whatever you’re doing right now," he whispered, moving closer to her. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I need... some fresh air."

Simon squeezed her hand tighter. An act. The role of a caring partner. He was terrifyingly good at it. Well... They both were. She tilted her head back, accepted the kiss. She smiled. He returned it. His hand rested on her back. The familiar choreography. Simon. Tavya. Reytheyra... It didn’t matter. All equally foreign and empty.

"Let’s go to the terrace, darling," he said.

GALE

A cultural ball on Toril, what a joke, Gale thought. A ball. Cultural. On Toril. Ha!

Toril had never been a place where culture thrived. Toril was a dump. A landfill for Guild waste, both physical and... well, human.

He strolled around the hall, exchanging polite smiles with the other guests. The atmosphere was subtly tense. He didn’t even have to consciously scan the guests’ mental fields to notice it. Tense faces, nervous adjustments of clothing, ladies playing with their jewelry... Someone next to Gale flinched slightly when someone else dropped something on the floor.

What are you all doing here? Didn’t you read the invitations carefully?

Gale raised his eyebrows, taking a sip of wine. He had to admit that for a forgotten hole, the wine was exquisite.

Forgotten hole. That’s what Toril was. A dump and a forgotten hole. It really was hard to call it anything else, a place where the Transport Guild tested its new, unstable technologies. Of course, all without consequences. No lawsuits, no compensation. Perfect. Just how they liked it.

The Biogenesis Guild was even worse. They experimented with new forms of life, not caring about all those lofty demands for “ethics” or “consequences.” It was on planets like Toril that they developed their genetic masterpieces. Tieflings, githyanki, vampires... All of them: hybrids, mutants, constructs, were designed as instruments of the system. Cruel? Oh, without a doubt. But it was cruelty of the highest order. Fully calculated. Cold, sterile functionality.

When the Guilds needed workers capable of surviving on planets rich in resources but biologically toxic for the standard human or elf genotype, they didn’t wait for evolution to come up with something. They ordered “new types” from the Biogenesis Guild, like from a catalog. Disgusting.

Gale inhaled and let his gaze sweep over the hall. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He was starting to resonate with that nervousness. And something told him he shouldn’t be here either... His mental abilities, usually hidden behind a facade of ordinary human intuition, were now boiling inside him, screaming loudly: idiot.

His body remained motionless, but his mind was already scanning. The gazes of some guests seemed too familiar, that calculated coldness and subtle vigilance. Oh, he had seen those before in his past at Lady Mystra’s court. The kind of people who always knew more than they said. He used to be like that too...

He swallowed. How can you be so naive, Gale? He was a gifted mentalist after all: sharp, strategic... he understood politics!

And yet here he was. At this ball. On Toril, a planet barely monitored by the Guilds. Cold sweat trickled down his neck. Frustration pulsed under his skin. Months of preparation, only to end up surrounded by people who played at being revolutionaries as effectively as children playing war.

Where is Shadowheart? Gale’s stomach tightened. He had to find her. Now.

Chapter Text

Interlude: Before the Infection (Part 2)

TAV

Inhale…

At first, there was only the noise of thoughts. Everything was spinning.

… and exhale.

Breathing took effort. Fingers gripping the railing were trembling.

One more inhale and exhale. Whatever is happening to you, you can control it. Your body is your fortress. Control it. Just like you were trained.

Trained self-control mechanisms began to take over, restoring her inner rhythm. A few more breaths in and out and the feverish noise in her head slowed enough that she could focus on her own hands.

She flinched slightly when Simon’s warm hand covered her own.

"So? Are you with me now, Tav?"

She laughed, but the sound was dry. She didn’t know why she reacted like that. Again. What is wrong with me today? I need to stop, to focus.

Simon looked at her questioningly, then called out and said:

"Listen. In an hour, we’re meeting our contact. This could be our chance."

"Does it even make sense?" she answered before she could think it through.

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully.

She sighed and grimaced. That was not a good reaction. Focus, for fuck’s sake!

"About… About all this. About us…" she broke off. Why did I say that? I was supposed to keep my mouth shut.

Simon frowned.

"Expand, please," he said.

Be quiet, she ordered herself, but already felt her lips, against all logic, opening to answer:

"Look," she said in a choked whisper. "Is this really what we want?" Instead of waiting for an answer, she pointed at the pathetic view stretching out at the foot of the residence. "Do we want some mediocre, underdeveloped world on the periphery? There isn’t even a properly developed communication network here. Total backwater!" Her lips twisted in a bitter grimace. Cold irritation began to spread through her chest. Compared to cosmic metropolises, with their lively, pulsing lights, the steady view before Tav’s eyes looked like an unfinished sketch. "This isn’t… our world. Maybe it’s safe, but… It’s not home."

"It’s temporary."

Temporary, she thought. She took a deep, trembling breath. Temporary!

A moment of inattention was enough for that familiar, pulsing pressure to appear behind her eyes. Her mental strength. Fucking gift, fucking curse. An ability that, instead of protecting her, was tearing her apart from the inside, always on the verge of implosion. And today… today she was dancing on the edge all the time.

If I don’t say it now, I’ll never say it. Fuck it.

"I think this is all a fucking fairy tale." She raised her hand, stopping Simon. "No, listen, I get it. You want to believe it’s possible. But let’s face the truth: all our lives we’ve had access to everything. And now we want to pretend we can live… in some hovel at the end of the galaxy? Look at us. Look at all this. Even now, when we’re pretending we’ve escaped, we’re playing at a ball organized by some privileged aristocrats. We drink wine from real vineyards, we’re wearing clothes that probably cost more than the average inhabitant of this world will earn in a year." She snorted. "And you think we could live like them?"

"It’s…"

"Temporary, I know," she interrupted him icily.

He was silent, so she continued:

"You think our families could believe that story about forbidden love?"

"They did. For three months…" he started, but stopped when he met her gaze.

"What? They let us play? We wanted to believe we’d made it. And they… They let us go. We’re on a leash. A long, expensive, elegant leash. You think they’re not monitoring our every move, every transaction?" she hissed. "And what about the fact that both you and I have access to family funds? Coincidence? No, Simon. They’re waiting. Counting on us to lead them to someone who might help us escape the system."

She said it. She really said it. But instead of the relief she longed for, there was… Nothing. As always. She saw Simon’s clenched jaw. He was thinking about what she said. She had hit on something important. But she felt nothing. Only a faint echo of her own words.

The world kept turning.

"What are you suggesting?" he asked quietly.

Reytheyra…

No, that’s not my name. At least not today. Now I am Tav.

…Tav raised her head. For a moment she stared at the sky with a blank gaze. Somewhere out there in the distance, our fate is being weighed, she thought bitterly. And what is left for us?

"I don’t know," she admitted honestly. "Maybe the only real choice we have left is to choose how we want to be unhappy."

She forced her facial muscles into a smile.

For some, that’s all that’s left. To learn to play well. Maybe Tav can still fool herself and find something that will let her have at least one real smile. Because Reytheyra never could look at the starry sky with a smile. That view always smelled of freedom, and thus of something that could never be hers, only an eternal dream.

I need more wine. A lot of wine.

ASTARION

The view was acceptable, the alcohol bearable, and his situation, though not entirely satisfying, seemed at least… refreshing. He was here as a predator, not as prey.

Don’t think about how much you like it. He scolded himself. He straightened automatically. That’s what his master would expect of him. Yes, expectations, tasks, not pointless thoughts about the fact that for the first time in months Cazador needed to use his second talent.

Kill her, was Cazador’s order. Leave no traces, boy.

A simple task. No stalking, no humiliation, just him as the blade, not as a tool sticky with the fantasies of others (ugh). A strange luxury. He almost felt… useful. And in a way that didn’t make him want to peel his skin off under an acid shower afterward.

A clean job… Well, isn’t that cursed irony? Feeling clean, preparing for murder?

The corner of Astarion’s mouth twitched in a barely visible smile as he smoothed the fabric of his cuffs with his fingertips. It had been a long time since Cazador had let him wear clothes of such good quality. The tuxedo made of black wool fit him perfectly. The lining didn’t restrict movement, allowing for a quick draw of the blade hidden in the sleeve. Astarion looked and felt like an aristocrat, just like all those around him. No one would dare suspect that under that mask of innocence something far more deadly might be lurking.

He began to circle the room, observing the guests. Some elusive feeling flickered and danced in his mind, but before he could focus on it…

He stopped. It was her. His target.

She stood with an untouched glass of wine on the other side of the room, off to the side, where the light was dimmed. A dark and nondescript dress made her, instead of hiding from the gaze of others, immediately attract attention.

Careful, boy. This one is not an ordinary victim, you have to give it your all. You don’t want to disappoint me, hm?

I won’t fail, master.

He moved. Unhurried. He advanced, using the cover of bodies. The whole time he watched the woman.

Her face had that particular quality of someone hard to read, but somehow strangely authentic. Oh, he had no doubt, Cazador would be delighted with her.

A waiter in a white jacket just passed by, carrying a tray of alcohol. Astarion gracefully took a glass of red wine. A few steps further he leaned nonchalantly against the nearest column.

You’ve changed, haven’t you? Camouflage or some kind of game? he wondered, studying his prey. Her silvery white hair tied back in a ponytail might have seemed natural, but Astarion knew better. He’d seen her file and was sure she once had black hair and a different, though similar, hairstyle.

After a few minutes of quiet observation, he was beginning to understand why he was supposed to be careful. He noticed how her eyes lingered a few seconds longer on the exits, how she seemed to look at the guards by accident, and her fingers unnecessarily touched her bag, in which she certainly had a weapon.

Professional alertness, how charming. To any bystander, the woman looked genuinely bored. But Astarion saw through her façade. Something was bothering her.

After another minute of observation, he concluded that he was undoubtedly dealing with a mentalist. And a well-trained one.

Shit. I need a different approach. Something more… refined. The thought filled him with unexpected joy. Astarion clenched his jaw. Focus, idiot. He had a job to do. He wasn’t allowed to enjoy it. He wasn’t allowed to feel anything. If Cazador found out…

The task! Do what you have to do. No witnesses. Cazador’s voice echoed in his mind. Although… Maybe he was just imagining it? After nearly two hundred years of captivity, it was sometimes hard to tell his own thoughts from the whispers of his master.

Astarion took a sip of wine, trying to focus on the task.

Cazador had given him clear instructions.

Eliminate. Take revenge on Shadowheart, because that was the name of Astarion’s target tonight. That seemingly innocent woman had the audacity to sabotage a Shadow Guild operation. Astarion didn’t know the details, but he knew it wasn’t a trifle. Cazador rarely was so… personally involved in the naturalization of Resistance members.

Focus on the job, boy, don’t waste energy on thinking. Cazador’s voice sounded in his head again. Thinking isn’t something you’re good at. You’re a tool.

A tool… Predator. Genetically modified product. Resistant to mental influence. The perfect execution tool. The truth burned in his brain.

Get to work.

Shadowheart put down her glass and began gliding through the crowd. Astarion moved instantly.

Where are you going, my dear? he wondered, following her at a safe distance.

He watched as she stopped by one of the snack tables. She took a small plate, pretending to be interested in the food. But Astarion saw her attention was focused on something else. Or maybe someone else?

Really curious, what is someone with your talents doing at this poor imitation of a ball.

No! No, don’t think about it, you idiot. That’s not your business. Neutralization, remember? You don’t need to understand her motives.

But…

Neutralization.

Only that…

Astarion started connecting the dots. And that always ended badly. Thinking was not welcome. But he couldn’t stop… He understood that this supposed cultural event was actually a not-so-well-organized “secret” diplomatic meeting. The guests were all sorts of naive dreamers, preaching those romantic delusions about forming a system uniting colonies independent of the Guild. Adorably naive, really. But if he noticed it, anyone with a few working brain cells could come to the same conclusion.

Was the Resistance so desperate as to get drawn into every amateur intrigue just to make new contacts? And even if so, why send someone who seemed useful?

No, no, no. This was about something more.

Shadowheart seemed just as aware of the farce unfolding around them and…

For mercy’s sake, she’s worried. That boded ill. Astarion didn’t like that his job, which was supposed to be pleasantly uncomplicated, was suddenly gaining new layers.

Astarion froze mid-step. A man in an elegant suit approached Shadowheart. He invaded her personal space like someone who had the right. Lover? Accomplice?

Finish them both, whispered Cazador’s voice. Let them suffer. Let them drown in their own screams. It’s such a sweet, empty sound. The Resistance deserves to suffer, with no hope of mercy. Mercy is, after all, a forgotten relic in the hands of people like us, isn’t it?

Yes, master, he replied, then blinked twice, quickly pressing the glass to his trembling lips. Astarion knew it wasn’t real communication. His master had no such power, not at such a distance. Argh! It had to be his own rotten thoughts. Sometimes it was hard to tell where Cazador’s will ended and his own monstrous nature began.

Meanwhile, Shadowheart and that man… disappeared.

What…?

No, no, no. Great, fantastic. You really outdid yourself, Astarion.

Damn it!

I have to find them quickly. If I fail… He clenched his eyes shut, shook his head. I haven’t failed yet. I can still fix this.

Chapter Text

TAV

About half an hour and three glasses of wine later, Tav experienced something that, in her opinion, almost amounted to calm. In this momentary amnesia towards her own misery, it was easier to pretend to be relaxed.

What would it be like if I remembered nothing? If I could erase everything? Forget about protocols, hierarchies, and arrangements?

She raised her glass to her lips. Empty. Of course. She closed her eyes. She felt the alcohol flowing through her bloodstream, dissolving the edges of reality.

What would it be like to forget the faces of those who shaped me…?

Do not fear being broken, Reytheyra. True potential does not reveal itself in its unbreakability, but in its ability to reconstruct. Her mentor’s voice resounded clearly and precisely. Damn. Even now. She hated that…

Her body reacted instantly. Muscles tensed, her breath quickened. Why can’t I have even a moment of normalcy today?!

…her mind and body could not forget all the learned reactions, even when she was drunk.

Tav sighed. If something had alarmed her, she had to find that stimulus.

Her mind was already analyzing the situation, calculating probabilities, searching for a pattern. For a mentalist of her level, alcohol was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

he turned at the perfect moment. She immediately put on the mask of polite interest.

A man was heading in her direction. Tall, thin, with that specific look of someone who spent most of his time staring into outer space rather than at human faces. Interstellar ship pilot. Interesting.

"I didn’t expect to meet you here. May I take a moment?" he asked without preamble, completely bypassing all protocols. "It’s urgent," he added hurriedly.

"Urgent for you or for me?" she answered with a perfectly balanced smile. "And, if I may ask, who exactly are you to approach me like this?" "Sorry… I… We… don’t know each other directly," he explained quickly. He glanced to the side. His features twitched nervously. "But I know your house. De’loavalius," he added more quietly.

Shock caused her mask to slip for a fraction of a second.

"I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else."

She took a step back.

"I wish, really." He shook his head. And she looked around herself. "You shouldn’t be here," he blurted out.

"Excuse me? Whatever you’re insinuating…"

"Sorry if I’m too… direct," he rasped, "but I’m sure. You’re from House De’loavalius. And your partner is… one of Lord Aceveril’s sons, right?" he whispered. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "I fly for Transport," he said quickly, desperation in his voice. "I remember you from the delegation on…" he broke off. "You were with your brother. Everyone was talking about the ‘new blood of House De’loavalius’…"

"That’s enough," she interrupted him. "What do you want?"

"You’re here… unofficially?" Seeing Tav’s indifferent expression, he continued, "Without protocols. Privately?"

"Please define: privately," she answered calmly.

"Just… if you’re not participating in the project, you should leave the party."

Her heart sped up.

"What’s going on?"

The man leaned toward her with relief.

"In an hour… maybe sooner… all hell will break loose here. An experiment is planned. A joint project of three guilds."

Suddenly her gaze hardened. Her shoulders straightened, her chin lifted a few degrees higher.

"Which one?"

"‘Tadpole.’"

"Are you sure?" she whispered. The man replied with a nervous smile. "But… The virus… isn’t ready for field trials yet."

"I’m afraid that doesn’t matter. The circumstances are…" He swallowed. "This ball is a perfect source of test subjects."

"Mentalists," she whispered.

Suddenly everything made sense.

So many guests with mental abilities…

No. That’s not enough.

So many guests with mental abilities and reformist views.

But… She narrowed her eyes.

"How do I know you’re telling the truth?" she asked in a cold, controlled tone. Her family would have been proud; it was the voice of someone raised to rule. "You could be trying to manipulate me. You want to extract information?"

The man flinched, instinctively sensing the change.

"Run, while you can," he spat out. "I don’t want to… I have a family… If something happens to you and someone links me to this… then—" he broke off. "I have no more time. Just get out."

He walked away briskly.

For a moment, Tav stared at the guests with a dead gaze. They were enjoying themselves at the expense of eternity, unaware that behind the scenes, someone was tightening a noose around their necks.

Don’t think about it, it’s not your business, she ordered herself, heading toward Simon.

He was talking to some man. Judging by his outfit and gestures, it was a local politician who dreamed of higher politics. Simon noticed her immediately, and when their eyes met, he left his interlocutor without the usual courtesies.

"Did something happen?" he asked in a whisper.

"Our contact was wrong," she explained. Deep breath in and out, this is not the time to panic, she told herself, trying to suppress the tremor in her voice. "Project ‘Tadpole.’ Today. Here."

The color drained from Simon’s face. In his eyes appeared something like shreds of old pain.

"How…?"

She shook her head. She cleared her throat. Why did she suddenly feel so… distracted and nervous again?

"The man… Pilot. Works for the Guild of Transport. He recognized me and…" She sighed. Focus! She felt her tongue getting twisted and her thoughts losing clarity. "Sorry, I guess I’m not as resistant to alcohol as I thought."

"My father would have told me," he said, completely ignoring her. "No one would risk…"

"No. Probably not," she admitted quietly. "But he would have to know about our presence here… Which makes no sense… They’re still tracking us…," she frowned. "Ah, Simon?"

"Hm?"

"Who exactly was your contact?"

The pallor that had previously colored his face now turned into something resembling the shade of a trampled petal of a withered lily. In the second when his brain finally pieced the elements together into a macabre picture of a trap, his eyes widened. Tav had never seen him like this. Not even on the day they decided to run away from their families.

"Oh no… How could I… Fuck!"

He was looking around the hall, searching, calculating.

"Warn the others?"

Tav flinched as if he had slapped her.

"No way!" she hissed. She shook her head. "That… We can’t, Simon. If this pilot tricked me, and we say anything about the project… We risk betraying the Guild! And that’s worse than any form of desertion." Grief twisted her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, trying to stabilize her breathing.

Perfection achieved through pain. Where did that thought come from? What was happening to her? Alcohol. Too much alcohol, she thought, but every cell in her body was trembling in disagreement. The dizziness was getting more and more intense.

You must control your body! Your body is an instrument, and an instrument in the hands of a weak mind is… NO! ENOUGH! I AM NO LONGER A PUPPET OF THE GUILD.

"It’s us or them," she declared. "Let’s not complicate our situation."

"I know. I know," Simon repeated resignedly. "Let’s meet outside. The back exit. I have to take care of something. A few minutes."

"You’re joking, right?"

"I need a word with Senator Losertao. We’ll have to find another way to get past the system."

Fine. She could accept that. Only when the foundation is secured against all odds, then, and only then, can you consider the matters of others. The inside of her skull was now filled with incredibly intrusive thoughts reminding her that the cycle of selfishness was eternal and unbreakable.

The safety of the house, the integrity of the path, is the absolute priority. Your body, your mind, your will is the property of the house. Never forget you are an extension of their will. Whose words were these? Teachers’? Mother’s? Father’s? Mine…? No, I will not think about it. But how could she forget about…

"Five minutes," she said, tearing herself away from the chaos of thoughts with difficulty.

Life is a constant struggle for dominance. If you are not a predator, you will become prey. And your failure will also be the failure of the house. That is not forgiven.

"Ten."

"But not a minute more."

He nodded, and then his lips brushed her cheek.

Do not seek company, do not seek understanding. That is weakness. You are made for purposes others will never understand. Loyalty is a currency traded for advantage.

ENOUGH!

This is an eternal struggle for survival, at the end of which there is only emptiness.

She took a deep breath. She tried to manage the emotions rising in her. She had drunk far too much alcohol.

WYLL

“That’s a remarkable story. I think we could learn a lot by following your example,” said Wyll smoothly, smiling broadly. He was really trying to focus on the conversation. The man was a delegate from one of the smaller guilds, subordinate to the Guild of Mental Strategy. He was somebody. Exactly the kind of person his father would wish to make contact with, or, in a more optimistic scenario, cooperate with. Yet Wyll’s gaze kept drifting toward an elegantly dressed couple.

The woman, a beautiful blonde elf, had something fascinating about her. It was impossible to stop at just one glance. With each additional covert look, Wyll felt that he wanted to get to know her better and understand why he was so drawn to her. It couldn’t be just a matter of her beauty. Maybe... Was it the way she looked at people?

“The circumstances were extraordinary,” his interlocutor continued, “though they are not circumstances typical for the citizens of Toril.”

Wyll nodded politely.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “We shouldn’t fall into the trap of trying to recreate those circumstances. Blind imitation rarely leads to anything lasting. I believe the best trade partnerships have been built on openness and respect for differences. Of course, it’s a method that requires a bit of patience. Any agreement, if it is to last, must have its own roots.”

His interlocutor responded with an artificial and condescending smile, like every representative from his class. The couple Wyll had been watching moved across the hall. They separated.

“Excuse me,” said Wyll with unusual animation. “I have to... greet someone. I hope we’ll have a chance to talk again.”

He walked away, with every step allowing himself more and more to forget that he was spending the evening at yet another annoying ball. You could be the son of a senator, have a diploma from the best academy, know the nuances of court etiquette, and still, in the eyes of all the important politicians, remain the boy for polite smiles. He still hoped that he would finally get his chance and show what he was worth.

Walking across the hall, Wyll glanced toward the woman. She could be his chance. His father always used to say: “Make connections, Wyll. In this world, it’s who you know that counts.” He smiled to himself. This time he didn’t need any encouragement. The woman looked like someone worth knowing and... like someone he genuinely wanted to meet.

“Good evening,” he greeted her as he stood beside her, bowing his head slightly. The woman turned, looking around before she gave Wyll her attention. Her face bore a polite calm, yet her eyes remained alert, suspicious. “I’m Wyll, although if you believe my father, I should introduce myself only as: the son and representative of Senator Ravengard from Baldur’s Gate. I hope a pinch of formality doesn’t put you off.” He gave a light wink, carefully studying her face, ready to adjust his tone to her preferences. He registered a subtle shadow of amusement in her eyes, which disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet,” he added, giving her a very attentive look, the kind that says: I need to make sure, and then after a short pause continued: “But I’m almost certain I would remember such a face.”

“That’s a very nice greeting, Mr. Ravengard,” she replied curtly. “I’m afraid I’m only passing through here.”

“Passing through?” He tilted his head, masking his surprise behind a facade of polite curiosity. “A cultural gala on Toril is a rather unusual stop,” he ventured.

“Hm. Unusual times require unusual routes, Mr. Ravengard,” she sent him a scant, ironic smile. “And now, please excuse me,” she threw out shortly and walked away, not waiting for a reply.

Wyll stood still, trying to process what had just happened. None of the court ladies he knew would have behaved that way. He felt his lips involuntarily stretching into a smile. Curiosity won over the initial irritation. Now he wanted to know all the more who this woman was.

SHADOWHEART

She recognized his mental signature before he even appeared in her field of vision.

"Shadowheart," he said urgently. "Something is wrong."

She looked at him. Gale looked and sounded... unsettling. She scanned his face for clues. Gale, usually so eloquent and composed in his theatrical gestures, now seemed almost terrified. Had he seen or heard something she had missed? It must have been so, and she did not like that state.

"Speak," she said shortly.

"I'm afraid that staying at this party any longer won't serve our interests. I suggest... we leave immediately."

"Be clearer. What exactly alarmed you?"

Gale raised his hand slightly, as if to cut off further questions.

"Can we..." he stopped, took a shallow breath, searching for words for too long. This wasn't the Gale Shadowheart knew. "I'll explain everything, but... please, let's talk on the way. I really insist."

Shadowheart studied his face for a moment longer, finally nodded.

"This party is not what it was supposed to be," he whispered, leading them toward the back exit. "There are too many guests here with guild manners, if you know what I mean."

At last something concrete, she thought, and out loud she asked:

"Is that why we shouldn't stay? We knew the guilds would be watching. Information warfare requires risk, if you know what I mean," she argued.

Gale swayed slightly. He cleared his throat.

"I admire your enthusiastic attitude, but the answer is: no."

"Why?"

He stopped mid-step, as if her question hit him like a slap.

"Why?" he repeated, drawing out the syllables. "Isn't it obvious?" Gale leaned toward her, grabbed her elbow. "We've been drawn into someone else's game. We were lured by rumors of a split in the system. The vision of an autonomous colony was too beautiful from the start to be true... Ah, the great revolution! A beautiful, lofty goal. The perfect bait. And to think we fell for something so disgustingly obvious. I should have been smarter and not agreed to come here... I guess I'll never learn." He stepped away from her. He looked sadly at the hall, as if trying to foresee the worst possible scenarios.

Shadowheart did not feel she had the right to judge him. Gale had once told her that guild politics was a brutal art of survival. She knew he had learned that the hard way.

Before the Resistance, Gale had been a diplomat at Lady Mystra's court. He had never shared his story in full, but he didn't need to. Rumors had a way of finding their own way. And one of the best means of transmission was a certain species of Resistance member: those who by default despised would-be "aristocrats." It was said Gale's fall was spectacular. A mistake, betrayal, pride or all at once. Shadowheart bet on pride. If he had betrayed, he wouldn't be standing here now. Exile was a more cruel way to take away dreams of greatness.

"All right," she said after a moment. "We'll leave. But first I want to look at one person."

Gale frowned.

"Before you say anything, listen," she continued. "Some of the waiters carry weapons under their jackets. Those from the south entrance were serving a different kind of alcohol than the others. I also noticed a man with guild manners who came out of the southern backroom. He was going to leave the party but hesitated literally in the middle of the hall. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. And then he approached one of the aristocrats. That woman is heading for the exit now. Her partner is somewhere in the hall. Unfortunately, I lost sight of him a few moments ago. And Gale... Do you remember those rumors about runaways from the higher houses? I think it might be them."

Gale clenched his jaw, clearly struggling with rising panic. Shadowheart almost told him to try to focus on regular breathing, but that might have the opposite effect.

"Fine," he said, surprisingly matter-of-fact. "Since we're leaving anyway, it's worth keeping an eye on that aristocrat. Describe her to me."

Chapter Text

Interlude: Before the Infection (Part 4)

ASTARION

He couldn’t believe that damned woman had managed to slip out of his sight.

All his instincts screamed at him to rush into a frantic chase after her, to fish her out of the crowd right now. But he couldn’t act impulsively. Not here. Not in front of all these privileged idiots.

A mistake in a place like this would mean disgrace. And disgrace would force him to correct his behavior. Under Cazador’s supervision. Ugh.

How did it even come to this?

Why did he let his guard down? He was supposed to have the upper hand. She was a mentalist, and he was a vampire. His job was to be undetectable and lethally dangerous.

You are a disappointment, Astarion. An irresponsible boy.

Irresponsible. Astarion felt a pang of old pain.

When Cazador lost one of his “spy investments“ a month ago, it was Astarion who took the punishment. Not the saboteurs. Not those idiots from the Whisper Guild who supervised and messed up the whole operation.

Him. It was him.

Because supposedly he seduced the wrong person.

It didn’t matter that the sweet boy from the Contract Analysis section had provided Astarion with information necessary to continue Cazador’s operation. The only thing that mattered was that when the leak happened, and the Trade Guild realized what was going on, they neutralized the hostile agents. Cazador drew his own conclusions.

It’s your fault, Astarion. If you had chosen better and had been more effective at motivating him to keep quiet, I wouldn’t have lost my assets.

Astarion’s breath caught in his lungs. The memory of a “lesson” about responsibility came back to him, burning his skin. Cazador was very creative.

If you prove irresponsible again…

No!

All thoughts on the subject broke off suddenly, as if his mind physically refused to wander down those paths. Good.

Astarion was focused again. Ready to continue the mission. And he just spotted his target in the crowd.

Shadowheart and her companion were apparently heading for the exit.

This might be my chance.

But the closer he got, the less sure he was.

Now, standing practically right next to the man, he immediately sensed a subtle disturbance in the mental field… Suspiciously good at masking his own abilities.

Damn, a high-level mentalist.

Not one who could break through Astarion’s vampire resistance, but aware enough to sense approaching danger.

Astarion hated people like that. Those who really saw too much were always a problem. They irritated him. In that state, it was easy to make a mistake.

He should walk away. Come up with a new strategy.

Because if this man was Shadowheart’s backup, he had already surely mapped every mental signature within their field. All it would take was one move, a simple turn of the head, ending with a glance at Astarion. Then he would see… nothing. Not literally, of course. Astarion would look as charming as ever, only that even his best smile wouldn’t distract from the lack of any mental signal for long.

VAMPIRE!

Astarion would be lucky if the man didn’t shout it out loud.

Then he heard his voice:

"Fine." So efficient. How charming. Astarion thought.

"Since we're leaving anyway, it's worth keeping an eye on that aristocrat. Describe her to me." A strategist, too. Wonderful.

In an instant, his nice, uncomplicated task became much more complicated and rather not very nice. This man is a typical player and probably a politician. Astarion held back a sigh.

Shadowheart headed for the exit. And he had to decide: follow them despite the risk, or wait for a better moment…

Which would probably never come, he added in his thoughts. How predictable.

WYLL

Wyll was in the middle of another polite conversation with a sullen, boring merchant when an official announcement rolled across the room.

Here?!

He froze. So did the entire hall.

"Attention, attention. Dear guests, a potential biological threat has been detected in the building. Please remain calm and do not leave the hall. The security team will carry out decontamination."

Decontamination? Oh, come on...

Unless...

Wyll smiled to himself. This could be worthy of the title of political scam of the year.

He scanned the crowd.

The guests exchanged desperate conversations. The staff blocked the exits. Politely, but firmly, they let the guests know they weren't going anywhere.

Panic was beginning to rise.

And then he looked towards the southern doors, through which guards in black suits had just rushed out, wearing air-filtering masks. Armed, professional, organized...

They're prepared for anything. Damn. That thought made Wyll’s heart beat faster.

His gaze fell on the rear exit. That woman, who had dismissed him in a truly merciless way, had left through there a few minutes ago. Alone.

He couldn't just leave it like that.

If this situation is what I think it is, she's in danger. And if there really has been contamination, then... She could be in danger, too.

Wyll moved through the crowd without thinking.

TAV

The noise outside was… different. Jagged, irregular. It sounded as if the world had lost the ability to maintain its own shape. Something was wrong with the air. Stale, suffocating. Or maybe it was just her imagination?

The headache wasn’t passing; on the contrary, it was growing, returning in waves. Her step was strangely light and unsteady. Fog was flooding not only her mind but also her senses. Every stimulus that reached her was suspicious, as if… something was overwriting her perception. Whose perception was this? Still mine?

She glanced upward to check if she was still on Toril.

One moon, a sea of stars. Good.

But really, it wasn’t “good” at all.

That word had lost its meaning. She could repeat it over and over, but in the end it was just syllables, and finally single letters without significance.

Thousands of burning thoughts raced through her head. They pierced her mind like red-hot metal needles. Something was interfering with her mental signal.

She felt the structure of her mind, built and strengthened by years of discipline, cracking. Something was wrong.

Panic twisted her insides, and malicious thoughts (whose voices are these? Where do I know them from?) bounced around inside her skull. Voices whispered that when they were done with her (who will be done with me?!), there would be nothing left but a pulsating meat paste wrapped in her own trembling nerves.

No.

The Guild, it must be the Guild. But which one? Hers?

I can’t take it.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

I could go back. Fall to my knees. Beg for forgiveness. Part of her… the trained part (yes, just like that, be a good girl) and programmed to be the perfect representative of her house (at least one child won’t disgrace us; she’ll be a powerful mentalist!), wanted that.

No more running and uncertainty. No more of that unbearable pressure in her head… Only comfortable emptiness.

But the other part, the… shattered one, which wasn’t even sure if it existed, if it was just a memory made of illusion and fear, wouldn’t accept the thought that something like going back was possible. Not to that life. Never. (never? Are you sure?)

I’m not sure. I don’t know which part of me is speaking. Is it even still me?

WYLL

"Please stop. You cannot leave the hall," ordered the guard who, just a few minutes ago, had been an ordinary waiter. And now he stood upright, speaking with confidence.

He didn't look older than Wyll. But in his steel gaze, Wyll saw a story he knew only from tales. He saw that characteristic weariness of a young man who had to grow up too fast. He also heard the accent. Wyll knew it all too well. That's how people from the peripheries of Toril sounded. The kind who arrived in bigger cities with their last money. Driven by unspoken hope for a better future and fear that it could all be lost. That's what daily life looked like on Toril for those who weren't born on the better side.

Wyll couldn't afford sentimentality. The boy clenched his fists, and Wyll felt a familiar tingling. This is where the game began.

"My friend went outside just before the alarm was announced," Wyll began, giving his voice a concerned tone and a slight tremble. "She... she's a very sensitive person. I have to bring her back, for her own safety. That’s what the procedure says, right?"

He looked the boy straight in the eye. He tried to read what was strongest in him: fear, loyalty, reluctance to conflict?

"The intervention team is also securing those areas," the other replied, clenching his jaw and smiling stiffly. "Please don't worry."

So that’s it. Hiding behind procedures. He doesn't know what's happening, he only has a set of orders and... fear. Wyll didn't take even a step back.

"She’s a friend of the Ravengard family. My father entrusted me with her care," he added quietly, but with emphasis.

A shadow of unease passed over the guard's face. For a moment he was silent, as if replaying his superiors' orders in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, sighed, and finally gave in, making way.

"Please don't go far, Mr. Ravengard, for your own safety."

TAV

Somewhere behind her, someone whistled. Or was it the sound of an approaching train? Were there trains on this planet?

Oh, what is…?

She turned around sharply. It was instinct. In the next reflex, she tried to reach out with her mind toward the mind of the figure and extend her perception onto their mind and thoughts, then dominate, but something stopped her.

That… oh, no.

Her mental abilities had been suppressed. Completely blocked.

There was something in the alcohol. How could I have missed that? The mentors will be furious…

Then something sharp pierced her neck.

Not even a hiss of pain escaped her lips. Her body instantly became too dysfunctional and terribly, terribly heavy.

Before she fell, strong arms grabbed her on both sides. She didn’t see the attackers’ faces, but she would recognize those movements anywhere, the way they held their weapons, their posture…

Commandos from outside official structures. Commandos from the Guild of Transport.

"Careful with her."

Some part of her awareness registered that she was being placed in a ground transport pod.

"Nice specimen, the reading shows level nine."

"Oh-ho-ho. For transport in the first wave."

Then there was more conversation, but the words didn’t form anything she could understand. She couldn’t feel their minds, either. And her metabolism didn’t even try to fight the chemicals circulating in her blood.

She was helpless. Caught like a novice.

And the worst part was…

The Tadpole Project. Fuck.

If she had control over her own body, she would have burst out in loud, spasmodic laughter. The project that was supposed to be the legendary venture of the elites from three powerful Guilds had just become her fate. How humiliating. She had always been just test merchandise for the Guild, for her family. Curious how they’ll react when they find out that their beloved test merchandise became a test subject in an experiment meant to destroy mentalists.

Fuck. This is really happening. Why didn’t I listen when they told me exactly what the “tadpole” does to people like me. Fuck!

Chapter Text

Interlude: Before the Infection (Part 5)

GALE

"Shadowheart, I can't believe I'm saying this, but... could you... slow down?"

Gale felt his breath become strangely shaky, his muscles refusing to obey. His legs grew heavy, his hands stiff. Was it because of the tension?

Shadowheart stiffened suddenly. She pinned her gaze on him with such intensity that he felt naked and guilty before she even said a word.

He tried to swallow with a tight throat. I shouldn't be feeling this...

"No. You didn't do it," she said quietly, but sharply. There was anger in her eyes and something Gale could read as well-masked desperation.

He tried to smile apologetically, though he felt it was more of a grimace. Damn lips, pathetic pantomime!

"I told you not to drink anything but water! I told you—"

She didn't finish, because at that moment a loud service announcement rolled through the hall. Biological contamination, ha, clever move! Gale thought, and Shadowheart grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him toward the exit.

"Change of plans. We have to get out of here," she said firmly.

"I tooold you..."

"Don't start!" she cut him off sharply.

Gale wanted to protest, to point out that her tone was just a little bit rude. But before he figured out what and why he actually wanted to argue about, he felt a sudden tingling around his neck. He involuntarily jerked his hand free from Shadowheart's grip, trying to touch his neck.

That's when someone stabbed something into his shoulder and Gale screamed. Or rather, he tried to, because the sound that came from his throat was more like choking on water.

Someone grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and slammed it hard against something solid.

So that's how it ends? On Toril? Among people who tried to pretend to be revolutionaries? What about Shadowheart?…

ASTARION

Astarion was watching everything from the stairs. He saw that foolish mentalist swaying and trembling.

At first, he thought maybe the man was a connoisseur of spirits with too high a voltage (oh, how convenient that would be for Astarion!), but when the message about a “biological threat” reached him from the hall, he quickly put two and two together. Poor idiot. Clearly, he wasn’t a mentalist who could manipulate his own metabolism. Well, he fell victim to something he didn’t even have time to understand. So typical for high-level mentalists... They’re all proud and too vain, which makes them fall into the most obvious traps.

Astarion jumped over the balustrade. His vampiric agility allowed him to move quickly and unnoticed between the few guests who were reacting far too slowly to what was happening. Oh, more idiots with not a hint of self-preservation instinct. But what else could you expect from a party organized for dreamers?

The mocking smile didn’t stay on his lips for long.

Commandos were approaching Shadowheart and that mentalist. Judging by their movements and outfits, they belonged to some Guild.

Where the hell did they come from? Astarion froze for a split second. How could he not have noticed them?!

And then…

He staggered.

No…

That was a stumble.

A stumble?! What did he stumble on? His own legs? No, that couldn’t happen. He always moved with grace.

No… Could it be?

Only one Guild possessed agents capable of destabilizing all biological systems. Biogenesis.

He realized his mouth was open. He closed it.

Cazador will be furious, he thought with horror.

And while he stood there like a complete idiot, Shadowheart was already taking action.

The commando who had attacked her companion fell to the ground. Not dead, Astarion could hear the rush of his blood.

Shadowheart knelt by her companion. She had to be proficient in somatic mentalism. Astarion recognized it by the movements of her hands. She was checking the man’s pulse, but her eyes revealed she was searching for the mental gate. She wanted to stabilize him. At least enough for them to escape.

Loyal. How… touching.

Astarion furrowed his brows. For a split second, he thought he should take the risk. As long as he was able to move. He could make it before the approaching commandos, and with a bit of luck, Shadowheart wouldn’t even have the chance to try attacking him with that ridiculous little weapon she kept in her bag.

That’s when he sensed someone trying to sneak up on him. He snarled wildly through clenched teeth and performed an almost perfect dodge. Even drugged, he was still faster than most warriors.

The attacker didn’t expect it and that was enough for Astarion to draw his hidden dagger and launch a counterattack. Without slowing down, he stabbed the blade into the man’s side below the ribs. He heard a scream the moment the blade pierced the skin.

Too shallow. Under normal circumstances, he would have driven it deeper despite the armor. But his hand was trembling, and his strength was failing. What was this substance?

He pulled out the blade and tried to stab again, but the attacker blocked his thrust.

Impossible!

He hissed as the grip on his wrist tightened like a vice. Astarion’s weapon fell. And then it was Astarion who screamed. His elbow joint exploded with pain, his knees hit the ground. The opponent reached for something behind his back.

He felt pressure on the back of his neck. He heard the hiss of the trigger, and a thin needle pierced his skin. How ironic. I was supposed to be the hunter, and I became the prey. And once again, I end up on my knees. How familiar.

His vision began to blur rapidly. It was a hellishly strong agent. But he could see clearly enough to notice Shadowheart still fighting. It was, in its way, beautiful and terrifying. Trained mentalists in action always fascinated him. So much power and control...

He doubted it would do much good. The last thing he saw was Shadowheart being hit by something that made her body go limp.

His own head hit the ground. The wet smell of earth forced its way into his nostrils.

Oh no.

That smell of mud and decay…

A crypt?

When did I return to Cazador? Now he’ll punish me again. I had one task. One simple task. And I couldn’t even do that.

WYLL

Something told Wyll to use the side exit for the staff. He hesitated. Bad idea, he thought, glancing around absentmindedly. At least he was alone, no one saw him, no one could report it… Just what I need, a political scandal. Argh!

He slipped through the door before he could think. Maybe it was wrong, but his instinct told him something was off about this party. Seriously off. But do I really have to be the one to take the risk? The image of his father’s tired face flashed in his mind, saying: immature, naive.

Well…

It was too late to turn back. He was already sneaking along the bushes. Cold sweat ran down his back, and his mouth went dry as he ducked lower, nearly hiding in the shrubs, just to avoid the patches of light.

Wyll frowned.

What the hell?

He shifted slightly. At the back of the property stood a small transport vehicle. It wasn’t a trade or supply unit, he’d recognize that immediately. He scanned the hull with his eyes. He was looking for guild markings. Not good. This must be a military vehicle. What have I gotten myself into?

He blinked. His heart was pounding so hard he heard the drumming in his ears and was afraid it was the loudest sound around.

That was when a group of people passed by. The same black suits as the ones from the ballroom. He saw out of the corner of his eye as they carried unconscious people into the vehicle. Some part of him wanted to think it was just an evacuation of the infected. They had stretchers, they looked professional…

He moved a little, a few meters, no more.

Hidden behind a bush, he watched as, in the open, a white-haired man in an elegant, though admittedly not quite evening, suit was just cutting a commando with a knife. Wow! That had to hurt. Wyll actually flinched. That wasn’t an amateur’s strike.

I could react, separate them... Should I? He straightened automatically, ready to step in.

But then the commando regained control of the situation. In two smooth moves, he subdued the white-haired man. And when he had him on his knees, he stuck something in his neck, something that, from Wyll’s perspective, looked like a pen.

After a moment, the white-haired elf collapsed to the ground, and Wyll realized this was not the place for heroics… Not today.

He backed away.

Slowly.

Step by step.

He tried not to breathe, afraid he’d give himself away somehow.

He froze.

He felt a prick, and then heard the familiar, quiet: bzzz.

He was eleven again. He was in a square full of people. His father stood next to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other at his side with a weapon. The crowd roared with anger. Anything could happen that day. People were protesting against the construction of the new Biogenesis Guild laboratory. Wyll didn’t understand then what it meant when his father said you have to understand social mechanisms to know how to protect your own interests. He also didn’t know then how much it hurts to be the victim of a crowd control weapon, when your whole body is paralyzed, your lungs fill with ozone, and you can’t even moan.

Now he understood.

Chapter Text

Interlude: Before the Infection (Part 6)

KARLACH

How much longer? Fuck.

Karlach shifted nervously from foot to foot. She moved her shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. Why is this taking so long?!

"For fuck’s sake, how long do we have to wait?" she muttered under her breath, fighting the urge to punch something.

This place made her uneasy; she wanted to get out of here as fast as possible.

She couldn’t take it anymore and let out an impatient sigh.

She decided to do one more pointless round of the hangar. She needed to occupy her mind. Besides, hey, she was doing her job, right? That’s what those pompous Biogenesis boys were paying her for.

"Keep watch when our people secure the cargo," they said.

A job’s a job. And they paid better than most of those fucked-up losers she’d dealt with in her mercenary career. Sure… She probably should have wondered why they were so generous. Life had taught her no one offers four times the market rate for “watching” without a reason. But as those who, like her, survived “Project Avernus” used to say: every credit counts! And they were fucking right. Especially when you had fucking debts.

Oh, gods, for fuck’s sake!

She finished her round and was standing again by the containers marked with Biogenesis Guild symbols.

She bit her lower lip. She didn’t want to look at the containers, at the transports that had landed with “cargo” just tens of minutes ago. It wasn’t that she wasn’t curious about what exactly this mission was, but… It was better not to know.

"Hey, Denis!" she called, waving to the man on the other side of the hangar.

Denis just nodded in response. Classic. The guy was from the Guild, but he stuck with the mercenaries. Nice guy. Not exactly her type, but… he was all right. For someone climbing the hellish rungs of a guild career.

"How much longer?" she pressed.

Denis shrugged.

"Fuck, Denis, do they dock your pay for every word you say? What are you going to do with all that fortune, man?"

The man gave her a half-smile.

"Focus on the job, Karlach. We’re finishing soon."

"Bore!"

Denis winked at her and went back to watching his sector. Karlach rolled her eyes, letting out a soft groan. She wondered if, once he got promoted, he’d be just as quiet. Karlach snorted inwardly.

Denis fit perfectly into the archetype of a typical guild functionary. Strange that he was here, with mercenaries. A guy like him should’ve been somebody important in those upper offices by now. Hm. Something stinks. She sighed and shook her head. This whole operation stinks. Karlach didn’t plan to take another job from the Guild soon; those blind jobs got on her nerves too much.

Karlach was just considering another round when she saw a technician in a guild uniform approach Denis. Insignia of the Transport Guild.

The man from Transport whispered something in Denis’s ear, and Denis tensed, nodded. Karlach tensed too. She was almost sure she heard: "we risk a synchronization error," then something about a possible navigation system failure and…

No. Fuck, he couldn’t have said that.

Her whole body tensed up. That guy from Transport clearly used the words: "one of the abducted." That meant people. Karlach didn’t care what the Guilds did with cargo, even rare cargo; she didn’t give a shit about technology (unless it was used to kill innocent people), or fucking blackmail info. But people? Fuck, no. That complicated things. If the cargo she was guarding was people…

She felt Denis’s gaze on her. The technician was already gone.

"What’s up, boss, any problems?" she asked as she approached. "That guy from Transport looked pretty shook up. Surprised he didn't wet his pants."

"They’ll initiate launch protocol in an hour. They’re finishing loading," he said, stepping back half a step. His piercing gaze stayed fixed on her.

"And us?"

"Only authorized personnel stay on board. The rest will take another ship."

"Hey, I was hired to secure the cargo. What’s this supposed to mean, I’m not flying?" she said, sharper than she intended.

"Karlach. Look at me."

"I am looking!" she growled. "What’s going on, Denis? I heard that guy say ‘abducted.’ Sounded like ‘abducted people.’ What’s the real cargo?"

Denis sighed. Suddenly his face looked more tired. Karlach knew that look. She’d seen it in people about to say, “sorry, I had to do it,” who deep down weren’t sorry at all.

Instinctively, she stepped back, and Denis gave her a half-smile. Before Karlach could aim at anyone, she felt a prick in her neck.

"Fucking traitor!" she screamed. She turned and saw some guild bastard holding a military-grade syringe. Whatever was in it was already running through Karlach’s veins.

She wasn’t going to let it go like that. She was preparing to fire when suddenly someone kicked her in the back of the knees. She fell to the ground. Her weapon flew aside.

"Sorry," Denis said. "It’s just part of the research protocol."

"Fuck you," she mumbled.

She tried to get up. In vain. She growled, but the sound came out dull even to her own ears.

"Why…" she slurred. She tried to stick out her tongue, anything to show her displeasure, but the poison was already working.

Denis knelt a little ways off.

From this angle she could see his face. That asshole made sure she would. In his eyes was something that looked like a shadow of sympathy, but Karlach didn’t believe it was anything more than a show.

"An experiment. Hopefully a breakthrough one. But to find out, we need to conduct… research." The bastard shrugged. "The broader the research group, the sooner we get the first reports. I’m sorry, really."

Her eyelids dropped. Her consciousness was already drifting, but before her thoughts completely unraveled, she managed to think: We’ll meet again. Even if I have to get you from beyond the grave, I’ll wipe that fake smile off your face. Fucking guild traitor.

LAE'ZEL

Lae'zel moved silently between the containers.

She stopped at the communication terminals. It was the only reliable contact point on this planet, on this failure of a civilization. Toril was a completely useless colony, which made it the perfect place for a secret guild operation.

Lae'zel looked around. No observers. She was alone. Just as she had planned.

Her fingers were already gliding over the keyboard, encoding a message to her people.

Operation report

Unit: Lae'zel

Status: full capacity

Location: Toril

Confirmed: a roundup has occurred. The Biogenesis Guild is conducting an experiment with an intelligent parasite. I deny that it is a virus. Confirmed: identification of a living adaptive organism. Possible link to stolen data from the Mental Strategy Guild (search term: “tadpole”).

Note: The parasite probably breaks through mentalists’ abilities (symptoms similar to vampire effects) in order to destabilize or reprogram. Non-mentalist units have also been captured, reasons unknown. Possible tests on races other than humans and elves.

No further data.

Continuing camouflage as a member of the Cleaners Unit contracted by the Biogenesis Guild.

Awaiting further orders.

End of report

She didn’t hesitate. She clicked “send.”

This parasite was a threat. A total threat, if its effect extended to all living organisms and it really could take over the will of the individual. Too dangerous. And a threat to her own race. Vlaakith always had her fanatics. For them, the parasite would be a useful tool to crush the resistance of Orpheus and everyone who, like Lae'zel, chose freedom.

She would not allow it. Githyanki did not break away from the Guilds just to fall to their knees again.

Chk.

"How disappointing and predictable," said a calm voice behind her. Denis. One of the operation coordinators.

Lae'zel turned. She shot him a defiant look.

"I sent a report for Transport," she announced. "It’s my duty as unit commander."

Denis snorted mockingly. Lae'zel found herself liking this man less and less. Typical liar and guild lackey.

She kept a stone face as Denis approached. She evaluated her chances. The man was holding a taser, his firearm was at his belt. Lae'zel doubted he would risk a shot so close to the experimental hall, even if most of the cargo had already been moved to the ship.

"Is there a problem?" she asked coldly.

"None. But I’d like to know what you wrote in that report."

"I confirmed the smooth course of the roundup. According to protocol, I informed them of the elimination of previously identified inconvenient witnesses. I also noted that all hired mercenaries have successfully been included in the project."

"Interesting. And you needed to use the terminal twice for that? After the operation ended, and now?"

Lae'zel felt a cold chill. Her hand slid down automatically. Her fingers found the grip of her weapon. She noticed tension in Denis’s shoulders. He was ready for a fight. She didn’t wait for him to make a move, she quickly darted toward a metal container.

Four seconds later, she heard the sound of a taser firing. And then another. This time she heard the characteristic sizzle as the electromagnetic wave discharged, hitting the surface of the container she was hiding behind.

Denis had surprisingly good reaction time, but he was only human. Lae'zel instantly judged the distance between them, leaping from container to container.

"Chk! For Orpheus!" she shouted and lunged at Denis.

The blade of her knife cut through the air where his neck had been just a moment earlier. Denis growled, but didn’t lose his balance with that dodge. Lae'zel was already bringing her other hand in for a strike under the ribs.

She missed again. Damn knives. What a dysfunctional weapon with pathetic reach. These toys were barely good for anything, but camouflage required following guild protocols.

With a battle cry, Lae'zel attacked again. Her strength surprised Denis. This time he staggered. A flash of fear appeared in his eyes. Tremble before me! The blade struck his arm. The taser fell to the ground.

"Fuck!" he growled, reaching for his pistol with his other hand. He didn’t shoot. "Surrender now and we’ll settle this peacefully."

Lae'zel spat.

"Only the strongest survive."

Lae'zel tightened her grip and leapt forward at the exact moment a soft sound of opening doors and gentle shuffling of feet came from the left corridor. That meant she’d have to eliminate whoever just joined them, too.

And then her body stopped obeying. She lost all momentum, simply falling to her knees with a sound of real shock. Denis jumped back with a groan, desperately picking up the taser.

Lae'zel grimaced. She felt a foreign presence in her mind. She tried to raise mental barriers, just as she had been taught. Githyanki were resistant to most mental attacks, but…

"What’s taking so long?!" Denis barked. "That bitch is faster than I thought. Fuck, my arm."

Lae'zel managed to turn her head with effort. In the entrance stood a tall man in a uniform with embroidered insignia of the Transport Guild. His face was focused, he was concentrating. A mentalist. An unforeseen complication.

Lae'zel stifled a cry of pain. She loosened her grip on the blades. All her muscles tried to resist, but she was helpless. She didn’t stand a chance against a mentalist of this level. She knew that for such an operation, the Guilds surely recruited someone with ninth, maybe even tenth level mental abilities, but she hadn’t thought she’d meet him on the battlefield. She screamed in pain as another mental wave struck her mind.

She felt weak… No! I am not weak. Pathetic. Oh yes, very pathetic. Shut up! Get out of my head! She deserved everything bad. She had betrayed the Guild’s trust. The Guilds don’t deserve respect! Such a humiliating creature. No! She tried to resist. She couldn’t end like this. She couldn’t.

"Hold her a bit longer," Denis said. He flicked the switch to high on the taser.

Now or never. I am githyanki, I am a bastion of free will!

She tried to move, to reach for the blade hidden in her boot. Every breath brought pain. Every movement required superhuman effort.

"You must feel really pathetic, huh?" Denis sneered.

Then Lae'zel felt a kick to the ribs. She curled up. The body's unconditional reflex let her slightly break the mental attack.

Idiot, she thought, drawing her hidden blade and hissing through clenched teeth:

"Githyanki… fight… to the end."

Her left hand swung, piercing the boot’s rubber and stabbing flesh. Denis cursed, but that didn’t stop him from firing.

The electromagnetic wave hit her chest. Only when her muscles gave in with a final, painful spasm did the mentalist withdraw from her mind.

"Fucking githyanki. You always think you’re unbeatable," Denis snarled. "But you know what, Lae’zel? That’s admirable. I’m promoting you from spy to experimental subject. Bravo!"

Hearing the taunt, she felt rage. She would not let anyone make her a tool. She might not have won the battle, but she wouldn’t let them win the war. This wasn’t over. Not as long as she breathed. Chk.

Chapter Text

After the crash of the transport vessel 

Planet: [REDACTED] 

Status: former Guild colony [REDACTED], category: decommissioned 

Administration: no contact with Guild Network 

Note: residual Guild infrastructure; possible experimental threats

ACT I: Infection – Awakening

TAV

She came to.

Something was surrounding her body. It was soft, sticky, and... liquid?

Bio-stabilizing foam. The thought appeared before the awareness of where she was. And who was this person who was now trying to move their limbs?

Her mouth filled with a metallic taste. It had to be blood. Her blood...?

The body moved. And then something sticky (more blood?) trickled down her leg.

Oh.

It had to be her own blood. She was the body surrounded by foam.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

What was this place?

A cryogenic chamber?

No.

A coffin? A coffin!

She was in a fucking metal coffin!

She started to sweat. She trembled. Her pulse clearly sped up. She was panicking.

Control your breath. Assess the situation first, then set priorities. The voice in her head was calm, commanding. It sounded like her, but it wasn't her. It couldn't be her, right?

She blinked and obeyed the command. A deep breath. One, two, three. Her pulse slowed a little. The awareness of a goal helped somewhat to control the body.

She felt her head turning to the side. She was looking straight at a shattered diagnostic screen... How did she know that term? She didn't know, but she was absolutely sure that the red pulsing light meant trouble.

And her metal coffin was emitting just such a light.

Critical system damage. You have to get out. Now. That voice again.

Her hands moved before she could think. Who made that decision? She searched for a panel under the main console. How did she know to look there? It didn't matter. Now she had to act. Get out of this coffin.

It's a pod with life support function. And one more remark from that voice. Was it really her voice?

All right, I have to get out of the pod. And then what?

The plan must cover three steps ahead… The voice sounded almost bored.

What? Is that me talking? Or an echo of someone else's words? No. Doesn't matter. Task.

She yanked something and froze.

She was holding a metal cover she had just torn off, revealing a bunch of wires.

She didn't think about what she was doing, she just let her body do its thing.

She caused a short. Sparks flew into the air. She cursed as the smell of burning hit her.

The cover opened with a hiss, and she threw herself outside without thinking.

Instinctively, she shielded her eyes with one hand, pulling the other to the side to steady her body. When she felt she was standing on solid ground, she lowered her arms.

The light was blinding. Bright, orange-red, and…

Oh.

These were not sunbeams. The planet’s sun was up above, almost unnoticeable through the thick smoke.

Her legs buckled. What stretched out before her eyes was a vision of the end.

***

Her body was one trembling muscle, pulsing with dull pain.

And the world around her… She couldn't remember ever seeing anything like it before. Even that confident voice that had accompanied her since awakening now seemed less strong as it issued more commands:

Assess the terrain. Locate the threat. Find other survivors… you must have allies. But… let's start with something simple. First, ditch those uncomfortable shoes and increase your range of motion: tear the dress along the thigh.

Sure, that’s logical. We agree on this. She obeyed the commands and then forced herself to methodically analyze her surroundings.

Through the plumes of smoke, shattered fragments of a spaceship hull broke through. It must have been a colossus. But from this perspective everything was just a shadow on gray sand. Sand that was damp under her feet from some fluids (something from the ship? Grease? Some biological fluid? Fuel?), water, and… blood. The blood of people whose bodies lay motionless, tossed haphazardly among the pods. Most of the pods looked deformed. They must have opened earlier than protocol predicted.

Protocol? What fucking protocol? No. That wasn't my thought… Doesn't matter.

She looked deeper into the beach.

More debris, deformed structures washed by gray ocean waves.

She took a shaky breath through her mouth. Even the air tasted of ash and metal. She started to feel sick.

Ignore it. Keep moving.

Her body moved by itself. Again. But this time she didn't mind. She didn't want to stay in this graveyard longer than necessary.

From a nearby pod came a sound: broken, pounding. Instantly, without hesitation, she dashed forward.

What are you doing? Stop! That annoying cold, calculating voice spoke up. Consider the risks! Assess whether your actions contribute to your survival…

Shut up! I was supposed to find allies. Besides… I’m not going to take part in this horror alone!

There was someone inside the pod, pounding fists against the interior.

…or are you giving in to lower desires.

I’m helping a person in need, that’s noble!

Impulses are speaking through you, not analysis. Your safety is fundamental.

"Oh, shut up!" she snapped aloud.

The outer cover of the service panel gave way. She remembered how she’d caused a short in her own pod. She repeated the action. Again, sparks, and then the door opened with a soft hiss and squeak.

Inside lay a woman with white hair. Pale, terrified, but alive.

The woman’s searching gaze swept over her rescuer. She was ready for the worst, and when it didn’t come, she slowly climbed out of the pod. Her dress looked just as impractical, though less damaged.

The stranger said something in a hoarse voice.

"I don’t understand," she said to the white-haired half-elf.

The woman blinked. Spoke again, this time more slowly and clearly.

"I... I still don’t understand you," she answered with growing frustration. Was all this just so she could help someone she wouldn’t even be able to communicate with?

She wanted to laugh, cry, and curse her fate. What a fucked-up situation. Was this really happening? Or maybe… it was a dream? An ordinary, very realistic dream, but still just a dream.

Then the half-elf spoke again. She gestured. Pointed to herself and said:

"Shadowheart."

She reached out her hand in greeting. So "Shadowheart" was most likely her name.

Reluctantly and uncertainly, she shook the outstretched hand and…

She frowned. Shadowheart waited.

Yes, this was the moment when she should introduce herself. She opened her mouth, but no word came to mind. She had a name, right? She had to have. Everyone had a name.

Don’t delay. Since you’ve freed her, make contact. When strength fails, bonds become potential. Remember, every sentient being is a potential tool, shelter, or information. Survival is all that counts.

I know! Damn… Who am I?

Choking back anger, she focused her thoughts. Then she felt a flash of something in her mind. A name. Two names. Reytheyra. Pretty, proud, matching that confident voice. The one whose memory made something in her chest clench unpleasantly. She shook her head and said:

"Tav-ya. Tav. I am Tav."

And then she felt it. Emptiness. There was nothing in Tav’s head. Was there… never anything there? In the place where memories should be, her story, the faces of other people… There was emptiness.

What the hell?

Chapter Text

ACT I: Infection – the third companion

What had happened between Shadowheart’s release and… now, was in Tav’s memory like the remains of a spaceship wreck scattered through her mind. Until the moment her whole body suddenly tensed in anticipation of danger. Her hand grabbed some long, sharp-pointed metal bar. Her legs took a fighting stance.

And then came the strike, to which her body responded with a fluid sequence.

A spin, a dodge, a counterattack.

Her blow was perfect, trained. Not hers, and yet hers. A strike delivered by someone who knew where and how to hit, regardless of available tools.

A man in a torn uniform now lay stretched out before her. His face frozen in a grimace of pain and anger. A trickle of blood and saliva dribbled from his mouth. Something was wrong with him, even before Tav drove that metal bar into his…

Oh God. Did I…?

She risked a look at her hands.

She was holding a metal bar stained with blood… Blood and bits of soft tissue.

Her knees buckled under her.

She fell on all fours and vomited.

The retching shook her even when there was nothing left in her stomach. Only bile. Only muscle spasms that wouldn’t let go.

At last she rose, unsteadily.

Shadowheart was watching her with a strange expression. She said something. But to Tav the words still made no sense. Just an ordinary melody stripped of meaning. Anyway… Nothing made fucking sense.

How the hell did I know how to strike? No. Not me, it’s… It’s that other one with the pretty, proud name. Not me. I don’t kill people.

Shadowheart gestured, trying to catch her attention. She pointed at herself, at her own dress, then at Tav’s dress, then at the dead man’s clothes, and finally at the space around them.

Oh. Oh… she wants…

To search the bodies, find other clothes… Of course. Obvious. Logical… Except logic reeked like decomposing corpses.

But what other option did they have?

No one who wanted to survive on an alien planet ran around in a ball gown with a bare back.

Better be prepared. Better to anticipate. Better not get surprised.

Better…

Better kill before they touch you.

The thought slid into her softly. She felt those sticky, slimy words filling her head. There was something familiar about it… So familiar that the contents of her stomach once again rose to her throat.

"Let’s go," Tav said quickly.

Being in motion was good. Motion filled the silence in which she might hear someone else speaking in her own head, with her own voice, using words she would never use.

***

Motion wasn’t salvation after all. Quite the opposite. Every step only fueled the thoughts of who really lived in her head.

They moved among the ruins. Shadowheart led the way. She looked like someone who had a plan, or at least knew what she was looking for. Tav, on the other hand, felt as though she were watching the world and herself from the outside.

Autopilot.

Whose? Mine? Or… that other one’s?

Doesn’t matter.

Her feet avoided obstacles, tested the ground. Her eyes scanned the surroundings. And her body responded to every sound, to every word spoken by Shadowheart and to every glance she threw at Tav. Most were just checks, but in each there was something uneasy, as though Shadowheart were calculating how safe it was to have Tav behind her. And it was hard to blame her.

Autopilot was working. Tav drifted.

Walk, smile when Shadowheart looks, and…

She froze.

Autopilot switched off. And she was kneeling on the ground.

Before her lay a corpse. Still warm. An elf, male, of similar build. So she thought…

No, it was something in her head that told her this one would be suitable. Because she hadn’t seen her reflection, she couldn’t know. And yet, looking at him and at her own hands, she noticed even the length of the fingers seemed familiar.

His clothes looked almost untouched. Only specks of dirt. No blood, no wounds, no sign of struggle. Death unnaturally clean…

Why did he die? Heart?

Or maybe… maybe it was killed by that thing that also lived in her own skull?

She felt it all the time, somewhere behind her eyes. Something small, warm, pulsing to its own rhythm, completely unsynchronized with her own heart. And it wasn’t that other one. It was something else. Like a worm. Parasite? Easy to ignore until she named it outright.

Shadowheart’s voice tore her from her stupor.

Tav cleared her throat, but did nothing.

After a minute Shadowheart spoke again. There was a note of question in her voice. Tav winced—the half-elf was probably asking: are you going to rob him or not?

She almost giggled. How absurd. For the first time since waking in that damned coffin, she didn’t know what to do. Neither she nor that other self.

We can get out of a broken pod, kill a man, but we can’t force ourselves to rob a corpse…

Take it off him. Don’t look. Practicality over comfort.

She repeated the phrase like a mantra. Again and again.

Don’t count the moves, don’t look at his face. Just one piece of clothing, then another…

Her hands worked. The skin under her fingers was foreign, and in her head rang the same sentence: Practicality over comfort.

A dull thud as she rolled the body. Disgusting.

She tried not to scream in terror as she dressed in the dead man’s clothes. The pants were too big, and the belt on her hips uncomfortably stiff. The loose shirt smelled of someone else.

Damn. She did it. She really did.

This isn’t normal. I don’t do things like this.

But you do… Your ethical boundaries are amusingly skewed.

"Shut up!" she screamed, clutching her temples.

She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. She wanted to say ‘fuck it all.’ Tears welled in her eyes.

Shadowheart was saying something to her. It didn’t help. She had to…

Count breaths. Breathe evenly.

One, two, three…

Air went in and out.

…four, five, six. Her body was ready again, even while her mind remained in pieces.

Shadowheart was looking at her… differently. Her face usually calm, now betrayed tension and caution.

Tav swallowed with difficulty.

Please, just don’t leave me.

They moved on, but the shadow of mistrust didn’t fade. It dragged after them like a third companion.

***

Tav kept her distance. Greater than before. She pretended it was a tactical choice. A safe position. An illusion of control. And it worked, until the moment they climbed a forested cliff.

Then Tav felt even more foreign in her own body. As if someone had cut off a part of her.

Her mind strained to scan. Wanted to shoot out into space, take in the area, catch every movement, smell and mental signal.

But nothing. She couldn’t do it.

Where there had always been a network, now there was emptiness and silence.

A voice came from ahead. A cry.

They both froze. Shadowheart cast Tav a quick glance and cautiously moved forward.

Tav followed her. She despised that her body was already poised to attack, and yet she knew that was the only thing she could offer Shadowheart.

Maybe if she fought, if she protected her in the next fight, Shadowheart wouldn’t leave her.

Crazy, but useful!

And then a pale man came toward them.

Elf. Platinum hair, elegant facial features, but without a trace of aristocratic softness. For someone who was probably abducted from the same party as she and Shadowheart, he had strange clothing. Not entirely formal. A turtleneck under an evening shirt was an unusual choice. A sign? But of what? That he didn’t care about rules? No. It was something else. Every element of his outfit said: I can strangle you, then straighten my cuffs. Typical elegance underpinned by practicality.

Intriguing. Disturbing?

Fuck! Already I’m sorting, already arranging. Like… like… an automaton!

She felt a familiar sting in her brain. Categorizing, analyzing. As if someone had opened a cabinet in her head full of concept cards – click-click, fucking automaton – and made her match each label to him. And she was just following orders.

Where do I know this from? Why do I know what to look at? Why is it so easy when I remember nothing?

The man spoke. Relief painted his face, but in his eyes appeared a calculating gleam. Wait… was he wearing contacts?

Am I really seeing this, or is my brain just tricking me? And why the hell does that detail hurt me like a needle in a vein?

Shadowheart replied to the stranger, and Tav’s insides twisted into a painful knot.

Oh no, the same language. So… I’m the foreigner?

The atmosphere thickened.

The stranger pointed at the shipwreck around them; his voice sounded accusatory. Shadowheart stepped back. Her tone became tense. The man bristled too. His posture shifted.

Predator. Possible threat. Be ready.

Her body automatically prepared for action. Do I really have to? Is this the only way to be useful? I don’t want to fight!

A voice thundered in her, spreading through her body like a resonant wave: Us or him!

Tav clenched her jaw. She didn’t know why she tried to reach deeper into her mind, to influence reality—she knew it didn’t work. She had already tried. That part was gone.

If you can’t reach for mental power, reach for the blade. Sometimes only brute strength remains.

Whose voice is that?!

Before she could react, her skull filled with hollow laughter, and the world went dark.

Someone… a woman, without eyebrows and hair, floated above her. And the symbol carved into her forehead seemed to devour Tav.

Guild of Mental Strategy.

She would recognize that symbol anywhere. A triangle with a round dot in the middle and three lines passing through it.

The laughter stopped ringing, transforming into something that sounded almost soothing. But in that softness lay a threat: Remember, Reytheyra. Where the mind fails, the body must be ready to decide. Weakness is a disease.

And then she felt her body moving, trying to return to reality. Too slow, too sluggish to…

Tav froze.

At her neck was a blade. The other hand locked her body in a professional grip. She felt the cold of the weapon at her throat, the tremor of his muscles and her own breath escaping her windpipe in something that might have been a whimper. She hated that connection. She hated herself for getting caught.

The stranger’s voice was soft, but laced with threat. She felt his shoulders rise.

Shadowheart waved frantically. She pointed to the wrecked ship below. She was trying to explain something to him.

The man clicked his tongue and shook his head. His hand trembled. Tav tried to move, and then he pressed her harder against himself. With each breath she felt her skin brush against the blade. She was only a body in his hands.

Weakness is a disease, the voice in her head repeated.

Tav clenched her fists, her teeth—her whole body. She couldn’t do anything. Nothing.

The man laughed. And then his laughter turned into gurgling and a mad scream. He loosened his grip, staggered backward. Shadowheart flinched visibly. And Tav felt her own legs wobble.

The world began to tear. Something was pulling her down and up at the same time. As though her mind were stretching beyond the skull’s limits. Senses went out one by one, until only pulsating chaos remained.

Echo of voices.

Anger.

Echo in her. Echo in… THEM.

Anger and helplessness.

Anger and shame.

Anger and rebellion.

One note stretched across three minds. As though they had all become one instrument tuned to the same frequency.

The first flash threw Shadowheart to her knees.

She leans over the wounded. She came too late. Another victim of the Guild. Not long ago a mentalist full of strength, now in agony. A hand reaches out, begging for help. She doesn’t know how to react, not after years of mental castration. Compassion isn’t a reflex. Each day she reminds herself what it’s like to be human. She takes the outstretched hand. And all she feels is pain and the bitter taste of defeat.

No, that’s not my hand, that’s not my memory. Then whose?

Second flash. This time the stranger fell to his knees.

He looks at shadows on the wall. He feels fingers on his neck. Into his nostrils seeps the smell of sweat and musk. He closes his eyes, does his job. Then that sound… Metal hitting metal. A lock turns. Another "lesson" and another scream. And then instead of musk, sweat and blood. Where did he go wrong? Why does he always fail?!

No, no, no, that’s definitely not my body. But are you sure? ARE YOU SURE!

Third flash, making Tav’s knees hit the ground.

Smell of rain, bare feet, the joyful laugh of another girl. Suddenly the shadow of an adult. A scream cutting through space. No! She doesn’t agree to this! She silences that voice with mental force. Perfect silence follows. And then only tests, trainings, trials, masks. Hundreds of masks. Always a role, never me again.

Me? Yes, that could have been mine. I remember that girl, the only person I was allowed to play with… NO, ENOUGH!

All three jerked, slowly rising.

The mental connection broke, and something in her head quivered painfully.

She stood again on the cliff, beside her Shadowheart with an unreadable expression, and opposite the pale elf.

He said something that sounded like an apology. Shadowheart nodded, pointed at her temple, then at Tav.

They all had a stowaway in their heads. She didn’t know if that meant fellowship or a sentence.

Chapter Text

ACT I: Infection – Sigilla

One.

Two.

Five…?

She was counting her steps, but the numbers dissolved in her head like warm breath on a cold windowpane. Puff. Blurred. As if they had never existed.

Twenty-five? Already a hundred?

Had she already been here? Here. “Here.” What did “here” even mean?

Everything, the whole world, seemed murky and blurred, as if she were a fish in a forgotten aquarium. Condemned to a pointless loop of movement, to the futile hope that questions have answers.

Loop after loop. Tick-tock. One-two-three-twenty-five.

And again.

To be “here” meant to repeat. To exist in eternal déjà vu and in the lie that anything changes.

Ocean or land, it didn’t matter. Everything was the same. The air everywhere was saturated with the same strange scent, it had its own substance. Breathing through her mouth, she could taste it. Sticky. Thick. Leaving behind the aftertaste of cloves, rust, and something salty-sour… as if someone had soaked seaweed in vinegar and then left it in the sun.

She longed for water. Clean water, to rinse her mouth and for a moment feel something else.

She stopped beneath a tree. Why here?

Learn, whispered that other her.

Tav sighed and looked at the trunk. For the first time since she had woken up on that damned beach, she really looked at the landscape around her. The tree trunks looked like columns, smooth, slender, monumental. And their crowns stretched above her like umbrellas. Drops dripped from the edges of the leaves.

Drip-drip-drip.

She touched the trunk. A thin layer of salt crumbled under her fingertips. She inhaled. This time she felt something else. Something sweet. Resin?

Hm…

From behind her came a familiar babble.

Astarion.

That was how this elf had introduced himself. Every time he spoke, Tav’s body tensed, each of his sentences was a blade brushing her spine. Vertebra by vertebra. She didn’t like Astarion. He smiled too easily and too eagerly. And his voice? Velvety, warm… but saturated with artificial brightness, full of refined modulations and precise intonations.

Disgustingly controlled. Perfect. False?

No, perfect, therefore false. Or maybe the other way around? So perfectly false it was already true?

She didn’t have the strength to decide. Let him talk. She didn’t understand him anyway.

She crouched by the trunk, right under the edge of the crown. Here the ground formed a thin ring.

Here the water falls. Interesting.

Where the drops fell, no grass grew, and the ground was packed down.

Tav hesitantly touched the water with her finger and then sniffed it. Water wasn’t supposed to have a smell. And this one did. The sweetness of resin and a shadow of that metallic something that lingered in the air.

She hesitated. She waited for the warning of the other. Nothing. Emptiness. Silence. She could almost believe a second voice had never existed in her head. She brushed her tongue with her finger. She grimaced.

From afar came mocking laughter. She didn’t need to turn to guess Astarion’s expression.

She tried again, this time with the other hand, the one that hadn’t touched the trunk. Nothing changed. The same bitterness.

What is this about?

She sat there for a while until she felt it.

It was like a thin needle stabbed into her eye sockets. Her thoughts split into two tracks, then into three, and then there was only chaos. Her body rose on its own, and she automatically began counting steps.

One-two-three…

With the next ocean breeze came the next wave of pain.

Tav lifted her head. Shadowheart grimaced too, as if she had bitten into a fruit too sour to swallow. The half-elf drew a deep breath, calming herself.

Astarion was watching Tav, and his smooth face betrayed nothing. No twitch, no flicker of an eyelid, no discomfort. Only his bright curls moved in the wind.

A pattern, suggested the other. Or was that her own thought? It didn’t matter.

The air had that smell again. Cloves, rust, vinegar. And mist glided between the trees.

…five, six… thirty…

From afar, beyond the cliff edges, came a rumble.

Boom. A pause. Boom. A pause.

A rhythm?

Study. Look for a pattern. Learn, murmured the other, cold, the one who watched when the personality wanted to split into fragments.

A cool breeze whipped her skin, and her thoughts scattered again, just enough to forget what number should have appeared now in her head.

It’s not me that’s wrong, it’s the air, she thought. It touches those like…

Like us?

Us?

Silence. Then a reluctant, blurred thought:

Mentalists.

The mist came and went. When ordinary wind blew, thoughts regained their shape, the edges of consciousness sharpened, the contours of the Self became clearer. The world for a moment made sense again.

One-two-three-twenty-five…

The tadpole in her skull shifted at the same moment Reytheyra raised the alarm in Tav’s body, straightening her spine.

Alarm.

Beware.

The bushes rustled and something lunged straight at her. Fury and madness painted the man’s face. But the only thing she could focus on were his eyes. Wide open, huge black pupils. He screamed. In his hand he clutched a sharp stone.

Her feet automatically set at an angle, and her hands lifted to guard.

No, no, no. I am not your puppet.

You are me. You may not like it. But I will not let you die.

The madman lunged forward. Her body twisted, her arms went up, weight shifted to the tips of her toes.

Defensive stance, hand-to-hand combat section, second year of training.

She froze, eyes wide open.

What?

It was a second. A second of hesitation. One stupid human spark, enough to abandon the stance and…

Oh no.

Reytheyra slid back into her body, executing a desperate dodge.

The madman’s hand cut through the air near her ear. The man let out a frustrated sound, and Tav sucked in air loudly, staggering back.

What the hell, Reytheyra?! Never forget the Law of Motion. This is not instinct. This is a rule. Discipline. Ritual. You cannot be a puppet to your own chaotic reflexes. You are to fight your fear and weakness, not…

NO.

Then she saw the glint of silver.

Astarion and a knife.

Wet sound.

Blood and falling body.

Astarion.

He was looking at her. He muttered something. The sound reached her with delay. She blinked, trying to pierce through the thick shroud of her own stupor. Astarion stood and waited. For what? For thanks? She wasn’t sure, so she tossed out a dry:

"Thank you."

Astarion raised a brow, amused. He answered, dragging the syllables and gesturing with the manner of an actor unaware that his audience’s minds were thousands of miles away.

Shadowheart approached them. She looked strange. One of her fists was clenched, close to her hip. She stopped near Astarion, giving him a warning look.

He only shrugged and threw out another comment. This time his melodic voice took on a sharper note. Maybe a threat? A mockery? Shadowheart pressed her lips together, and her gaze wandered for a moment. At last she sighed and shook her head. For a moment her eyes met Tav’s, as if searching for something.

Is she checking whether I’ve gone completely insane?

Her throat refused to cooperate, and swallowing was like trying to gulp down a massive spiked ball.

Astarion crouched by the corpse. He ran his knife blade across the jacket with such care and precision, as if it were some damn ceremony and not simply wiping off blood. For a second he stared at the blade, then theatrically tilted his head back and murmured something with false delight. He shifted his gaze to Tav.

She had expected to see triumph in his eyes, pride, but what was really there was icy emptiness. She didn’t have time to dwell on it, because more words buzzed by her ear. Quick and nervous.

Shadowheart…

Tav stiffened. Shadowheart had never once sounded so uncertain. That was new. Disturbingly new.

Astarion stretched his mouth in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He answered her in a sweet, low voice, then laughed and began rummaging in the dead man’s pockets.

Tav watched his fluid movements. He turned the body with ease. He didn’t hesitate… he was simply methodical. He avoided the bloodstains from the wounds…

…wounds he himself had inflicted on this man…

He slid his hands into the pockets without a trace of disgust. He squinted, but his gaze was cold. And on his face there was only… Well, in fact, there was nothing there. It wasn’t concentration. Not entirely.

Suddenly Astarion let out a short cry of satisfaction. He pulled out a small object. A metallic-glass lump with a golden edge, on which some signs were engraved. He turned it in his hands for a moment, then, as if carelessly, tossed it at Tav’s feet.

He made sure she met his eyes, and then smiled once more and rose without a word.

What a fucked-up guy. And we’re supposed to travel together?

Tav sighed. She noticed that in Astarion’s hands there appeared something that looked like a wallet. She doubted it had any value on this planet, but what unsettled her was the question: when the hell did he take it out?

That’s not important now, pick up what he threw you.

Tav obediently bent down, picking up the small lump.

She felt the world slow down. Shock spread through her in waves. First came slight surprise, her eyes widened. And then she felt a tremor in her guts.

It came again. She felt on her tongue the taste of that damned mist, she felt it pulling apart the edges of her thoughts, forcing her into contact with her own terrifying depth.

Sigilla.

You know what that means. You remember. You remember those words… “Never open a Sigilla unless you are certain you are the last one on the trail.” Warning, Reytheyra. Not an invitation.

I am not you, Reytheyra. I am Tav. And Tav knows none of your damned protocols.

You deceive yourself. T-a-v. Nice cover, but it doesn’t protect, does it? Without me you’d be rotting already. You know it. And you know that only someone truly “from inside” the system would have recognized this thing. So stop pretending.

"I am not you!" burst from her throat in a violent spasm. She repeated the words in her mind several times, and her fingers clenched around the object.

Oh, T-a-v, don’t pretend. A mere touch was enough for you to recognize what this is. Like then, in your father’s office, when he ordered you to touch the family Sigilla. You feel it.

Tav shook her head.

No, no, no! She roared inside.

Reytheyra only smiled. Predatory satisfaction laced with contempt twisted her lips. That was the mark of the Guild’s wards. The grimace of people who had learned to cut out sentiment, replacing it with cold satisfaction.

Astarion caught her gaze. He tilted his head. He observed her with curiosity. Like a predator trying to judge: prey or entertainment? His gaze drilled into her, and she was certain he could see. He sent her a half-smile, as if saying: I know you’re not alone inside.

And Tav…

(Reytheyra?)

…was still smiling. Her finger touched the inscription, sliding slowly over the signs. Guild language. Her language. The letters glowed with subtle light.

Consilium Tadpole. Protocol SYNAPSE.

She stopped breathing.

A second passed, maybe two. Her own pulse was so intense she felt it in her throat.

What…? No. No. This shouldn’t be here. How did this man… Courier? He didn’t look it. But… If he was a courier… That meant… Oh. Catastrophe. Something went wrong.

She tried to inhale, but air wouldn’t pass through her throat. She coughed, choking, like back then, when…

No. These aren’t my memories!

…hands clutched her throat, trying to instill in her that…

Consciousness is not the body. And the body is not you. Separate them. Transfer. Take control. Change reality. You don’t need air. You are a powerful mentalist, Reytheyra.

But I am TAV!

Her nails dug into her skin. She pressed until a wave of pain flooded her mind.

The skin on her hand split. She heard a crack.

A crack? From behind. Danger.

The smell of blood hit her. Hers? Another’s?

Shadowheart opened her eyes wide. She moved forward.

Tav stood, not knowing what to do. Blood trickled down her wrist, her hand burned.

Her hand. HER. HAND. It remained clenched around the metallic lump, whose sight made the other retreat.

Catastrophe. What catastrophe was that? Why did it terrify her so?

Blood pounded in her ears, and for a moment the world beat one rhythm, shaping into words:

Consilium Tadpole. Protocol SYNAPSE.

What did that even mean?

Shadowheart passed Tav.

…Tav…

She was Tav.

She snorted with laughter. Tears stung beneath her eyelids, but she didn’t let them fall.

Weakness is death, echoed in her skull.

And then another sound reached her, this one real. She turned, wanting to leave behind this whole damn performance. To forget about the Sigilla, about the Consilium Tadpole and the protocol whose name meant nothing to her.

She blinked once, then twice, and shook her head lightly, as if she wanted to erase the last minutes from memory and quickly overwrite them with new memories, preferably ones that didn’t hurt and didn’t stink of blood.

Astarion appeared at her right, unnoticed. He leaned toward her, whispering. She wasn’t sure of the note in his voice. Curiosity? He pointed at her still clenched hand.

Tav cleared her throat and pressed her hand to her chest. She breathed heavily, feeling her own heart pounding against her ribs. She felt… She wasn’t sure. Fear or relief… her body apparently couldn’t decide.

In front of them, in the pale streaks of the setting sun, Shadowheart was speaking with a stranger.

Hugs and laughter, a picture-perfect scene. Tav of course stayed silent. She didn’t understand a single one of their words, and in her head came questions she didn’t want to answer, the ominous refrain of the last hours: what was that catastrophe? Who am I? What will we do?

Chapter Text

ACT I: Infection – Welcome, Night

The first flame danced vividly under Gale’s hands.

Gale.

A strange name. Why? Something tickled at the back of her head when she thought about him. Maybe another stray memory? Whatever it was, it vanished into the greasy stupor in which she drifted. Even that other her sat quietly, curled up in the corner of her skull, right next to that writhing worm.

Gale, she guessed, was also infected, but he alone seemed not to care. Which was strange. The man seemed strange to her overall. Not in appearance. In appearance, he resembled a typical diplomat. He had a gentle face, shoulder-length hair, and a beard streaked with gray.

Tav sat on a fallen trunk. She felt the smoothness of the bark, the stiffness of her own muscles, but it was as if she were someone else’s prop. She was here, and at the same time she wasn’t.

Shadowheart tossed in twigs, and the lower tongues of fire greedily reached for the fresh wood. Light spilled unevenly across the clearing. But instead of warmth, Tav shivered.

How did Gale light the fire?

She squinted, searching for proof that this wasn’t another hallucination.

For a second she caught a glint of metal in his hand. A lighter? Where did he get a lighter? The question echoed in her head, but no one pursued the investigation. Neither she nor Reytheyra.

She risked another question: Maybe he also has water that isn’t bitter and potentially poisonous?

And maybe he also has something that will keep you from losing your mind before the sun rises? The voice appeared for a moment, biting, familiar. Then it vanished.

Welcome, silence.

She sighed, staring at the two shallow pits Shadowheart had dug just at the drip line of those strange umbrella-shaped trees. Until now she hadn’t understood why she had dug two pits connected by a narrow channel. But now she did: one pit for fire, the other for ventilation.

Simple and clever.

Somewhere on the edge of that strange clearing stripped of greenery, an animal called out. It sounded like a clock. A ghastly “tick-tick-tick” counting down the seconds until the next disaster.

Gale said something to Shadowheart. A gentle, quiet sentence, without a trace of distance. They definitely knew each other before all this.

Who were they?

Lovers? No, too little tenderness.

Friends? Maybe.

But does it matter?

She glanced at Gale’s hands. She had already seen that he was wounded. On the backs of his hands were fresh burn marks, but even so he used them, ignoring the pain. Shadowheart examined him precisely. Maybe she knew medicine?

Somatic mentalism, the voice of the other her suggested. Tired, but alert. It doesn’t matter, they did something to all of us that took our abilities away.

Tav wondered how long it would take before Gale’s wounds became infected. They had nothing to disinfect with, no bandages. They had nothing. They didn’t know what diseases prowled this world. Maybe tomorrow morning he would wake up with rotting flesh on his hands?

Maybe better if he dies first. The voice appeared suddenly and made her stomach tighten. She held her breath, trying to shove the thought into the abyss. That wasn’t her. I didn’t… Oh. Fuck. She was right. She hated herself for understanding the reasoning.

Maybe we’re not so different after all?

Shadowheart and Gale had each other. Now they could act as a pair. When Tav freed Shadowheart from the pod, and then when she kil—neutralized that man, she was needed. But now? On this clearing, in the face of their shared history, she was just unwanted ballast. And ballast gets thrown out first.

Everything is temporary, especially alliances.

Tav glanced sideways at the other end of the trunk, where Astarion sat. Lit by the fire, he seemed more statuesque, almost motionless. She quickly looked away. Instinct told her that any attempt at contact might be read by this man as a challenge.

If Shadowheart and Gale leave together…

She clenched her jaw.

The worst that could happen was being left with Astarion. Alone. Her body tightened as if waiting for a blow.

***

An hour, or two, or maybe an eternity later, she still wasn’t asleep. Time didn’t matter, her body had long since lost its rhythm. Only this strange drifting of senses remained.

She felt more herself than in the last hours. But a stranger in her own body. Everything was wrong. As if someone had stopped the film, rewound a few hundred frames, and pressed “play.” But that wasn’t the worst part. She was defective. The reference points that once were stable had now vanished. As if the role she had played before the catastrophe had become real. Too real.

A nasty irony of fate.

Gale and Shadowheart were the first to fall asleep. They settled close to the fire. And close to each other. Of course, allies did that.

She looked at their relaxed faces with a strange tickling in her chest. Just a moment ago they had been talking with Astarion and agreeing on something. Maybe about the watch? Maybe about tomorrow? Doesn’t matter, those were just procedures she couldn’t understand.

And now they slept. Just slept.

On the hard, damp ground, without blankets, without weapons. As if death were just an unreal option. Their trust was incomprehensible to her.

The fire was dying, and the world grew sticky with darkness. She could feel it everywhere. In her joints, in her head, even in the damned cracks between her teeth.

Her body tensed with every crack of wood. Each gust of wind carried the sense that something was crawling over her skin, seeking a way into her skull. Like there, over the ocean… The same feeling of something foreign under the skin.

She shuddered, as if someone had run something cold across her temple.

Her gaze jumped to the source of danger.

Astarion.

He sat opposite. Alert and still. Scanning the surroundings and scanning her, like a predator on guard.

He smiled when he noticed she was watching. He spoke.

She looked at him with irritation, as if asking: What do you want this time?

Her neck pulsed where that oddball’s knife had touched her. And her right hand, with which she had picked up the Sigilla he’d thrown, was swollen, felt like a foreign body.

Tav… Reytheyra… Which one of them was looking now?

She ran her fingertips over the scabs, grimacing. She clenched her jaw. Shook her head and sighed, trying to push the anger out.

Astarion raised an eyebrow. His voice was lower than usual, still melodic, but with something she hadn’t heard from him before. Tension? No, no. He was trying to control his emotions, but not entirely succeeding.

He spoke, gesturing toward the stars. His eyes never left her face. In the firelight she saw them clearly – slightly glassy, but not from tears. He definitely wore contact lenses. And she doubted it was about correcting his vision. There was another purpose. She noted it. Should she?

I shouldn’t… not now. But I’ve already registered it.

She had seen this type of man before…

STOP.

Astarion leaned forward. He waited. Waited for her answer. Only there was something in the arrangement of his body…

Oh, you’re probing us…

“Us”?

Me?

Stop. Don’t analyze. Don’t analyze yourself, don’t analyze him. Don’t look at his eyes, don’t break his tone into microfrequencies. Just, fuck, sit there and stop being a tool.

She rested her chin on her hands.

They were silent.

In the background played the symphony of insects. Nothing dangerous, but her body stayed on alert. And her breath broke each time a sound of something heavier appeared in the distance. A dangerous predator. Like the one sitting across from her.

In this light, his skin was porcelain. Too pale. Why? An underground habitat? No, he didn’t look like that. An orbital station? No, he had no problems with gravity.

Astarion spoke again. A short sentence she imagined might have sounded like:

“So will you say something?”

She answered with a smile. Shook her head. And he, surprisingly, smiled too. This smile was more real than all his previous ones and definitely more dangerous.

She lay on her side. Slid the corpse’s jacket under her head.

She lay so that, if necessary, she could catch her companions’ movement; both Gale and Shadowheart, and Astarion… mostly Astarion.

She closed her eyes. The jacket stank of death, the ground was hard and cold, and the worm in her head caused a dull pain.

She listened to the sounds of the night.

And when she let her thoughts flow, she felt that a name was waiting for her, a name she wasn’t sure she wanted to remember.

She remembered nights spent on the cold hills of the north. A familiar place, a familiar world. Always the same procedures: conversation dampeners set in a circle so no sound would escape. They sat close, shoulder to shoulder, exchanging the warmth of their bodies. In case someone was watching. Because someone was always watching.

The light of bioluminescent flashlights did not outshine the dazzlingly bright constellations. They didn’t need it, they could sit in the dark, but this way it was easier to create a sense of intimacy.

She still remembered his slow, steady voice. He always spoke like that. Without emotion, listing the next steps. Escape, contacts, variables to control. Everything sounded like her training. She hated it. In those moments she wanted to forget. She wanted to talk about anything else. About the sky. About the smell of wet grass. About normality, which she could only imagine.

Because she knew that when they returned to the estate and sat down to dinner, every gesture and tone of voice would be classified.

Politeness as discipline, conversation as a tool. So simple. Strategic, logical.

And yet for both houses, this relationship was neither strategic nor logical. That’s why they kept checking if it was really love, or just rebellion.

But he was a good player. Simon… Though once she called him Seamus… Or maybe it was the other way around? Doesn’t matter. He always behaved as if the Guild’s world was tailored to his measure. Unlike her. She was always too much in it. Or too little.

Enough. She shook her head. Too much, too fast.

She heard a faint rustle on the other side of the fire. Astarion lay down. But listening to his breath, she knew he wasn’t asleep either.

Apparently this night did not belong to the sleeping.

***

She didn’t know when she fell asleep. If it even was sleep.

Something wrapped around her head. A pillow? A jacket? Bed linen?

Simon.

The name came on its own, she felt it like a bloody tattoo carved into her tongue. It itched and burned. Into her nostrils came the sweet scent of perfume with woody notes. And beneath them a sharper layer: sweat, blood and… something chemical?

No, don’t go there. Oh, the other one was here too. But she sounded different. More shaken.

I want to see.

You don’t want to.

Reytheyra immediately blocked those associations. Instead she showed others: white sheets in luxurious hotels. Marble floors. And again that smell of expensive perfume… The face of a young elf with dark hair. How old was he? Twenty-something? Thirty?

Simon. So it was him.

But when she turned on her back, sterile white walls flashed under her eyelids. People in elegant, flowing robes, who looked at her with a mix of respect, fear, and hope.

No. You’re not ready. Whispered the other.

Tav heard the faint whistle of someone’s breath. A narrow beam of light tickled her eyes. Someone pulled the jacket off her head.

She shielded her eyes with her hand.

Consciousness returned, settling on her skin like stubborn dirt.

She wasn’t in a hotel. Simon wasn’t with her. And she wasn’t…

NO.

She squeezed her eyelids shut, feeling she’d rather not remember.

Around her her companions moved. They hadn’t fled. Their voices had the rhythm of ordinary conversation, so maybe they weren’t planning to abandon her.

She stood, and her muscles protested the movement. For a moment she thought that the only chance to survive these horrors was to sleep through them. Sweet oblivion.

You long to flee into unconsciousness, while we teach you to be everything. BE ASHAMED.

Tav flinched. That wasn’t the other. Then who?

Teachers.

What fucked-up teachers you had.

Me? We had. But you don’t remember them, and pray it stays that way.

Chapter Text

ACT I: Infection – The Language of the High Houses

She opened her eyes.

She stood on the edge of a cliff, staring at the ocean.

Yesterday the beach was drowning in wreckage. Today almost everything was gone. There were no bodies. No small debris. Only heavy slabs of metal and a few pods remained.

The fog breathed with the sea. Inhale. Exhale. In that breath there was a faint, tormented cry.

The air stank the same as yesterday: cloves, rust, and the sour stench of seaweed. That must be the breath of the dying.

Breathe through the nose. Shallow breaths. Do not get distracted. It seeps into the sinuses and rips apart our thoughts. In Tav’s head floated the whisper of the other one. And, pathetic or not, for the first time she felt relief that Reytheyra was there.

The sky had the color of gray soap. The sun hid behind clouds and cast a cold light over the landscape. Above the water hung a moon, and higher still, just beneath the sun, there was a second, smaller and paler one, easy to overlook.

There was something unsettling about this world: real, and yet artificial.

Tav closed her eyes, reminding herself not to take deep breaths. Reytheyra, it whispered inside her with a muffled voice. A voice belonging to someone who both wanted and did not want to be heard.

Simon delighted in the intricate projects of his house, the thought flashed through her mind. It’s the same here. A world designed according to technical specifications, not the laws of nature. That was how his Guild operated.

Tav tried to dive deeper, but the thought slipped away, leaving a bitter aftertaste on her tongue.

Behind her Gale spoke.

She did not understand the words, but the man’s tone was practical, like a lecturer’s remarks. She turned. Gale was pointing to something on the other side of the beach.
Tav winced. His burns looked worse in the pale daylight. She tried to grasp what had caught Gale’s attention. It took a moment for reason to catch up with her eyes.

Promising. The other one commented.

In the strait many kilometers away, in the crevices between black rocks, something angular glittered. It did not look like part of the wreck. And its surface reflected light as if the maker of that object wanted it to be found even after the catastrophe.

Shadowheart threw a short sentence. Gale nodded. Astarion said something that sounded like mockery, and set off first along the cliff.

She followed him with her eyes. He had a springy stride, fluid movements. Too self-assured. He stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and tossed something to the others, with that irritating smile of his.

They set off along the path. Tav stayed behind. The ocean now roared more calmly. The fog thinned. The air choked less, and a strange lightness entered her head.
She took her first deep breath. The other one in her mind seemed displeased, but Tav appreciated the strange, unsettling beauty of this place.

Gale matched her pace. He looked at her as if she were an intriguing equation whose purpose he couldn’t place. That unspoken excitement sparked terror, quickly smothered by irritation.

She grew alert.

A black bird flew overhead. Enormous, with a carrion beak and grotesquely broad wings. It tilted and let itself be carried by the wind.

Gale’s voice cut through the space, but his words sounded different. Tav raised her brows.

Hm. Interesting. Another language?

Gale repeated, and she shook her head.

Gale tilted his head. His voice came again, this time soft, full of nasal sounds. It was hard for her to grasp where one word ended and the next began. She shook her head.

The man muttered under his breath more to himself than to her.

He changed his intonation. This time the rhythm was clear, with rolling “r”s. It reminded her of a lively dance, but to her it was still only melody. She gave him an apologetic smile.

Gale raised his fingers to his chin, grimacing.

Poor man. He got so drawn into his game he forgot about his wounds.

He should leave us alone.

Yes, he should.

Shadowheart and Astarion, though pretending to focus on the path, were listening carefully. And that Tav disliked. These were variables to be kept under control, even while playing Gale’s game.

Gale changed his tone. The words grew heavy, dense, full of hissing consonants.

Astarion snorted with laughter and threw some malice at Gale. Gale frowned. He replied with a note of deep irritation and added something under his breath. Then he addressed Tav in the language the others used. It sounded as if he were delivering a serious lecture with theatrical tension.

Tav sighed heavily.

He should quit this damn performance and leave it be.

Tav grimaced at the thought. At least Gale was trying to solve her problem.

The man reached for yet another language.

Damn, how many does he know?

The rhythm swelled like the ocean below, but the melody alone made bile rise in her throat. With every word she felt nausea swelling inside her.

"I don’t understand." Her voice was sharp. "I don’t remember any language but this one."

Gale blinked. He looked at her with something stretched between excitement and unease.

"You…" he spoke slowly, and Tav felt a jolt. "Your… language… my lady—unheard-of. You speak the ancient tongue of the Guild," he added still uncertainly.

Tav hesitated. Did she hear right? Yes. She understood him. It sounded foreign, like from another age, but she understood.

"Your language is wrong," she said, and the words immediately spread in her chest with the weight of familiar fear. I know this. Soon everything will blur. Another illusion, a product of imagination.

"Wrong?" he repeated, weighing the word. "Do you mean ‘dysfunctional,’ my lady?"

Tav blinked. Too fast. The other one already wanted to react, to slip in another caustic comment, but Tav quickly added:

"You’re using the wrong personal forms. And that syntax…"

Gale lifted his hand and immediately winced. Apparently this man could not go without gesturing. His fingers hung awkwardly in the air, he cleared his throat and dropped his hand.

"Oh, it’s not me using it incorrect," he said defensively with that half-smile of his. "It’s the language I was taught at Lady M’s court…"

He broke off. He looked like someone who had just realized his assets might also be weapons aimed against himself.

Tav barely held back a smile. Gale was all too transparent. Banal to read.

Gale, despite the pain in his hand, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt in a gesture of emotional self-regulation.

"I was taught by the best hierophant of the archival—"

"You’re using a synthetic version," she cut him off.

And in her head the thought flew by: Of course synthetic. It’s the language of the High Houses. I was taught it since childhood… I… Something trembled inside her.

Shadowheart turned slowly. She measured Gale with her gaze, raised a brow in an unasked question. Gale threw her a short explanation in their common language. When he spoke to Shadowheart, his voice was always warm. Shadowheart answered suspiciously. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously.

Is he lying? Why would he?

Maybe he doesn’t want the wrong ones to hear too much. The other one suggested.

Who? Astarion?

As if on cue Astarion snorted with laughter. That man was made of eighty percent mockery, the rest cynicism and brutality.

Shadowheart cut him off at once with a tone so sharp it shook Gale. He spoke, trying to mediate between them. He warned Astarion. Politely.

Astarion glanced over his shoulder. He looked at Tav a moment longer than was necessary, or comfortable for her, and gave them both a crooked smile. Then, with his theatrical exaggeration, he answered Shadowheart in a warm, deep voice.

"Do I want to know what he said?" she asked Gale.

He hesitated. Then thoughtfully said:

"That… he was joking about our linguistic… talents. Nothing of consequence."

Of consequence? He probably meant "nothing important."

"Nothing of consequence," she repeated under her breath.

Something quivered under her ribs.

We measure consequence by outcomes, not words. The voice was starched clean of emotion. That was not Reytheyra. That was…

No, I don’t want to think…

But the bald woman with the symbol of the Guild of Mental Strategy carved into her forehead appeared before her eyes. Too vivid, too real. And the Sigilla in her pocket suddenly grew heavy. She felt her face twist into a complicated grimace.

Stop fidgeting. It’s pettiness unworthy of someone of your origin.

Tav instinctively dug her nail into the soft pad of her thumb to anchor herself in pain.

Back. Head. Chin. What kind of posture is that, Reytheyra?

"Stop," she whispered. The nail’s pressure increased. "I’m not in the training hall."

Wrong categorization. The hall is a metaphor. Someone is always watching. Assessment is your mirror.

"Tav?" It was Gale. She recognized the texture of his voice, but the tone was mismatched… He should have sounded harsh, not gentle.

Correct the posture. NOW. What are you doing with that hand, girl? Turn your palm to hide the tremor.

Tav moved her hand behind her back, slowed her pace. Now he could not see what she was doing.

"Tav?" he repeated.

"I'm here," she replied.

No. You are not. Clean up after yourself. Do not let others think too little of you.

She swallowed and spoke in a tone she hoped would sound conversational:

"‘Nothing of consequence’ is ‘nothing important.’ A minor distinction."

Correct frame, good. A familiar voice sounded in her head. That could have been Reytheyra. But be careful, he’s watching you like research material. Don’t count on understanding, treat him the way he treats you.

Meaning?

Like an equation. The winner will be the one who first finds the missing variables and puts them to use. Simple. Clean. Without emotion.

Her chest began to burn. Breathe, she ordered herself with her own voice, and with the raspy breath a wave broke against the cliffs. Tav’s world shook.

She felt damned or intoxicated. She was both, without knowing it. But Reytheyra knew. And Tav was beginning to understand that this reversal of roles was a mistake.

It was Reytheyra who should have been the filter of perception, and she, Tav, should have whispered the cues.

Simple. Clean. Functional… but with a shadow of emotion. More like a human, less like a tool. They had to find the solution.

No.

No? Oh no, no. I’ve had enough of your crap.

"Tav, look," Gale said. Their eyes met. The man looked relieved. He nodded to her, then with a tilt of his head pointed downward.

They had reached the edge of the cliff. Before them stretched the bay. And many meters below, among the weathered rocks, there was a container with insignia…

The Guild of Transport. Always carries emergency containers.

Being one step from bursting into tears, Tav shook her head. From joy. From unspeakable joy and relief.

But why did Gale want her to see it?

Chapter Text

ACT I: Infection – The Dark Hour

Astarion leaned over the edge, seemingly interested in the view, but Tav knew better. He held his shoulders straight, yet his eyes betrayed interest in something else. He was listening in on Shadowheart and Gale’s conversation. He shifted his weight to the other leg, turned around and clapped his hands. He said something softly to the others. His gaze slid over Gale’s back, then settled for a moment on his hands. A brief flash of a smile cut across his face. There was nothing kind in it.

Shadowheart approached Astarion with a stony face. She leaned in. The three of them began to talk. Gale turned in place as if looking for something. Tav tried to understand what had suddenly caused so much commotion.

And then there was a loud: "Ha!"

Tav found herself by Gale. She understood at once what it was about. She shoved aside a heavy stone and a coiled rope came into view. She crouched. She brushed hard clumps of salt off the rope. She took a piece of the rope in her hands and pulled. What was this material? Some local plant fibers?

Shadowheart bent toward her, pointing with a finger to where Astarion was standing.

The pale elf said something. A provocation. Tav rolled her eyes. Astarion raised a brow, and a smile appeared on his lips at once. He shrugged, answered her with irony and spread his arms as if inviting her forward. He stared at her a second too long. Like someone who does not know the rules of eye contact or consciously breaks it. Two heartbeats, then a cut-off and a return to himself. Tav did not need to know the words to know what his posture conveyed: “go on, show what you can do”.

In the rock, half a meter from the edge, an iron eye had been set long ago. Tav tried to hand Astarion the rope, but he did not even move. He watched and waited. Tav sighed.

"Gale." She addressed the other man.

He lifted his head. Definitely too quickly and too eagerly. His eyes were gleaming.

"Can you tell Astarion to cut off the end of the rope with a knife and check if there’s any rot inside?"

Please, understand what I’m saying to you.

Gale furrowed his brow, then nodded and said:

"Gladly, my lady."

What? Does that mean: yes? Tav blinked but said nothing. She watched Astarion’s face change as Gale, in a lecturer’s tone, explained to him what Tav had conveyed.

Astarion narrowed his eyes. He looked first at the rope, then at Tav. And when he reached for the rope, he brushed her hand with his fingertips as he took the rope from her. She flinched. Apparently that was the reaction he was counting on, because he tossed out a line at once as if it had been planned.

She wanted to step back, but Reytheyra, forced her body to straighten. Back straight, chin jutting forward. Just as she had been taught. Do not let yourself be dominated. Do not give him the satisfaction. So she watched as he lazily lifted the knife and sliced the rope in a single motion. The fibers fell. The rope looked good.

Shadowheart took the rope, threaded it through the eye and, before she let the two ends down, tied a thick knot in each of them. She made sure there was no slack. She pulled the rope. Once. Twice. Nothing budged; the rope did not creak.

Oh, that’s clever. Safe.

Astarion shouldered past Shadowheart. He looped the rope over his shoulder and under his thigh. Tav watched his movements closely, knowing she would have to reproduce them later. He clenched his hands on the rope. He did not look like an amateur. And when he set his feet on the edge, there was not a trace of fear in him.

And then the rope creaked and Astarion disappeared over the edge. Tav felt her heart speed up. She walked to the edge. Astarion was already down. He flashed her a wolfish smile and began forcing his way over the wet rocks.

Tav wrapped the rope the way Astarion had. Shadowheart helped her.

"Thanks," she muttered to the half-elf, and the latter nodded.

All right. No turning back.

The rope tightened under her weight. A stone slid from under her foot and with a cry she slid half a meter down. Fuck! She heard Astarion’s laughter, which somehow broke through the sound of her fast-beating heart.

Shit, shit, shit.

Hold your breath. I’ll guide your hands and legs.

Tav nodded. She focused on the cliff rock. Cold and slippery, in places overgrown with local lichen. She heard the waves breaking below. There was not much left now. The ocean fog was becoming clearer. It reminded her of yesterday morning. Morning? Noon? Hard to count, time ran strangely on this planet.

Descent. Weight on the heels and steps on the wall. One. Two. Three.

The mist brushed her cheek, and when Tav took a deep breath, she regretted it. She grimaced. The pain behind her eye sockets intensified, a hum appeared in her head. The wind hit the wall. The rope tightened sharply and there was silence.

A moment to steady her breath and a quick descent.

Her feet landed on a slippery rock. She freed herself from the rope and looked around.

She saw the remains of a wooden jetty right by the entrance to a small grotto. Traces of the settlers’ life.

A second thought quickly appeared in her head: Or the remains of the Guild’s operations. This is not ordinary wood. Look at the protective coating. This is some hybrid construction.

Astarion was waiting for her, leaning against one of the rocks. He pushed off it lightly. He spoke. Another jeer. Tav placed her steps carefully.

How is it that he moves so nimbly?

She pressed her lips together, grabbing the sharp basalt so as not to slide. Astarion looked at her and with exaggerated courtesy reached a hand out to her. Tav pretended not to see it and hopped to the next rock, almost losing her balance. She heard Astarion’s quiet snort.

The mean son of a bitch hunts for other people’s reactions. Thought Tav... Reytheyra? It was getting harder and harder to tell the voices apart.

Don’t philosophize, go.

She stopped near the container. Luckily for them, it was wedged in the rubble. It would have been enough for it to have landed a few kilometers farther, on the other side of the bay, and they could have said goodbye to the loot.

Don’t rejoice yet.

Tav turned.

Shadowheart joined them. As soon as she was within their hearing, she turned to Tav at once.

"Gale," she began and took a breath. Her face hardened. Of course, Shadowheart felt the influence of the mists, too. Then her face took on a look of concentration. "Three attempts. Lockout." She pointed to the container. "Lady… Key…? First?" She broke off, trying to remember what she was supposed to say. She gave up.

But Tav understood anyway. Although she did not understand why, according to Gale, she was to try to open the container first.

Astarion listened with amusement. His eyes were attentive. He did not like that he did not understand what Shadowheart had said. But he did not comment.

Your first weakness, Astarion. You do not like being excluded, but you will not lower yourself to asking. How predictable.

Tav stepped closer. The plating was clearly dented, but the emergency panel was working. It blinked with a faint red light. Astarion tapped a finger on the metal. The sound was flat, which meant the plating was thick.

The panel required a code.

I don’t know the code. She thought.

Somewhere in the distance, on the other side of the bay, some animal moaned gloomily. The ocean took and carried that sound farther and farther, making her hair stand on end. The air held the smell of stewed seaweed.

"Tav?" Shadowheart said in an unnecessarily sonorous voice; or it only seemed to Tav that it sounded like a roar. "Key? First. Tav."

Suddenly something changed. Her hands were already working. She tried to pry the panel with her nails. Nothing.

She shifted a questioning look to Astarion. She wanted his knife. The man, in a smooth tone and yet so tart that everything in her twisted, handed her his knife. And she was not sure whether she more wanted to stick it in his eye or to make use of his exceptional courtesy.

The panel answered with a hiss when she pried it up. Underneath there was a hidden switch. An emergency lever, easy to bypass. The diode blinked several times with the same aggressive red light. And suddenly the color changed to green.

A wave surged into the rock pocket, splashing water over them. Tav choked, feeling salt on her lips, vinegar in her mouth and in her eyes.

Astarion was already pulling a package from the compartment. When she looked at him again, he was already at the rope, tying the loot.

"Tav. Key. Three attempts. Lockout."

I did open it, what is it you want? She felt like snarling. Her eyes were burning. Foam shot from the sea, spitting strange little spiny creatures at her feet. She kicked them with her boot.

"Tav." Shadowheart’s voice became more tense. The woman was pointing to the second panel. This one was hidden in the compartment.

Tav stepped inside and grimaced. She was wading in icy water. She tried to find a way to pry the second panel, but nothing. A flat screen blinked rhythmically, with no physical buttons.

How am I supposed to open this?

She pressed her hand on it. The screen flickered. A whole string of characters appeared, characters she could read.

My language again. She did not understand everything, some things were written in technical jargon or cipher, but she understood the section:

User verification.

She chose the option.

Enter the verification sequence.

She selected the appropriate glyphs. The body knew.

Next section. Enter the code. She did not know the code.

The water reached halfway up her calves. The ocean was starting to wake. She should hurry.

She tried another combination.

Biometric scan. She pressed her hand again. She felt a slight vibration strike her body. The panel displayed another message.

Access level: guest. Status: recorded in the family registry.

Family.

The blood drained from her face. She should move. Get out of here. But she could not. She stood as if struck. A sequence of images cut across her mind with such sharpness that she was not sure what was truth, what was fiction.

Metal flashed. Her hand... Not hers. Someone else’s hand. Or hers? The hand lifted up. Hands landed on her body in a firm, painful grip. Someone was correcting her posture. And that same someone said: open your chest, lift your chin. Mental force flows through the body like a river, do not block its current.

She tried to turn. But there was only resistance.

"Tav!"

Moves did not want to come.

Neither from her, nor from Reytheyra. A stalemate. A fucking stalemate.

She took a step back and the cold water wrapped her calves. But her head was bending lower and lower over the panel. Her eyes were jumping over the words again and again.

Access level: guest.

Status: recorded in the family registry.

Black Hour Protocol: restricted.

"Tav."

Shadowheart’s hand landed on her shoulder. Fingers clenched painfully.

"Tav!" And then some words she did not understand.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The instructor’s hand rested on her shoulder blade. But something was wrong... The water and the roar of the ocean. And that smell. Not the alcohol covering the filth in the training halls, but cloves...

"Move!"

Fingers dug in harder. Her shoulder throbbed with pain. She wanted to take that pain, sink into it, because at least it was real, but at the same time she heard the clink of metal, feet moving on a cold floor.

And suddenly another yank. It was sharper. She hissed with pain, and her head filled with a snappish voice, irritated and indifferent at once. It did not match the tone of any of her teachers. It…

Astarion shook her hard. His hand was too cool. As cold as that water. Had he been swimming? She looked at him. His curls were slightly drooped, but his clothes mostly dry. He said something and yanked her sharply.

Something pricked her leg. She wanted to check it. She could smell the stench of blood. Her legs were slipping over wet rocks clotted with foam. Astarion grabbed her other arm and shoved her forward.

The waves crashed against the rocks behind them, and droplets of water fell on them.

Shit. And what about the package from the second compartment? Did someone take it? What was in there?

She stopped. Astarion growled. It must have been a curse. He slid his hands to her shoulders. He shoved her toward the rock so that her knees struck painfully against the sharp edge. She flinched. Another wave came, this time covering her entirely.

Choking and spitting water, she pushed wet strands from her face. Were they the color of amber or a light brown? Wet gold? Oh, fuck! How pathetic she must have been, that she did not even remember the color of her hair.

She laughed, spitting water. The next wave drove into the rock pocket, up to her waist.

Someone was shouting from above. She looked up there. Gale and Shadowheart were at the top. Gale was screaming something desperately, but the words vanished in the roar. She could not even hear Astarion.

But she did feel his cold hands shifting her to the side, toward the rope. And then he wrapped the rope tight around her waist. Brutally, as if she were a sack of meat.

In a way I am. She felt herself laughing again.

"TAV!" That was someone screaming from above. A woman. Not the one from her memories, but... Shadowheart.

Astarion shouted something, yanked the rope, and then Tav felt the rope go taut sharply. She spun, hitting her shoulder against the rock.

Cooperate. They are trying to help you.

Another violent motion of the rope came from above. And another. Tav’s legs began to push off the rocks, her hands working.

With the next pull she felt her nails scraping on the rocks. Everyone was shouting. They were urging her on. At last she picked up a rhythm, helping them haul her up.

Jerk after jerk and finally a strong pull. That was Gale. With bloodied hands he grabbed her under the armpits, and Shadowheart helped free her from the rope. From the rope that immediately afterward shot downward.

Oh shit, Astarion was still down there. Would he make it in time?

She wanted to move, be of some use, help… Balance the debt, but Gale held her tight. He was saying something. Maybe even in her language, yet in her ears she heard only the roar of the waves and the clank of steel. The echo of the training hall mixed with the scream of the sea.

A moment later Astarion came up over the edge.

He was dripping water, his hair stuck to his face. He did not look happy, but even now he moved lightly, not like someone who had just climbed a damn slippery wall, fighting the force of the ocean.

Looking at him, Tav felt a sharp stab she did not want to feel.

Astarion had survived. And she owed her life to his help. That awareness weighed more than his death. She shivered.

The politics of her world had always been a sum of balances: who owes whom what, over whom the payment hangs. She snorted softly and sniffed. Even now, dripping with that stinking water, feeling the breath of death in the background, what terrified her most was that the mechanism of her world was still alive. She had not torn herself free of it. No, on the contrary. She had fallen right into it, like an insect into a spider’s web.

Debts, dependencies, arrangements... Welcome back to a world where survival is a web of obligations. There is no way out.

She looked at Astarion. Something dangerous lurked in his eyes. She looked away.