you are both cain and abel - edelgarfield (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Art Cullagh climbs shakily to his feet as you and Halsin enter the den. Despite his own haggard state, Halsin rushes forward to ease him back down. Art nearly collapses back on the bed without much resistance, his breaths still heavy and draining.

“Please, please, be still,” Halsin soothes, his voice a warm balm against the shadows outside. “You’ve just woken from a long period of stasis. Regaining your strength will take time.”

Art nods, sweat beading on his brow already from just the effort of standing. The hearth within the den is warm like all of Last Light. You’re unsure whether it’s a spell or a side effect of the Moonmaiden’s protection, but the barrier keeps out the autumn chill. Within this Haven lies an eternal spring. The window farthest from Art’s bedside hangs open, letting fresh air carrying the scent of wildflowers sweep through the room. Fist J’ehlar leans over to hand Art Cullagh an old cloth to dab his brow. He takes it gratefully, but his pleading, desperate eyes never leave Halsin, as the bear of a man kneels at Art’s bedside.

“Yes, of course,” he pants. “But what of Thaniel?” His eyes dart to you, searching for answers.

You hang back a few paces, soil and still-fresh blood caked beneath your nails. The fight to defend the portal was hardwon—you, Gale, Shadowheart, and Karlach held the line against a neverending tide of shadows, in the hopes that Halsin would return. When he burst through the portal, a young boy in his arms, so great was your relief that you nearly lost your grasp on the Weave. You clung to it, barely, and slayed the last of the oncoming shadows. Now, in the aftermath, your allies took their well-earned rest, and Halsin sought answers.

Halsin offers Art a weary smile tinged with melancholy. “We’ve retrieved him from the Shadowfell. He is safe, for now.”

Art falls limp against the headboard, a tidal wave of relief crowding out what little strength he’s managed to hold onto. He closes his eyes and says a quiet prayer under his breath, before meeting Halsin’s eyes once more, unshed tears shining in the light.

“Bless you,” he gasps. “Thaniel knew you would come. You’re every bit the man he said you were.”

A flicker of guilt passes through Halsin’s eyes, there and gone in between one breath and the next, before his steadfast compassion overshadows it. “If you are to bless anyone, then bless my allies.” Halsin turns to regard you with gratitude warm as the hearth. “It was their aid that allowed me to complete a trial that has bested me for nigh on a century.”

You shake your head, arms folded tightly across your chest. “I didn’t do anything special. I’m just really good at chucking fireballs.”

The wrinkles around Halsin’s eyes deepen with his joy. “Don’t discount yourself, friend. Without those fireballs, Thaniel and I may have been lost to the Shadowfell.”

You smile wryly. “Be sure to remember that when you get caught in the blast radius.”

Halsin’s answering chuckle rumbles through your bones like thunder gently rolling across the sky. “It will hardly be the first time I’ve been used as accidental target practice by a young mage.” His smile fades into grim determination as he turns back to Art Cullagh. “But we have more pressing matters at hand.”

Shadows quickly crowd out the breathless joy on Art Cullagh’s face, just as they smother any trace of light in these cursed lands. The room grows colder as the warmth of a dawning victory plummets into bone-deep weariness. Of course nothing would be so easy. With every battle won, another hangs low over the horizon. Every victory you’ve snatched from the jaws of oblivion is tainted by loss—the ache of a past you can never reclaim. Art Cullagh wakes from a century of slumber to a world he doesn’t belong in. Halsin pulls a boy out of the Shadowfell, only to find him torn asunder. You dig your heels in against the Urge devouring you from the inside out and are rewarded with—

“By the Moonmaiden’s light, you really are awake.”

You freeze. Every muscle pulls taut. Your hair stands on end. And your blood—your blood—it burns like never before.

“I could scarcely believe my ears when I heard the news.” Isobel’s footsteps thunder through the floorboards and into your bones as she strides ever closer. “It seems there’s no shortage of miracles to be had these days.”

Her presence at your back calls to you, a siren song on the horizon. The tide swells around you, shallow waters turn impossibly deep, until the ocean floor falls away beneath your feet. When the moon carries away the tide, an undertow drags you out to sea.

The Urge pours into your mouth, down your throat, and fills your lungs until they overflow, until seawater collects in your open mouth. Brackish spittle drips from your chin, its path searing your skin. You frantically wipe the venom from your mouth and keep your eyes firmly fixed on the window, unmoving. You drown on dry land, choking on your own festering blood.

“Aye, a miracle one hundred years in the making, at that,” Halsin answers, standing up to his full height.

He cuts an imposing figure at Art’s bedside, still bruised and bloodied from battle. Inky black shadows stick between his fingers, bright red drops of blood trailing from a shallow cut on his cheek. Instead of peat moss and petrichor, the smell of ozone enshrouds him. He towers over the stricken man but even still, embodies the warmth of the hearth. He wears the mantle of a proud soldier returning from the battlefield, head held high.

But even as his shadow cuts through the moonlight falling across your face, you barely notice his presence at all. Isobel consumes your every thought—the way you want to consume her whole. She hesitates behind you.

Your fingers twitch uncontrollably at the ends of your arms, drifting ever so slowly to the rapier on your hip. Oh, if only you’d saved a spell slot for this, you would need only whirl around and Hold her in place and she’d be all yours yours yours. But the battle drained you, the Weave sputters and frays between your skilled hands. How wonderful it would be to shove a Firebolt in her open mouth and smell her flesh as it burned, how delicious her cooked meat would be—sweet like honey melting on your tongue.

No matter, you’ll make do with your blade as you have hundreds of times before. You would need only pierce her heart in one strike then the barrier would collapse. The whole of Last Light would fall and all the miserable little souls you saved would be ground into the dirt where they belong. You worked so, so hard to earn their trust, didn’t you? They were so afraid of the blood in your eyes and the spiderwebs between your fingers, but you saved them from the goblins and they opened their hearts to trust. That loyalty has fermented over the past month since you saved their sorry hides. What a fine vintage it would make now when you cracked open their ribs. It would sate the Urge so, so well and you are starving.

“I’ve heard of you,” Isobel says behind you with barely contained awe. “You’re the Archdruid Halsin.”

She takes another step, so so so close that you wouldn’t even have to move to snap that pretty neck of hers. Oh, how glorious it would sound, how beautiful the horror dawning on Halsin’s face would be when he realized his efforts were for naught, that would doom him and his charge forever and ever and ever. Ketheric wanted her alive—how better to punish an undying man than to kill that which he covets? She may be blessed by the Moonmaiden, but everyone is the same when you break off their ribs and dig through their meat. At the end of the day, the divine and the damned bleed the same.

Halsin shifts almost bashfully beneath Isobel’s gaze. “Ah, not an Archdruid, anymore. I’ve renounced that title so I can put to right the mistakes of the past.”

Isobel’s answering smile is sweet and ripe, you could carve it from her face and keep it with you forevermore. “You’re every bit as noble as the stories say.”

Her voice echoes through the holes carved into your brain, the big, hollow, empty space inside where your memories and your self were excised. She is so, so close. You can feel her warm breath tickling the back of your neck (or is that just your imagination?). How easy it will be to slip your fingers between her teeth and scratch your nails along the roof of her mouth. You’ll lovingly caress her fleshy soft palate, then pierce it through to the tender meat of her brain. If only you could crawl inside her mouth, then. Cranial fluid would drip, drip, drip from the open wound onto your tongue, and you’ll taste the Sea of Swords in the brine. You’ll turn her face so that the last thing she sees is her beloved sanctuary consumed by shadows, then lick the tears from her unseeing eyes.

“You and Jaheira, working together to stop Ketheric Thorm,” Isobel muses idly. The corner of her mouth pulls up in a wistful grin. “Fate is certainly a bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

That earns a chuckle from Halsin. “That it is.”

Aren’t you tired of this struggle? Of the burning and the pain and the hunger and emptiness? Don’t you want to be whole again? What does one death matter after all you’ve slaughtered? A dozen lost souls is but a drop compared to the bottomless sea of blood you’ve spilled. One quick cut across her neck and it could all be over. Your mind would quiet and you could finally, finally rest.

The first buds of a nascent hope blossom in Halsin’s bright hazel eyes as he looks to you with a smile. “But I have faith this story will have a better ending.”

You need to leave.

“I’m getting a drink,” you say abruptly, nearly cutting off the end of Halsin’s sentence.

You pivot on your heel, keeping your face turned deliberately away to avoid catching sight of Isobel. The march to the door is stilted and jarring; with every step your feet grow heavier, the undertow stronger. Crossing the few feet to the door is the most difficult journey you’ve ever had to make as your lungs gasp for succor you refuse to grant. Every step hurts.

As soon as you exit and turn the corner, you brace yourself against the wall, panting. Cold sweat beads on your brow, and feverish chills wrack through you. The immediacy of the Urge abates, but not the intensity. Everything still aches. There’s no way to forget that only a paper thin wall separates you and relief from this waking nightmare.

After a moment, you force the shattered pieces of yourself back together and continue towards the bar.

“Give me the strongest drink you have,” you call out as you climb onto a rickety bar stool.

Ide and Umi look up when they hear you approach, an even mix of excitement and intimidation fluttering through their eyes. Ide nods fervently and kneels down to grab a bottle of Chultan Fireswill from below the bar. You hold out a gold piece between your fingers as you grab the neck of the bottle. Focusing on the coin distracts you from the nagging desire to grasp her wrist and break it.

Ide quickly snatches the gold as she passes you the bottle. The shine off the coin sparkles in her eyes. She bites into it the way she’s seen other merchants do, but doesn’t quite know what she’s looking for.

You salute both of your child bartenders with two fingers. “Cheers.”

You toss the bottle back with vigor. The tender flesh lining your throat burns as the bitter liquor goes down. The pain crowds out the Urge, so you keep drinking. Even as liquid spills from your mouth and your eyes water, you swallow mouthful after mouthful of cheap spirits, until your need for air forces you to stop.

You gasp and set the bottle on the counter with a heavy thud. Already, the room begins to spin and blur in front of your eyes. A glance at the bottle in your hand shows it to be half-empty. You’d be impressed with yourself if you had the capacity for it. But at the moment, your only focus is incapacitating yourself enough that your body can’t act on the Urge. Alcohol forcefully sands down the sharp points of the Urge piercing your skin. The broken shards are rounded out, softened into harmless seaglass.

Someone scoffs beside you. “Go drown your sorrows somewhere else, will you?” A familiar voice sneers. “Some of us have had enough of you heroes.”

You ever so slowly turn to face a familiar red tiefling. The young man slumps over the bar, nursing a bottle of Arabellan Dry in the crook of his arm. Wrinkles crease the fabric of his robe, and dirt stains the sleeves. Clearly, the man hasn’t changed in some time and his clothes are in need of a good wash. He meets your unfocused gaze with bloodshot eyes, glowering at you venomously. Even if you didn’t recognize him, you’d recognize the wave of annoyance his face conjures.

“Do I know you?” you ask flatly.

The flames in Rolan’s eyes surge with anger and bitterness. “Oh, I suppose you go around telling everyone how to live their lives?” he snaps.

You smirk to yourself and look away from Rolan’s heated glare, a sick pleasure welling up inside you at finally receiving the anger you deserve. “No, only wizards who think it’s impressive they can cast a first level spell.”

Rolan literally growls at you, hellfire licking at the backs of his bared teeth. “My ‘first level spells’ saved these orphans while Cal and Lia were dragged away screaming.” He gestures towards the children behind the bar, who respond by sticking their tongues out at him.

You raise an eyebrow, eyeing him with thinly veiled amusem*nt that makes his blood boil. “Well, if you didn’t want to hear them scream, you should have cast Silence on them.”

Rolan splutters in fury, blindsided by your callousness. “Is that a joke? I was there protecting these brats while you showed up too late to do anything!” he hisses through razor sharp teeth. “Some hero you turned out to be.”

You interrupt him with a bark of bitter laughter. You never claimed to be a hero, nor did you ever ask for the title. All you did was bathe yourself in goblin blood to quiet your restless mind. When you returned, the tieflings haled you a hero even as viscera crusted beneath your nails. Concepts like heroism, loyalty, devotion, even, simply mean you’ve pointed your blade in the right direction.

Rolan scowls at you. “What?” he snaps.

“I didn’t kill those goblins to save your sorry hides. I just wanted to spill some blood.” The drink has cracked the dam that holds back your wicked thoughts—they trickle through and spill from your tongue easily. “You lot are the ones that called me a hero for being a murderer.”

Rolan’s upper lip curls back in clear disgust, though it’s not too dissimilar from his usual expression of disdain. “Then why would you convince Lia to do something you had no interest in?” he asks airily, thinking that he’s called your bluff.

You chuckle lowly to yourself and turn slowly to face him. His clear vitriol is met with flat affect. The bottle of spirits hangs loosely in one hand while the other props up your chin so that you can observe Rolan.

“That’s easy.”

You walked into the Grove on your second day alive and immediately passed by three siblings arguing about whether they should stay or leave. It hardly mattered to you. As far as you were concerned, the tieflings were a lost cause. But as you marched down the path, cutting a direct route to the healer, Nettie, a haughty, arrogant, insufferable voice caught your ear. You had the sudden strong desire to gut the person responsible. You turned on your heel and found the source—the second-rate wizard. Typical.

You couldn’t eviscerate him in broad daylight, especially with the merchant standing right there. So instead you did the pettiest, most annoying thing you could think of.

Your mouth twists in a wry smirk. “I knew it would piss you off.”

Rolan slams his drink on the bar, his hands shaking with barely contained rage. Your thinly veiled disdain only makes his fury burn brighter. Lia thought the world of you, no matter how much he told her those ideals were going to get her killed. As always, it seems Rolan was right, but this time he takes no pleasure in the victory.

“Damn you! We wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for you! Cal and Lia were taken in by your crap—”

“I’m not responsible for your siblings!” Glass shatters within your palm. You squeezed your bottle too tightly, until it cracked and broke. Blood now spills out from between the fingers of your clenched fist.

White-hot fury blinds you. Hellfire sears through your veins and spills through the gashes in your palm. Blood and ash stick between your fingers, droplets sizzling as they hit the ground. The entirety of the world reduces to this one, bright moment of divine fury. Nothing exists beyond your narrowed vision, only Rolan’s face as it twists in grief tainted rage. You don’t care for his sorrow, only his misplaced fury—directing his anger at you when he’s the one to blame.

The only thing that keeps you from lunging for the wizard’s throat is the fact that you nearly fall off your stool when you lean forward. The alcohol is doing its job in stopping the Urge, leaving you to stare daggers into Rolan’s skin and hope that alone will carve into his face.

A caustic burst of laughter leaves Rolan’s mouth. “They’re not my siblings,” he mutters, voice laced with a decade of bitterness. “So perhaps you should actually know what you’re talking about before handing out your worthless opinions.”

You narrow your eyes at him, tilting your head ever so slightly. That’s the first thing Rolan’s ever said that you actually found intriguing. From the first moment you laid eyes on the three of them, something deep within you saw Rolan and immediately thought “eldest sibling.’ You didn’t even know your own name, nor where in the world you were. You couldn’t even explain what exactly it was about Rolan that you immediately clocked as fraternal in nature. The whole of your past had been torn out of your chest—yet etched into the marrow of your bones, so deep that not even your butcher could carve it out, you know what an “eldest sibling” is.

You tilt your head back in the other direction, levelling Rolan with a flatly curious stare. “If they’re not your family, then why do you act like their older brother?”

Shame floods Rolan’s cheeks, his eyes glistening despite the firelight. “That doesn’t concern you,” he snaps.

You raise an eyebrow. The way his anger suddenly cowers behind his eyes suggests that you clearly hit a nerve. “Hm. Regardless, it was your job to protect them, not mine. You’re the one that failed them, not me.” You don’t need him to say his secrets aloud. If he won’t divulge them willingly, you need only rip them out of his brain through the optic nerve.

“You weren’t there,” Rolan hisses, holding onto his anger even as tears collect on his lashes. “I did everything I could.”

Your lip curls back over your teeth, disgust dripping from your canines. The empty space beneath your breastbone aches, a hollow pain throbbing where once it was full. The disdain you feel towards the tiefling wizard reflects off the bars of your ribcage and turns inward.

“And yet your ‘everything’ didn’t make a difference,” you growl. Your eyes trail over him, eyeing his unwashed hair, the stubble on his chin, the unmended tears in his robe that stain the fabric a dark ruddy brown. “What good is all that power if you can’t even protect what matters to you most?”

He grits his teeth, a single, furious tear finally falling down his cheek. “You think I haven’t asked myself that a thousand times? You think I don’t feel guilt over failing to keep them safe?”

You sneer at him, vicious and cruel as something shatters inside you. “Clearly not guilty enough,” you spit, ash falling from your lips. “Cal and Lia are rotting in Moonrise while you sit here feeling sorry for yourself.”

Rolan buries his face in his arms, slumping over the bar as his shoulders tremble against his overwhelming grief. “What else am I supposed to do?”

You scoff. “Figure it out.”

Rolan abruptly shoots to his feet, his stool toppling over with an echoing clatter. The sound draws the stares of everyone in the main room, Harpers and refugees alike eyeing their erstwhile saviors. An uneasy silence falls over the crowd as everyone waits to see what their two “saviors” will do next.

Funny that the two people credited with saving the refugees would be near incapable of finding common ground. Rolan glowers down his nose at you, brimstone scented puffs of smoke exiting his nose as he breathes. Obvious tears still hang on his lashes, threatening to fall. But instead of rising to the bait, Rolan pivots on his heel, liquor still in hand. He storms out the door towards the docks, his tail lashing erratically behind him.

Minutes pass. The silence breaks, and the low murmur of the overcrowded inn resumes, almost as if Rolan’s outburst never happened at all. Out of the corner of your eye, you eventually spot Halsin as he walks out of the den where Art Cullagh rests. At this distance, he’s little more than a blurry bear of an elf. You hold up a hand to signal him, and he catches your eye from across the room. He gives a quick nod and lumbers towards you.

As Halsin nears, you push off against the bar to stand. Your feet catch on the legs of the stool, sending you tumbling forward. Halsin catches you easily by the arm and uses his strength to steady you. His hands are warm against your flushed skin—without much thought you lean into the touch.

Halsin chuckles, the sound rumbling through the hollow of your chest. “Careful,” he warns. His eyes trace the deep indigo blush traveling down your neck. “I only took my eyes off you for a minute. Just how much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough.”

The bulging muscles in Halsin’s arms ripple beneath his skin. His extensors swell—it would be so easy to slide a scalpel along the bone and lift the meat from its cradle. It would feel so ripe and heavy, stretched between your hands like a fattened snake. You want to slice it apart, splitting the fibers until Halsin lies spread in a thin sheet across the bar.

You can barely string a coherent thought together and even still your mind won’t quiet. The only thing that stops you from digging your nails into the meat of Halsin’s arm is the fact that when you try, your hands close around empty air. Halsin mistakes your poor attempt at violence as an even more pathetic bid for attention and gently grasps one of your hands.

Halsin’s laugh rumbles through your chest like a summer storm. “Not to worry. I’ve made a wealth of misjudgments in my time.” He slowly begins to guide you away from the bar. “I can show you an herbal tea that will lessen the sting.”

That evening finds you put up on Halsin’s bedroll, an arm thrown over your eyes to block out the light. You slowly nurse a steaming mug of herbal tea beneath Halsin’s watchful eye. He fills a small iron pot from the well. The metal glows briefly between his palms as he chants the words for Heat Metal under his breath. Once the water boils, he pours it over a bed of fresh mugwort and balsam within a misshapen, earthen mug. When he presses the rough, unpolished clay into your hands, you idly wonder if he crafted it himself. He already smells of earthen soil—it’s not hard to imagine him scooping clay from the earth’s cradle, molding it between his skilled hands the way he molds torn flesh back together.

Thaniel sleeps peacefully beneath Halsin’s kind touch.

Do spirits of nature have dreams? Nightmares? What did Thaniel dream of during those hundred years of shadow? Did he pray to the gods for salvation? Did the gods answer?

Envy tightens its coils around your heart. How you would love to heal, to mend that which you’ve broken. But this corpse can only bring ruin. Your gaze sears into the boy beneath Halsin’s tender gaze. What would it take to kill a spirit? If you sliced into his belly, what would you find inside? It’s unfair that Halsin should get to fix his mistakes while yours cage you in. You want to rip this victory from Halsin’s hands, the same way your life was stolen from you.

Your limbs are too heavy to act on your depraved thoughts. Instead you just sip your tea and glower.

You’re not the only one lingering beneath the eaves of Halsin’s tent.

“So, how’s the little guy doin’?” Karlach coos, stooping down to get a good look at the camp’s newest addition.

The strange boy that Halsin carried out of the Shadowfell rests a few feet away from you, peacefully, and unnaturally still. Halsin kneels beside him, watching him unblinking for minutes at a time. Every so often, he leans over to brush a lock of hair from the boy’s face with a touch so feather light that morning dew would not even stir beneath it.

He spares Karlach a quick glance before his attention returns to Thaniel. “Worse than I’d hoped, but better than I’d feared.” A century’s worth of struggles flickers behind his eyes. He swiftly banishes the shadows and dons the mantle of a leader—it’s an expression you know well. “He is resting, now. I can only hope that his dreams are peaceful.”

Shadowheart stands firmly at Karlach’s side, looking down at the sleeping boy. Her face is warped by deep shadows, the furrow in her brow and the sharp edges of her frown black as pitch. She needed to come see the boy they saved—to see the creature they’d stood against the shadows for. He’s so small. So weak. Though she supposes anyone would look so next to Halsin. For all intents and purposes, Thaniel looks like a little boy—a strange one, perhaps, with the antlers, but still a boy. Shadowheart glances at the wound on the back of her hand, just as she has every few minutes since they rescued Thaniel from the Shadowfell. The anticipation is nearly worse than the actual punishment. Shadowheart simply wishes the pain would hit already. Then it would be over and she could continue the rest of the night in peace.

Karlach’s eye look between Halsin and his charge. “What’s wrong with him?”

Halsin lets out a long, weary breath. “A large part of him is missing.” You peek out from beneath the arm thrown over your face at that, watching Thaniel alongside the others. “I believe that the shadows rended him in two when they bore him away to the Shadowfell.” His face tightens, his brows pulled together in guilt. “Half of him remained here, left to be corrupted by darkness.”

You can’t help but feel for the boy—you’re missing a large part of yourself, too.

A spark of hope ignites in Karlach’s eyes. “Then we just need to find it, yeah?” Already, her tail whips back and forth, her hope giving way to anxious energy. “If we just put them back together, he’ll be good as new, right?”

Halsin smiles, warmed by Karlach’s bright spirit. “Perhaps not without scars. A hundred years apart is a very long time. But my hope is that he could be whole again, yes.”

Is the part of you that you’re missing out there somewhere, waiting for you to find it? If you did, would you want it back? If your memory returned, if you remembered why you did all the horrid things you’ve done, would you be the person you are now? Would you still care for your friends as deeply as you do?

“Is that a good idea?” you wonder aloud. “If the part of him that was left behind is corrupted, will the corruption not spread if you join them together?”

Halsin closes his eyes tightly and nods sharply. “That is certainly possible.” He opens his eyes and gazes down at his charge, hazel eyes warm despite the night’s chill. “But I must do all I can to make things right. As it stands, with so much of him missing, Thaniel will slumber for eternity.”

That jealous viper sinks its fangs into your rotten heart. What a kinder fate that would be, to just rest. If you could only close your eyes and slip peacefully away—no more Urge, no more visions of slaughter, no more Sceleritas. Just stillness—forever.

“Then, we’ll do what we can, right, Soldier?” Karlach asks expectantly, eyes wide and bright.

You could never refuse to help an ally—Karlach’s hopeful face only makes it even more impossible. “Of course. If there is a trace of Thaniel remaining amidst the shadows, I promise we’ll find him.”

A warm tide of relief washes over Halsin’s face. The smile he offers you holds all the radiance of sunlight filtered through autumn leaves. Isobel’s barrier keeps out the bitter wind, the tea in your belly is warm, as is the bedroll at your back, and Halsin’s smile falls over you like a warm summer breeze. Were it not for your unquiet mind, you could curl into Halsin’s furs and fall asleep.

Halsin reaches over to place a large, calloused hand on your shoulder. “This isn’t your burden alone. If you want me, I’m yours. Just say the word and I’ll follow you.”

“Finally,” you chuckle. “I’ve been dying to see a bear bite into one of Thorm’s cultists.”

Karlach barks out a laugh. “What, Fangs isn’t enough?”

“Can Astarion rip off a man’s arm with his teeth?” you ask.

Halsin’s chest rumbles with laughter. “You may be overestimating the strength of your average bear, but I’ll endeavor to meet your demands.”

Shadowheart’s eyes haven’t left the boy’s face this entire time. She knows he is much more than what he seems. But his face is young, his body small despite the power that Halsin claims he wields. Were it not for Halsin’s presence, she might mistake the boy for just another refugee—a strange one, perhaps, but stranger things have been found in the wilds. It’s a clever trick, to present a wolf beneath the guise of a lamb. Her order has used tactics much the same.

Yet her heart aches for the boy—even knowing the child is a façade. She should know better by now than to fall for the mask. She only just recovered from falling for yours.

“If we find this lost piece of Thaniel—the curse will be lifted?” Shadowheart asks.

Halsin eyes Shadowheart carefully, his normally warm and gentle eyes shuttering ever so slightly. Shadowheart has yet to reveal her identity to him as a worshipper of Shar. But he has finely tuned senses after a lifetime spent listening to the land beneath his feet, he’s caught enough fragments of conversation to put the pieces together.

Were he younger and more hot-blooded, he might have bared his fangs, howled his fury at being asked to work alongside a Sharran. Her order were the very same that had slain his Archdruid, along with so many of his peers, that corrupted the Oak Father’s gift, and tore away his friend and charge. He donned a heavy mantle that day and still carries it heavy on his shoulders. The dark flash of Shar’s holy symbol as Shadowheart tucks it beneath her shirt is a reminder of all he’s lost.

But he has lived a life far too long—known and lost far too many—to judge someone for a past he only knows in shades. Were he to cast suspicion on others so easily, the very same could apply to you. When he first saw you descend into the prison at the goblin camp, he assumed you were an ally of the Nightwarden, come to interrogate him further for the location of the Grove. A Lolth-Sworn drow, walking through the camp freely as goblins cowered at the sight? It wasn’t a leap in logic at all to assume the worst.

But you proved him wrong in aiding his escape, then the night of the party at your camp. He kept a watchful eye on you from his corner—on all of your companions, really. The githyanki, the vampire, the Sharran, the soldier, the Wizard of Waterdeep, and the Blade of Frontiers. A strange group, to be certain. In all his years as Archdruid, he’s never seen a group quite like yours—nor anyone quite like you.

When he saw you fight you were ruthless, efficient—harboring a familiar bloodthirst that spoke to the beast inside him. But at camp that night, you danced, you joked, you laughed. Three years in the Underdark and he never met anyone quite like you. Granted, after a point he didn’t meet anyone down in that cold, unforgiving dark, save for his hosts. But he’s met more than enough drow to last a lifetime, and of them all, you’re the only one that hasn’t made him fear for his safety. In fact, you did more than that—you shoulder his safety and his ambitions the way you have all the others.

You and your group had more than earned the benefit of the doubt. At every turn you’ve exceeded his expectations. Shadowheart, too, has more than earned herself his grace. But he is not ignorant to the precipice she stands on and the crisis of faith that plagues her. He doesn’t envy the position she finds herself in—it is never an easy thing to realize the person you’ve been may no longer align with the person you want to be. He wants nothing but the best for her.

But he knows to beware the desperation of one trying to prove their loyalty to a cruel master. Thaniel is his ward, and he will not fail a second time.

He speaks slowly, voice measured with wariness. “Yes. Thaniel is the very spirit of the Heartlands,” Halsin says, voice weighted by a hundred years of grief. “If he is made whole again, then so, too, will the land begin to heal.”

Shadowheart knew that. She had known from the very beginning that Halsin’s ultimate goal was to lift Lady Shar’s curse. He made no secret of the fact that he sought Thaniel in pursuit of that goal. Here he rests now, the first buds of newly sprouted lavender already beginning to blossom where he lay. Thanks in part to Shadowheart’s own efforts.

When Halsin directed your group follow him to the lakeside, Shadowheart went without question. Halsin opened the portal to the Shadowfell and bid you all stay behind to keep the path open. On your order, Shadowheart called down a bright orb of Daylight to cast out the darkness—Lady Shar’s darkness. She stood against the shadows and watched as a cloud of radiant light swirled around her to cleave through the shadows.

Why did she do that?

A phantom echo of pain spasms through her hand. Her breath seizes in her chest as she braces herself, preparing as much as she can for the agony she sees hanging low over the horizon. But it never comes. The axe swings high overhead, rocking back and forth in the bitter wind. Fear grips her heart in a chokehold, unable to let go while light reflects off the blade’s edge.

Thaniel slumbers on peacefully, oblivious to the sin Shadowheart’s committed just by allowing him here. Halsin cleaved through the planes to reach the boy, and now rests by his side. His eyes glow with the warmth of the hearth—a warmth he now directs towards the boy at his side. Halsin smooths the linens over Thaniel’s sleeping form, tucking the boy in to keep out the chill. It’s a level of care that Shadowheart can’t remember receiving.

Shadowheart’s face twists in a flash of bitter envy and she pivots on her heel. She stalks away as Karlach and Halsin look on, Halsin with eyes full of sympathy for the young cleric. Would that he could offer her guidance, but he has known enough misguided, aching souls to know when someone is ready to accept the help they need. Shadowheart still needs time. He will be here when she’s ready.

Karlach shakes out her limbs with excited energy. “I should get goin’, too.” She all but bounces on the balls of her feet. “There’s a bowl of Baldurian Mash with my name on it.” She thumbs over her shoulder towards the campfire, where little Arabella sits between Gale and Wyll, entertained by illusory fireworks.

Halsin nods his acknowledgment. “Far be it from me to keep you from a warm meal.”

Karlach dips her head towards you even though you’re not watching. “Do you want me to bring you both a plate?”

You catch the faintest whiff of caramelized onions and the savory-sweet smell twists your insides. “If that smell gets any stronger I’ll hurl,” you audibly groan, turning onto your side and curling around your stomach.

Halsin reaches over and moves the mug of tea closer to your nose, letting the neutral mugwort overpower the rich meal the rest of the camp is partaking of. “I’ll come by for a plate later,” Halsin says, gesturing for Karlach to take her leave. “Hopefully, when this one is well enough to join.”

Karlach chuckles to herself. “Man, I can’t believe you got completely sloshed and none of us were around to join in.”

You peek out one eye to look at her. “You still can,” you grumble. You gesture weakly at the floor of Halsin’s tent. “There’s plenty of space left for more bad decisions.”

Halsin physically puts the tea into your hands and levels you with a pointed look, brows raised expectantly. You curse under your breath before obediently taking another sip. Content that your mouth is occupied, Halsin turns to face Karlach. “I would ask that you and the others refrain from overindulgence. There will be plenty more nights better suited to celebration.”

“Fine, fine,” Karlach laughs, her voice fading as she heads towards the fire. “We’ll just have a normal, boring dinner.”

Her voice joins the distant murmur of conversation near the campfire. They’re too far away to make out the words, but the cadence is familiar, a soothing blanket that calls to mind all the warm nights you’ve spent around the fire. You catch the vibrance of Karlach’s boisterous laugh, the smooth, lyrical

There are hundreds of fleeting moments that shine across the expanse of your memory. Sharing a glass of wine with Shadowheart, channeling the Weave with Gale, sparring with Lae’zel. Trust and affection is the thread that ties each memory to the next, linking together all those sparkling stars to form the constellations that guide your path.

There’s nothing sweeter than the laughter of the people you care for—their happiness is yours. That’s why you’re here, laid out on the floor of Halsin’s tent, struggling not to vomit. You can’t hurt anyone, incapacitated as you are. Not Isobel, not your companions, not the allies you’ve made at Last Light Inn. As much as you yearn for your friends’ company, on nights like this it’s better to keep a safe distance. It’s enough just to listen from afar and know they’re happy without you.

All is still, save for the far-off murmur of familiar voices and Halsin’s own breath filling the space between you. Your watch him settle at Thaniel’s side once more, vigilant and unmoving. It calls to mind visions of a loyal guard dog, holding sentry over an infant’s cradle. And like that noble guardian, Halsin’s gaze holds all the devotion that a hound holds for their master—the kind of undying, eternal devotion you have for your friends.

You still remember keeping vigil at Astarion’s bedside as he slowly roused from eternal slumber. His head rested in the cradle of your lap, and you tenderly combed your fingers through curls matted by sweat and soil. You have yet to see him as peaceful in rest as he was then, his trance often broken and shallow. You kept vigil as he woke and hoped to guide his unconscious mind. If you held him gently enough, spoke softly enough, cared enough, then perhaps your touch would shine light on his happier memories.

Your restless nights have long been a shared affliction between the two of you, but they’ve been much rarer ever since that day. Meanwhile, your fitful nights only grow more frequent, more bloody. You’ve taken the burden of Astarion’s nightmares and shouldered them as your own. You stand guard over him while he rests—you watch him trance in grayscale and ignore the blood blooming scarlet from the deep gouges scratched into your wrists.

Potions and healing words wipe away the wounds before they can scar, but not even Halsin’s hands can heal what festers within your mind.

When you first heard of Halsin, Nettie introduced him as a healer. And he is, very much so. Every time you passed through Last Light Inn, you would find a new crowd of refugees around him, seeking aid for whatever minor ailments they’ve collected on the road. He would tend to even the most shallow and superficial wounds with a seemingly neverending well of patience and compassion. He is a masterful healer. But he is more than that, too; he is a gardener who nurtures injuries just as he nurtures the earth. He seeds the ground with his magic and coaxes new life to sprout from soil, and he coaxes the body into forming unblemished skin across its scars. He is a creator, builder, lifebringer. Everywhere he turns, hope sprouts anew. Nature is a cycle and beneath his skilled hands, the old becomes new again, ruin becomes a home, ashes catch fire and take to the sky.

You watch him carefully over your mug of herbal tea. The taste is grassy and strange, with a familiar lingering sweetness in the back of your throat. Honey. Halsin tends to Thaniel, the boy he cleaved through the planes to save—the miracle he spent a hundred years growing from barren lands.

“You care for him a great deal,” you say, breaking the silence.

Halsin responds without his eyes ever leaving Thaniel, as if worried the boy will dissolve into shadow if he dares to look away. “I do,” he says, unrestrained, voice brimming with unbridled affection.

You watch Thaniel in turn, the boy unmoving save for the slow rise and fall of his chest. Halsin loves so freely, so openly. Within the short span of your memory, you’ve found that to be a rare and precious thing. What a gift it would be, to be loved by someone like Halsin. Does Thaniel realize how lucky he is?

Halsin continues, smoothing one broad hand over the blanket covering Thaniel’s chest. “I wasn’t born in the Grove; I grew up north of here, in a small elven village tucked away beneath trees shrouded in mist.”

Halsin smiles to himself as he rolls the memory between his hands, its edges smoothed and polished by the ceaseless flow of time. He hasn’t held this memory in some time, duty and captivity having occupied nearly all of his mind these days. But if he closes his eyes, he can taste the minty-sweet waters of the River Shining on his tongue just as clearly as if he dove beneath the surface. It’s been centuries, but the memories still remain, untouched by time.

“This might seem strange to an elf from the city, but in a small village like mine, it’s not uncommon for children to grow up without any peers of similar age.” He speaks academically, despite the warmth to his voice, recounting his past the way one would read lines from a familiar storybook.

You shrug, resting back on Halsin’s bedroll. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t remember my childhood.”

Halsin nods without comment, eyes free of pity or surprise. “From what I remember of Menzoberranzan, perhaps that’s more of a blessing than you know.”

You pause, looking at Halsin curiously. “You’ve been to Menzoberranzan?”

Halsin nods. “Once.” A shadow passes over his face, there and gone in the space between one breath and the next. Were it not for the subtle downturn of his lips, you could convince yourself it was nothing more than a trick of the light. “But that is a story for another time.” He carefully guides the conversation back to familiar ground, the way he’s guided others out of the dark for a hundred years.

“My point was that I spent my early years chasing wisps of fog through the trees.” His smile warms, and his eyes soften, the shadows from before almost entirely gone. “Until one day I met a young boy in the forest—the first child I’d ever met of my own age.”

You follow his gaze to Thaniel’s sleeping face. “It was him?”

Halsin nods. “Nature was my very first friend.”

Halsin’s eyes grow somber, green fields of endless gravemarkers spreading out behind his eyes. “In the summer of my eighth year a plague swept across the Sword Coast. What family I didn’t lose to illness would run afoul of the Renshas in Delimbiyr Vale a few years later.” His smile aches with melancholy, bittersweet even as his voice remains warm. “The village had too many mouths to feed as it was and as the youngest I was least able to earn my keep. I was turned over to a circle of druids in the Glimmerwood.”

You rest your chin on your knees, watching as the warmth of his words fails to match the pain in his eyes. “That seems extraordinarily cruel. I’m surprised you’re not angry.”

Halsin’s laugh has an almost imperceptible edge of bitterness, overwhelmed by amusem*nt. “Oh, believe me, I was furious at the time. At a great many things—being sent away, losing my family, at the Archdruid for smelling like wet dog—”

That earns a laugh, and Halsin’s smile widens, having pulled it from your throat.

“—I was a child, going through a great deal of change. After a hundred years of leading the Grove I… understand what a burden it can be.” His eyes search Thaniel’s face for any sign of waking. “I’ve had to make a great many decisions I wish I hadn’t been asked to.

“But Thaniel was by my side through it all. He followed me from the Misty Forest, to the Glimmerwood, to the banks of the Chionthar.” Halsin smiles down at the boy with unbridled affection. “He came to me when I had no one else.”

Your vision swims, Halsin and Thaniel blurring together in front of your eyes. The knotted scar at the base of your skull throbs—a dull ache that spreads across the back of your head. You touch it gingerly, tracing the puckered and torn flesh. It’s a strange sensation. The nerves there are completely dead. You feel the texture of the skin beneath your fingertips, but not the pressure of your own hand against your neck. Someone carved out the meat beneath that scar and took whatever memories it held. The ache remains.

“I’m…I’m glad”—your lower lip trembles—“that you had him.”

If Halsin notices, he says nothing. “Over the years I grew, from a boy into a wild bear of a man, then my Archdruid’s second. But Thaniel hasn’t changed a day.” Halsin’s voice rings firm through the space of his tent, as firm as the bark that lines his bracers “I realized I had to be more than a companion to him and the land that sustains him. I had to be a protector.”

The thought comes to you and leaves your mouth in the same breath. “Like an older sibling.”

Halsin’s answering laugh rumbles through the earth. “I never had siblings so I can’t say for certain. I don’t know that I’ve been deserving of such a title.” Halsin’s face tightens, the lines in his forehead darkening as he furrows his brow. “I was to be his protector and I failed.”

Your hands curl into tight fists to stem their trembling.

“When shadows began to spill from Ketheric’s tomb, anyone caught in their path was pulled under.”

It may have been a century ago, but he’s revisited that moment thousands of times in reverie. He’s relived it over and over again, seen all the mistakes he made, all the ways he could have saved more, saved Thaniel. He knows well that lamenting over the knowledge he couldn’t possibly have had is a fool’s errand. Even now, he still hardly understands the Shadow Curse, and he knows it better than almost anyone still living. No one would have known what to do when they saw a tidal wave of shadow sweep across the land. Anyone that escaped with their life only did so with a bit of cunning and a great deal of luck.

But it’s impossible not to grieve the future that could have been, when he has seen just how close he came to holding it in his grasp.

“The battle was over. We let down our guard thinking we’d won. No one was prepared when shadows began to poison the very air we breathed.” Halsin rests a steady palm gently on Thaniel’s chest, feeling his chest expand and sink with every breath. “I wanted to stay and find Thaniel—make sure he was safe. But when the shadows claimed my Archdruid, it fell to me to lead the others to safety.” Halsin’s face remains carefully composed, unmoving like the Grandfather Tree that his family now slumbers beneath. “Leaving him was the first decision I made as Archdruid. And to date, one of the hardest.”

When you gaze at Thaniel, you feel a great many things. Victorious for being able to aid Halsin, when so many of your friends’ goals lie far beyond your reach. Bitter envy that Halsin has been able to claw something back from the shadows when day by day you lose a bit more of yourself. And—a bone-deep yearning for something far beyond your reach.

You lean over, still unsteady and uncoordinated in your drunkenness. But you still manage to lay a hand atop Halsin’s on Thaniel’s chest. “We will set this right,” you vow. “You’ll be with Thaniel again. I swear it.” No matter what it takes. If it takes another hundred years, you won’t rest until Halsin can lay down his burdens.

The smile Halsin gives you sparkles like sunlight dancing on the water’s surface—golden in its splendor. Of course an Archdruid of Halsin’s power would capture sunshine in his smile. Was it the brightness of his soul that allowed him to survive where others fell? Or is it the other way around—surrounded by so much shadow, Halsin chose to shine brightly in order to banish the darkness.

“You can’t possibly know what a gift you’ve given me.” He looks down at Thaniel, adoring and awed. “A hundred years I’ve waited to see my friend again.” When he meets your eyes again, his shine like sunlight glancing off the river’s flow. “No one can reverse the cycle of seasons. The years pass, heedless of the strife between us mortals. It’s a rare thing to be able to fix one’s past mistakes.”

You abruptly rise to your feet, stumbling over yourself as your head spins. “That Baldurian Mash sounds excellent right about now,” you say with far too much enthusiasm. “I’ll bring you back some.”

You take one shaky step out of the tent before Halsin opens his mouth in protest. “Please, sit, if—”

“No, no!” You wave him off, walking away faster, in a path that’s decidedly crooked. “Some fresh air will be good for me!” And if you keep watching Halsin gaze upon Thaniel like that, something inside you is going to break.

Halsin sits back with a bemused huff. “Alright. But you’ll be responsible for getting the weeds out of my fur if I have to fish you out of the river,” he jokes lightly. You’re far from the worst patient he’s ever had, and the path to the campfire lies in plain view.

You dismiss his concerns with a roll of your eyes. “That’s what Gale’s for.”

Back at her tent, Shadowheart sits on the ground outside, attacking her serving of Baldurian Mash with a spoon. A bitter scowl stains her face as she plays with her half-eaten food. After the day’s events, she should be eating her fill then asking for seconds. Defending the portal almost entirely sapped her strength, and she’ll need the energy if they’re to start scouring the Shadowlands in search of Thaniel’s missing half come morning. But the thought of eating another bite turns her stomach and the delighted giggles coming from the campfire as Karlach sets Arabella on her shoulders aren’t helping. If she had any spell slots left, she’d consider throwing up a bubble of Silence just so she could have some peace.

“Now, if you keep playing with your food, you’ll set a poor example for Arabella,” Wyll calls from a few paces away.

He affects a casual air, one hand on his hip as he stands in plain clothes, a jacket thrown over his shoulders. The Moon Barrier and the Moonlantern keep out the worst of the bonechilling wind, but the night air is still cool without the lingering effects of the sun. Shadowheart glances up at him with a scowl. Of course the hero of the group would appear when she was least willing to entertain his drivel. She curses herself once more for failing to keep a Silence spell on hand.

“Unfortunate, then, that I never signed up to be a babysitter,” Shadowheart snaps viciously, her tongue striking fast and hard in hopes of sending the Blade on his way.

If Shadowheart’s vitriol comes as a surprise, none of it shows on Wyll’s face. “What would be your suggestion, then?” He co*cks his head, shooting a glance towards the young tiefling where she grabs at an illusory butterfly. “Send her back out into the shadows?”

“Of course not,” Shadowheart grumbles. “But she should be with the other tieflings at the Inn. Not traipsing about cursed lands at our heels.”

Wyll holds back the remark about how that makes her far kinder than her goddess. “You saw her magic. It’s even wilder than our favorite sorcerer. The last thing the good folks at the Inn need is someone setting off a Wild Surge in the kitchens.”

“And how is that our problem?” Shadowheart snaps. “It’s not enough that we have to infiltrate the Cult, we have to fix everyone else’s problems? Cure the land of a curse it’s held for a hundred years?”

Wyll watches her, his face carefully blank. Shadowheart’s struggle is plain to see. Nearly every day, Shadowheart falls to her knees, clutching at her hand as pain lances through her body. No matter where you are, whether it’s Moonrise or the depths of the Shadowlands, you call for the group to rest and recover. You’ll tend to Shadowheart as best you can, but there’s no cure for the spasms in her fingers, nor the way her arm sometimes hangs limp at her side.

All of you watch helplessly as Shadowheart struggles through every agonizing step forward. Wyll sees the instances of doubt flickering across her eyes. He sees the devastation in her gaze as she looks out over the land ravaged by her goddess, the dawning horror as she read through Malus Thorm’s journals and walked through his “House of Healing,” the sorrow when she finds a child’s toy amidst the rubble. Shadowheart is not nearly so cold as she pretends, nor is she beyond saving.

But all of yours and Wyll’s usual tactics of persuasion fall flat when any attempt to show Shadowheart reason literally tortures her. If Shadowheart won’t believe on her own, Shar will force it by making the alternative unbearable.The last thing Wyll wants to do is cause Shadowheart pain, to force her mind into a corner that Shar has laid with traps. But he can’t imagine that leaving Shadowheart alone is much better. The wound on her hand isn’t the only suffering Shar has inflicted upon her.

“We’re stronger than the tiefling refugees, and many of the people at Last Light,” Wyll says evenly.

“That’s because the Harpers are terrible at training their own,” Shadowheart grumbles under her breath.

Wyll continues, choosing to ignore that comment. “We’re lucky enough to have power that they don’t. Why wouldn’t we use it to help those less fortunate?” he asks quietly.

His eyes find Arabella where she dangles upside down, Karlach holding her by the ankles. The girl squeals in delight as Karlach swings her around. It’s a simple thing. But Wyll has always sought to protect what laughter he can, to allow children their wonder and joy for as long as possible.

Shadowheart’s eyes burn with resentment and bitter tears as she watches the smile play across Wyll’s face. “None of us are lucky,” she hisses.

Wyll blinks and looks to her in mild surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“None of us are strong because we’re lucky.” Shadowheart gestures towards Astarion, Karlach, Wyll himself. “Pain and loss is what made us strong. We’re strong because we suffered.”

There are many things Wyll wants to say, questions he yearns to ask. Does Shadowheart truly believe a worthy goddess would raise her followers to suffer? Does she truly think pain is the only means to grow strong? But from what little he knows of Sharran doctrine, he thinks he knows her answer.

So instead he says: “We survived.”

Shadowheart blinks at him, brows drawn together. “What?”

Wyll speaks with conviction, the very same resolve that drew the devil’s eye and bid her to make him her own. “Suffering isn’t what made us strong.” Wyll holds a closed fist over his heart, in the Blade’s familiar salute. “But the fact that we survived through it to see better days.”

Shadowheart opens her mouth to argue, but a familiar, dramatic voice cuts her off.

“There you are, darling,” Astarion croons in the distance. “I was just about to go fetch you from that bear of ours.”

Wyll looks over his shoulder just in time to catch the snap of Astarion’s book as he tosses it aside. He lounges on his nest of pillows outside his tent, as he does every evening, waiting for your arrival. He sits up and catches your arm in his hand. Wyll can’t tell whether you proceed to fall or Astarion pulls you down, but either way you practically collapse onto his chest, earning a quiet oof from the vampire. But instead of puffing up his fur and hissing the way Wyll expects, Astarion only laughs and wraps his arms around your waist. He adjusts you so you’re sitting in his lap, your face tucked into the crook of his neck.

“You, my dear, are still very drunk,” he laughs, fangs peeking out from beneath his smile.

Genuine happiness is a wholly unfamiliar look on Astarion. Gone are the vapid flirtations and empty smiles that they all endured in the first month of your journey. Instead, the lecherous grin has softened, his smile stretching across the whole of his face. His laugh lines deepen and lift, his upper lip curling inwards instead of puckering in a sultry pout. His brows are soft, both in color as the kohl Astarion lines them with fades by evening, and in shape as they rise away from the hooded gaze he used to give.

You mumble something into his ear that Wyll can’t catch, but it earns a fond chuckle from Astarion. “Now that you mention it, I’ve never drained someone in wildshape before.”

You pull back to level him with eyes narrowed in suspicion. “That’s the second time you’ve joked about draining Halsin.”

Astarion clicks his tongue. “He just has so much blood; I can hear it, you know. Pumping through the big, beefy, tree trunk neck of his…” His eyes turn glassy for a moment, before he remembers himself and snaps back to attention. “Surely he wouldn’t mind sharing a taste with his favorite vampire?”

You rest your head on his shoulder, your body pressed against the length of his. You mumble something else under your breath that Wyll fails to catch. It earns another laugh from Astarion, and he adjusts his arm around your back to settle you against his chest.

You wear your happiness differently, but it’s plain to see when you know what to look for. Your entire body softens, the weight of the world sloughing off your shoulders. The ever-present static in the air around you ceases as the Weave falls still and silent, the raw magic in your veins momentarily at peace.

“Alright, I think it’s past time for you to bed down for the night.” Astarion reaches over with the hand that isn’t curled around your hip and grabs his discarded book. “Look pretty while I finish this chapter.”

You curl into his embrace, closing your eyes with a contented sigh. Astarion holds you to his body with one hand, the other flipping open his book. He hooks his chin over the top of your head, book held against the small of your back as he reads. Every few minutes he ducks his head to silently tuck his nose into your hair.

The people Wyll sees are wholly unrecognizable from the ones he met in the Grove all those months ago—the powder keg playing with fire and the suspicious shadow lurking in the corner. You and Astarion both watched the world through eyes veiled in blood. Astarion wore a mask of false smiles, carefully testing the waters, pushing boundaries, laying out verbal traps for others to fall into. He kept himself at a safe distance, both physically and emotionally, refusing to relinquish anything that wasn’t pried out of his mouth.

Similarly, you wore your own mask—a viper’s skin that struck out at anyone who ventured too close. You made no secret of your disdain, for the inhabitants of the Grove, for your traveling companions. Fury boiled within the marrow of your bones. All you needed was a spark to burn out like a star.

Neither of the people Wyll met that day could have held each other the way you do now. Back then, the only smile Astarion wore was the sultry grin he leveled at everyone in your group. Back then, the walls you built around yourself were so thick that no one could see anything but the venom dripping from your lips. But over the course of these long months, you exercised the happiness that had been left to atrophy. Every day, bit by bit, it grew stronger, steadier, until happiness and affection could support you well enough to tear down those walls. Every day, the falsehoods in Astarion’s grin faded away as he found something worth smiling for.

The viper shed its skin, and the shadow stepped into the light.

Wyll can’t help but smile, his heart warmed by the happiness his friends have found. He turns back to face Shadowheart and finds her similarly transfixed. Envy and bitter yearning streak through her eyes in quick succession, as she watches two of her dearest friends enjoy the very thing her vows keep her from seizing. The companionship and care she desires more than almost anything in the world. That which is anathema to followers of Shar.

Wyll smiles, soft as a summer breeze. “It’s a beautiful thing, to still be able to smile after so many years of sorrow,” he muses.

Shadowheart shakes her head, refusing to acknowledge the envy strangling her from the pit of her stomach “It won’t last,” she says bitterly. “Nothing does.”

It’s the tenet that all of Lady Shar’s teachings stem from, the core at the heart of her doctrine. The world came from nothing and to nothing it will one day return. Everything in between is a pretty distraction from this truth. First there was darkness, then Lathander created the sun. True peace can only be found when one stops searching for light and accepts the world for its shadows. Shadowheart knows this. Shadowheart etched the words of Lady Shar’s scripture into her bones so that when she forgot all else, her prayers would remain.

Astarion’s laughter skips on the breeze, light and joyful where it used to be warped and bitter. Acerbic envy pulses through Shadowheart’s veins to the rhythm of her trebmling heart as she watches you curl into Astarion’s embrace. He practically fawns as he holds you there, nuzzling into the top of your head with a goofy grin. It’s sickeningly domestic and juvenile.

“Perhaps,” Wyll concedes, watching you and Astarion with a gentle smile. “But are Night Orchids less beautiful because they wither come morn?”

A rift cleaves through the center of Shadowheart’s brain and a memory spills from the cracks. Metal cuffs chained a young acolyte to a low table, her arms stretched above her head. She was just approaching the cusp of adulthood, still growing into herself. Mother Superior stood facing a lit brazier, away from the girl. Around the table stood a circle of the girl’s peers—other acolytes of the Sharran cloister. Each of them wore a blank, white mask, present only to bear witness to their sister’s shame.

“I’ll ask again, and this time do not lie to me,” Mother Superior ordered, her voice carrying the bone-deep chill of a winter storm. “What would possess you to turn away from the Lady of Loss after she has sheltered you all these years?”

The girl struggled. The torn skin beneath her bindings wept and ached, pain spreading from her wrists to the tips of her spasming fingers. But even as every press of skin against the bloodstained metal made her hiss, she couldn’t still the instinct that bid her to keep fighting.

Tears tracked through the soot on her cheeks and she blinked away even more. “I… I told you. Egil and I wanted to elope.”

Mother Superior stepped away from the brazier, a red-hot brand of Shar’s holy symbol in her grasp. “That is what you’ve said.” The girl struggled harder, catching the scent of burning iron as Mother Superior neared. “But don’t ever forget—you learned the art of deception from me.”

The girl squeezed her eyes shut tight, preparing herself for the familiar sizzle of charred flesh. She bit the inside of her cheek and braced herself for a searing pain. But it never came. Instead Mother Superior laid a gentle hand on the girl’s belly, just below her navel. The girl gasped and her eyes flew open, squirming to get away from Mother Superior’s touch.

Mother Superior pressed down on the girl’s stomach, pinning her to the table with her own weight—forcing the girl to still. “Did you really think you could hide this from me? Your own Mother?” she scolded tenderly.

A tear fell from the corner of the girl’s eye. “How…”

“How did I know?” Mother Superior finished, a knowing smile peeking out from beneath her hood. “That boy of yours told me everything.”

The girl froze, her entire body going stiff. “What?” she gasped, breathless. “He… he wouldn’t!”

Mother Superior’s smile remained placid and unmoving as she gazed down at her charge. “But he did. A tenday ago he came to his senses and told me of your plan.”

The girl’s lip trembled. “You’re… you’re lying.”

“My child, what reason would I have to lie? It brings me no pride to know that were it not for a change of heart, two of my most treasured children would have left my flock,” Mother Superior said sternly. “No, Egil begged for Lady Shar’s forgiveness. But what is there to forgive of someone who has faced a trial and persevered?” Mother Superior sighed, disappointment viscous as it dripped from her mouth. “I had hoped that by giving you more time, you would come to your senses, as well.”

The girl trembled, the cuffs around her wrists rubbing the skin raw. “B—but… he promised,” the girl whimpered. “We were going to…”

Mother Superior’s upper lip curled back in disdain. “People often promise a great many things,” she said coldly. “You know better than to believe honeyed words.”

The girl glanced away from Mother Superior to the other bystanders, eyes darting from one pallid face to the next. The white mask obscured the faces of her peers—showing only blank, empty eyes, and unmoving mouths. Cloaked in dark, Sharran robes, she couldn’t even identify who was present. Mother Superior made sure that anyone with identifying features—tiefling horns or broad shoulders—was barred from entry. All her peers remained unmoving, unblinking, looking on passively as one of their own suffered.

“I just… I just wanted to protect—”

“The babe?” Mother Superior rubbed slow circles beneath the girl’s navel with her thumb. “You foolish girl. What do you have to offer a child?” The girl whimpered pathetically. “You have nothing save for what the Lady of Loss has granted you.”

Silent tears spilled from the girl’s eyes now, and she slumped bonelessly against the table.

“You would have stolen away from the goddess that took you in when no one else would, all to bring a child into this world destined to do nothing but suffer?” Mother Superior let out a heavy, disappointed sigh. “You are lucky that Our Lady is here to protect you from yourself.”

“Yes, Mother,” the girl whispered, her whole body trembling.

“The Lady of Loss will take this burden from you, and the memories along with it.” Mother Superior pat the girl’s stomach once before removing her hand. “This will all fade away.”

“Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother.” The girl spoke without any trace of emotion, closing her eyes in resignation.

Mother Superior nodded and without warning sank the hot brand into the girl’s left hip. Shadowheart remembered the sweet smell of cooked skin, the girl’s wails as she screamed. But the memory itself is hazy. She watched Mother Superior from face up on the table, but simultaneously she looked on from the circle of acolytes, peering through a bone-white mask. Shadowheart can’t remember which memory truly belongs to her. Was she one of the onlookers or the girl on the table? Is this one memory, or a series of flashes cobbled together? Did any of this truly happen at all?

When Shadowheart returns to the present, she finds her face streaked with tears. She knows well what happens to those who stray from Lady Shar’s embrace. Even if that particular punishment wasn’t her own, torture comes to her too easily for her to think herself spared. How many times was she forcefully broken until she fell back in line. Is that why Lady Shar branded her in particular? Because the rack hadn’t been enough? How many more times will Shadowheart need to be punished until she stops disobeying the only person that’s ever cared for her?

Friendship, affection, and love are only knives held against Shadowheart’s throat, distractions from her purpose, weaknesses to be burned away. Why does she want it even still? Why does she look upon the happiness you and Astarion share and feel jealousy instead of pity? She wipes futilely at her eyes, trying to stem their flow. But more only appear to take their place. Her shoulders shake, silent, as she hides her face in her hands.

Wyll stands back, sharing momentarily in Shadowheart’s grief. Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself onto the ground beside her. He makes no movement to touch her, nor does he venture any closer. He simply sits and bears witness to Shadowheart’s grief.

“Regardless of whatever the future brings,” he begins, voice low—a confession meant only for Shadowheart’s ears. “It has been an honor to know you, Shadowheart.”

A shuddering gasp leaves Shadowheart’s lips, the only sound she makes as she continues to cry. Blindly, she reaches over and grasps for something to hold. Wordlessly, Wyll catches her hand in his and holds it tight.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

“Ow, motherf*cker!” you hiss as Gerringothe Thorm explodes in a spray of gold coins.

You sink to your knees, clutching at Volo’s false eye inside your skull. Behind you, Karlach, Gale, and Astarion immediately go on alert, eyes scanning the dark shadows of the Tollhouse for your assailant. Halsin breaks from the group to kneel by your side, one broad hand curved around your shouder.

“What is it?” Urgency clips his normally gentle tone short. “Are you injured?” Already, the verdant glow of healing magic collects in his palm as he draws upon the thrum of life far beneath this forsaken land.

You shake your head. “f*cking gold piece nailed me in the eye,” you grumble, your hand falling to show the deep magenta bruise forming in the hollow of your eye.

Halsin’s magic instantly fades with a breath of soft laughter. The rest of your group slowly lowers their weapons, the tension easing out of their shoulders as they realize your would-be assassin already lie harmlessly at your feet. A cold breeze through the center of the Tollhouse carries away any remaining unease. Gale chuckles lowly, Karlach wipes the sweat from her brow with a lopsided grin, and Astarion rests one hand on a co*cked hip, dagger still grasped tightly in his fist.

“One gold coin is all it takes to get you on your knees?” Astarion clicks his tongue. “And here I thought, I was cheap.”

You scoop the coin up from between your feet and weakly chuck it at him over your shoulder. “Go open that safe, you arse.”

Naturally, he catches the gold with ease and slips it into his pocket. Halsin helps you to your feet with a hand on your elbow. The pain in your eye dulls to a warm throb and you allow your hands to fall back to your sides. You take a moment to survey the damage left in the golden husk’s weight. A pile of gold coins is all that’s left of the greedy asshole.

You unclip the coin pouch from your waist with a sigh. “Is there a single member of the Thorm family that wasn’t a complete freak?” you wonder aloud as you begin scooping gold by the handful into the bag.

“I don’t know, that bartender wasn’t so bad,” Karlach calls as she wanders towards the rotting south wall. “Just wanted a good story and a drink!”

A fallen Grim Visage lies on the ground next to some gnarled roots stretching up through the broken ceiling. Its tongue lolls uselessly out of its mouth, unmoving. Karlach bends down to pick up the creature and holds it up against the pale moonlight streaming in through the cracks in the roof. She curls back her lips and sticks out her tongue, mimicking the skull’s empty expression.

“He was certainly more pleasant dead than he was alive,” Astarion huffs, already stooping over to unlock the large safe nearby.

With nothing better to do, Gale tries the nearby door to the toll-master’s office. “Are you still holding a grudge because you got thrown out?” He frowns when the handle refuses to budge—locked tight.

Astarion’s ears tip downward in a clear display of annoyance. “I was perfectly within my rights—”

“Not only has it been over a hundred years,” Gale continues. “But the man is dead. Twice over!”

You call Gale’s name and toss him a key you found buried within the pile of gold that used to be her body. Gale nods his appreciation and unlocks the door with a click.

“And good riddance, I say!” Astarion says haughtily. “The man was a terrible entrepreneur and ugly to boot.”

You watch Astarion’s hands move with mild interest, his long fingers working carefully at the lock without ever breaking conversation. Where even Gale, former Chosen of Mystra, needs complete focus when channeling a complicated spell, Astarion’s hands move almost of their own accord, while he continues talking in that theatrical way of his. Which part is instinctive, you wonder? The lockpicking or moving his mouth? Either way, the man’s dedication to pettiness is truly inspiring.

You throw out the verbal equivalent of a Fireball, just to see his composure break. “Well, Starlight”—snap—“that’s what happens when you call someone a pig.”

Astarion glares at the broken pick in his hand and pointedly refuses to make eye contact with you. He tosses the tool on the ground and he grabs another from his belt, crowding in closer to the safe to hide the heat on his face. It’s difficult to tell in the low light, but you think you might catch the beginnings of a healthy flush on the tips of his ears, crowding out their usual deathly pallor. Your face remains unmoving even as moonlight shines on the giddiness in your eyes.

“You all saw the man!” he continues, once he has another pick in hand. “Was I not correct in my assessment?” He carefully returns to his task, carefully raking his pick over each of the pins.

Gale stands in the doorway of the toll-master’s office, watching this bizarre courtship ritual play out with bemused fondness. Everyone else in your group has had to listen to Astarion’s brazen flirting since the beginning. You clearly enjoyed the attention, or at least found it amusing because you haven’t shut it down, even fired back on more than one occasion. But this is the first time in his memory that you’ve made the first shot.

Halsin, too, watches with perplexed amusem*nt. He was only with your group a couple tendays before taking up vigil at Last Light, most of that spent in the bowels of the Underdark. You and Astarion were close even then, but the overt displays of adoration are something that’s only ramped up recently. Karlach meets Gale’s eyes with similar long-suffering mirth. She mimes gagging on her fingers with a bright smile. Halsin shakes his head and turns to approach the open archway leading outside. He gazes out over the Shadowlands and Moonrise Towers across the bridge.

“Astarion, come here,” Gale calls, cutting off any more poor attempts at flirting.

Astarion sighs heavily, a barely audible click sounding as the safe finally yields beneath his skilled hands. “What?”

Gale waves him over from the doorway to the toll-master’s office. “I believe you’ll enjoy this.”

“Fine. But I have high expectations, wizard.”

Astarion brushes off his knees as he gets up. He makes pointed eye contact with you and performs a grand sweeping gesture at the newly opened safe, accompanied by an exaggerated bow. Requisite theatrics done, he turns on his heel and follows Gale into the office. You roll your eyes, but switch places anyway, grabbing the safe’s handle with both hands. When you pull, the door doesn’t budge, the massive slab of metal unmoving. You plant your feet firmly in the ground and lean back, using your weight as a lever, and still the safe remains closed.

You tilt your head back to look at Karlach. “Help?” you whine pitifully.

She laughs easily and tosses the disembodied skull aside.

From the office you hear a bark of incredulous laughter. “Dear gods, and here I thought Cazador’s taste in decor was atrocious.”

Gale stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Astarion, arms crossed as he observes a solid gold statue of Gerringothe Thorm with matching amusem*nt. “I’ve met my fair share of corrupt and eccentric members of high society. Even among wizards, it’s rare indeed to find someone brazen enough to erect a statue of themselves.” He presses his own hand to one of his cheeks. “Much less one made of gold.”

The two of them observe the gaudy monument to the Thorm family’s corruption in silence. According to all the stories, Ketheric had been a devoted Selûnite before turning to Shar, just as his family had been for generations. But seeing the corruption wraught by the remaining members of the Thorm family—not only in the present but a hundred years prior—makes Gale question their loyalties. For a family of Selûnites, Malus and Gerringothe in particular seemed rather eager to follow Ketheric into the shadows.

“Do you think we could sell it?” Astarion asks, breaking the silence.

Gale eyes the statue in careful consideration. “Perhaps if we melted it down for the gold,” he muses. “But we would need to find a forge large enough for the task. Not to mention, we’d need to carry it there.”

“Ah. Well, we wouldn’t want your creaky bones to snap under the weight.” Astarion sniffs. “It’s probably not even real gold, anyway.”

Gale shakes his head, but lets the slight pass. Astarion’s arms would strain just as easily. Back in the main room, you make a cursory glance at an old ledger, before setting it aside for Gale. Karlach has gone back to idly tossing the Grim Visage between her hands. Halsin stands quietly on the edge of the second floor, cutting a dark shadow against the moonlight streaming through the gap in the wall.

Halsin furrows his brow, peering into the distance. “Hm.” He looks over his shoulder and beckons you closer. “Friend, come here a moment. I need your Darkvision.”

You meet Halsin’s eyes with a curt nod and cross the floor in a few short strides. Once you near, Halsin lays a hand across your shoulder, gathering you against his side. You both stand on the precipice overlooking the darkened Chionthar. The riverbank stretches out below you, a long path leading down to the water’s edge. Moonrise stands tall, a dark monument stretching into the darker sky. From here, its own barrier against the Shadowcurse shimmers, the only points of light amidst the black miasma rolling across the land.

Except that’s not quite true. Halsin points east, across the crumbling bridge to the Tollhouse. “There’s something over there, but my eyes aren’t suited to the dark like yours.”

As he speaks, a flash of purple breaks through the fog. You furrow your brows, stepping closer to the edge, leaning forward to try and get a better view. Halsin braces a hand on your hip, ensuring your balance as you strain your eyes. A handful of seconds later, three bands of crimson red streak through the clouds. It’s familiar, somehow, but like many things, your mind struggles to bridge the gap between your memory and the scene before your eyes.

You frown, ears pricking forward. “Strange,” you murmur.

“You see it, then?” Halsin asks quietly, as if speaking too loudly will draw the attention of whatever creature you’ve found.

You nod. “Yes. I’ve seen those lights before.”

The relaxed after-battle atmosphere dissipates as you and Halsin instinctively raise your guard. You haven’t yet identified what you’re seeing, but over a tenday in the Shadowlands has taught you that it can’t be anything good. You’ve yet to find anything pleasant in these cursed lands. The best you can hope for is “disturbing and benign.” But the frantic spark of lights suggests an urgency that can only mean “danger.”

The harsh wind carries the familiar sound of flame bursting to life as an orange bolt cuts through the haze. “That’s spellcraft,” you gasp incredulously.

“What?” Gale asks, responding to the promise of magic.

Gale crowds against your other side without prompting, peering uselessly into the dark. If Halsin’s Darkvision isn’t enough, then Gale with his human eyes doesn’t stand a chance. Even still, you point to another flash of orange flame.

“That’s a Firebolt, I’d recognize it anywhere,” you say.

Gale might not be able to see the light in the darkness, but he doesn’t need his eyes to touch the Weave. He stretches out his consciousness, brushing a hand against that familiar tapestry, and feels the unmistakable warp as someone else pulls at the threads.

“You’re right,” he gasps, equally baffled.

“Of course I’m right, why do you say that as if it’s a surprise?”

He pointedly ignores your grumbling. “I’ve yet to see a single creature in these lands weave together a spell that casts light.”

Halsin furrows his brow, glancing between you and Gale. “Are you suggesting that’s a person lost amidst the Shadow Curse?”

“It must be, no?” Gale reasons. “I can’t think of anything else that would be lighting fires in the dark.”

The discussion has finally managed to catch the attention of Karlach and Astarion. Karlach cranes her neck over your heads, frowning as she peers into the shadows. “Well, we should go check it out then, right?” She glances over the faces of your party. “They might be in trouble.”

“Oh, please.” You can practically hear Astarion rolling his eyes. “If someone is stupid enough to wander into the curse and get themselves killed, I say let them.”

Despite Halsin’s reproachful look in response, you’re inclined to agree. “It could be a group of cultists and if any of them lay eyes on Halsin we’ll have to cut them down, anyway.” Halsin’s mouth pulls into a thin line, clearly displeased by the cold rationality. “We’re not responsible for—”

Another Firebolt ignites within the darkness. Except this time, you can just barely make out the shadow of a figure standing against the light. It’s difficult to identify anything with certainty, but as the light moves, you think you see the curl of two horns. If you squint, you can see a pointed whip lashing through the fog. Your blood burns as you suddenly realize exactly who’s foolish enough to wander alone into the shadows.

“—that useless f*cking wizard.”

An overwhelming rage tears through the Weave. In the space of a breath you Misty Step onto the edge of the river bank. You don’t remember speaking the spell into existence, or tracing its runes with your hand. You only remember white-hot fury cleaving through the fabric of space—pure willpower closing the distance between you and your least favorite wizard. Once the mist clears, you see for yourself, Rolan, backed against the pure darkness that encompasses Moonrise. Three dark, roiling Shadows loom over him, necrotic claws snatching at his dirt-stained robes. His hands shake as he uselessly fires off a Thunderwave.

You just barely get into range as one of the Shadows lurches forward, swiping at Rolan’s chest. He cries out in pain, back pressed against the stone barrier, dangerously close to toppling backward into the river. Dark shadows cling to the new rip in the chest of his robe, seeping into the torn flesh below—an oil slick spreading through his veins. He hisses through his teeth, panting breathlessly as he fights against the pain to stay standing. You can’t see his face from this angle, but every muscle in his body signals pure terror, his tail curled between his legs.

You fire a barrage of Magic Missiles into the Shadow’s chest. The creature reels back with an ear-splitting shriek. The thick darkness dampens the effect of the missiles, but the distraction pauses the Shadows’ assault just long enough to for Rolan to duck away. He rolls out of the way, pushing himself up with hands and knees as he runs. He casts a glance over his shoulder as he does. When he catches sight of you, his mouth twists into a bitter scowl.

“Of course it’s you,” he spits, tail lashing angrily at the ground.

You rush forward. “Is that any way to speak to the person who’s about to save your life?” You note the formation of Shadows as you brush past the wizard, mentally judging which of your spells can catch them all. “Get behind me.”

Rolan shoots another Firebolt out of his palm. “I didn’t ask for your help,” Rolan spits even as he follows your order.

“And look where that got you,” you fire back.

On the second floor of the tollhosue, a wave of necrotic energy spills through the rift you tore through the Weave. It strikes each of your companions square in the chest. They all wince at the familiar blowback of your magic. When the pain fades, only mist is left in the place you stood moments before. Your allies look on in stunned silence as you tear across the soft earth in the direction of the flashing lights.

“Aw, hell yeah, looks like we’re doing this!” Karlach shouts, brandishing her greataxe.

Without hesitation, she leaps off the second story of the Tollhouse, the earth shaking as her weight crashes into the ground. She hits the ground running, already shouting a battlecry into the air as she charges. Wordlessly, Halsin shifts, shrinking in size as his legs draw up into his body and feathers sprout along the length of his arms. As soon as the transformation finishes, he takes to the sky as a Dire Raven, diving down in pursuit.

Gale pauses, glancing sideways at Astarion. “I regret to inform you that I did not prepare Dimension Door.”

Wordlessly, Astarion reaches into the quiver of arrows on his back and pulls out an Arrow of Transposition. “No need,” he says smugly, notching the arrow into his longbow.

Gale nods, and just as you did moments ago, he disappears in a cloud of mist, reappearing at the bottom of the stone steps leading to the Tollhouse. Astarion takes careful aim, judging with his eyes how to eke the most distance out of his arrow. He looses the arrow, air rushing past his cheek as the bowstring snaps back into place. The arrow whistles as it cuts across the sky. It sinks into the earth at the foot of the bridge. Before Astarion can even register that he hit his mark, reality folds around him, linking his position on the second floor of the Tollhouse to the footpath below. The earth shifts beneath his feet without him ever moving a muscle.

You draw on the raw magic in your veins, bending reality as you reach into the minds of the Shadows on the battlefield. You find only a faint echo of the people these shadows used to be. A cobbler, a soldier, a mother—all of whom fell when the curse claimed the town of Reithwin. Now all that remains is a mindless husk, a faint vestige of the person that used to live beneath the sun. (They remind you of yourself—a vast emptiness that used to house something whole)

But enough consciousness remains for you to twist it and bend the creatures to your will. You trace a Pattern of blinding lights into the fabric of the Weave, and carve the impression into the Shadows’ empty minds. Threads of magic bind them to the sigil, and two of the Shadows freeze in place, Hypnotized.

With only one of the Shadows still active, you’ve gained yourself some breathing room. A Dire Raven streaks past Rolan’s shoulder, earning a surprised shout from the wizard. The bird hits the ground beside you, and quickly unfolds into Halsin’s familiar bulk. Rolan startles at the massive elf, struggling to wrap his mind around the sudden shift in the tides of battle.

You jerk your chin in Rolan’s direction, unphased by Halsin’s appearance. “Heal him.”

Halsin nods, bracing a gentle hand on Rolan’s quaking shoulder and pushing warm summer sunlight into his veins, filling in the cracks where shadowy claws ripped through. The rest of your group arrives moments later. Karlach barrels through the small gap between you and Rolan, nearly knocking the other tiefling to the ground in her single-minded charge. Gale shoots a Ray of Frost over her shoulder to slow the Shadow’s advance; Astarion quickly follows up with a Hearthlight Bomb thrown into the middle of the fray. The Shadows hiss, the small orbs of light cutting into their forms.

Between the six of you, you make short work of the Shadows. The last of them falls with a screech as hellfire spills from your veins through the skin of your palms. The Shadow twists and writhes as its form catches fire. It spreads through the cloud of ash sustaining it, light spilling through the cracks in the creature’s form. The fire consumes the darkness, leaving only emptiness in its wake. Without the shadows banished, the ghost disappears in a final shower of sparks.

You pant heavily, silk threads of fire still webbed between your fingers. You wait for another Shadow to rise from the ground, for the earth itself to rise up and smother whatever life it can. But all is quiet, save for the howling wind and the rushing waters at your back. The last of your spellfire fades, and so, too, does the gentle glow of the Hearthlight Bomb. The Shadowlands fall into near total darkness once more, the land’s deathly pall clinging to the soles of your feet. Your allies remain on alert as well, eyes darting across the slope, watching, waiting for the other shoe to drop. A minute passes, filled with only the eerie whispers of the Shadowlands.

“Gods damn it all!” Rolan curses, falling to his knees. “I can do nothing right—not a damn thing!” He slams his fist weakly against the ground with a dull thud.

Karlach’s amber eyes glow with gentle sympathy. She approaches the fallen wizard with uncharacteristically soft footsteps, holstering her axe. She offers him a soft smile through the dirt and decay painted on her cheeks. She knows well the sting of failure. She bore witness to cruelties that most mortals could never conceive of. The Blood War was an unstoppable machine, manned by archdevils but fueled by mortal souls.

Only a handful of the soldiers Karlach fought truly wanted to be there. Even the most twisted of devils was once a new soul, brimming with light. Time and cruelty damned them to the Hells. Even Zariel herself, the wretched she-devil, was once an angel. Given enough time, perhaps that would one day be Karlach’s fate as well—to become the very devil she despises.

But no matter how unwilling her opponents, Karlach’s orders were to fight and survive. The most desperate please for mercy met only sharpened steel. Every anguished cry of pain only warranted a swift end. Karlach couldn’t stay her assault, no matter how much she wanted to. The only thing she could do was block out the despair with a rage brighter than hellfire.

Karlach knows well the cruelty of the world, and the searing ache of helplessness. Wandering out into the shadows alone was a foolish, reckless move. But Karlach can hardly fault Rolan for striving to protect his family. Were their positions reversed, Karlach can’t say she would have done any different. When she fought in the Blood War, choosing mercy wasn’t an option—kindness and compassion weren’t hers to grant. There was never any hope of Karlach stopping a war as ancient as the planes themselves. But given the option, she can’t say that she wouldn’t have tried. When even her body wasn’t under her command, her feelings were the only thing she had any control over at all. Choosing to hope in the face of the world’s cruelty was her act of rebellion.

“Hey, don’t be too hard on yourself,” Karlach soothes with a gentle smile. “You were trying to help your family, yeah?”

Gale, however, displays none of Karlach gentle understanding. Rolan’s reckless pride displays the very worst faults of every young wizard Gale has known. A wizard’s greatest enemy isn’t the devil on their shoulder, nor the threat of a rival—a wizard’s greatest enemy is their own hubris. Gale has seen the nascent spark of curiosity snuffed out of a young wizard’s eyes time and time again as they reach for more power than they can hold. The burning star of his own ambition led him to the edge of ruin. That star collapsed in on itself, all his dreams turned to fodder for the ravenous void he now carries beneath his breastbone.

Rolan, too, skirts the edge of ruin, led by a pride that outshines his sense. “You could certainly stand to practice a bit more sense, though.” Gale crosses his arms, looking down his nose sternly at the young man. “What were you thinking, wandering off into the shadows on your own?”

Rolan wipes at his eyes, head stooped low to avoid the sting of your allies’ judgment. He knew that he was flirting with disaster by running into the shadows on his own. It burns his pride to admit but you were right for scolding him. By the time you arrived at Last Light, he’d already wasted too much time. Every wasted second lessened the chances of seeing Cal and Lia again. If they were even still alive at all. He couldn’t wait any longer for someone else to come fix his failures. No one else would appear out of the shadows to set things right. It had to be him.

If his other choice was leaving Cal and Lia to die, he’d walk into the shadows gladly.

“What do you think?” Rolan snaps.

You stare at the wizard groveling in the dirt. The others draw in to offer support, both gentle understanding from Karlach and Halsin, as well as severe reproach from Gale. But slowly their voices fade into static, the whole of the world falling away, and your vision narrows to this one useless, pathetic, simpering wizard. You won the battle, but adrenaline still surges through your veins, setting the inside of your skin ablaze. The Weave splinters and frays around you—that same necrotic energy that slipped through before spilling from your open mouth. A Fireball tickles the lines on your palm begging to be set free.

Pure incandescent rage poisons the air around you, as thick as the Shadows you felled moments before. “Tell me you weren’t looking for Moonrise,” you hiss. You fingers flex tensely at your sides, holding back the firestorm at your fingertips.

Rolan’s head snaps up to meet your gaze, the yellow flame in his eyes burning with his own cold fury. “So what if I was?” he spits viciously, the razor points of his teeth flashing from behind his lips.

Your breath escapes in thick clouds of smoke that burn your eyes, hot with fury. “Well, you found it.” You frame the spire of Moonrise with your arms, the tower standing tall across the riverbank, barely more than a stone’s throw away. “So go on, then. Get up and step into the shadows.” Your voice cuts through the swirling haze of your anger, unnaturally, mockingly sweet.

Rolan sits back on his heels, following the line of your arms to the dark spire piercing the sky. Then his eyes fall to the bone-chilling, necrotic miasma that marks the epicenter of the Shadow Curse. Rolan fists his hands uselessly in his lap, his sharp teeth grinding together in his skull. He hangs his head, eyes pinched shut in shame.

You stalk closer, arms still held out in the direction of Moonrise. “Didn’t you hear me? Get up. You want to save Cal and Lia, don’t you?” you taunt, an almost lyrical hysteria creeping into your words.

Rolan’s head snaps up to meet your eyes, his lips pulled into a severe line. “I know I failed!” he shouts. “You’ve made your point.”

You laugh bitterly. “Oh, I don’t think I have.” You lift your chin, peering down the length of your nose at him. “Did you even bring a Moonlantern?” You know the answer, but you ask it anyway. “A pixie blessing?” Rolan looks away. “Did you have any plan at all for passing safely through the shadows?”

Rolan’s brows pinch together angrily. “I assumed I’d be able to come up with something. And if not I brought plenty of health potions,” he mumbles.

You bark out a breath of cruel laughter. “Health potions? That was your ingenious plan for crossing the Shadowlands?” Your upper lip curls back in a malicious sneer. “The Shadow Curse killed an Archdruid and you thought some potions would keep you safe?”

Halsin frowns sternly, arms crossed over his chest as fetid wisps of smoke spill from your lips—poisonous as your cruel words. “Friend, I think that’s enough.”

“I’ll decide when it’s enough,” your voice cracks through the air like lightning.

Halsin reels back in shock, unaccustomed to the harsh lash of your tongue. Any concern you have regarding Halsin’s opinion of you is distant and numb, every thought pushed to the wayside to make space for divine wrath. What you feel towards Rolan is more than anger at an arrogant boy carelessly discarding his life. No, the wildfire burning away your flesh is something more, something hotter. Your bones smolder, encased within meat that crumbles beneath the force of your rage. Flames tangle in your hair, down the length of your arms, and around each of your fingers. The whole of your body is a pyre to the complete and utter contempt you feel for this man.

Rolan’s eyes burn with unshed tears. “You’re the one who told me to go save Cal and Lia!”

You sneer down at him, the muscles in your jaw flexing. “Were you trying to save them?” you laugh bitterly. “Or were you more concerned with your damnable pride?”

His words are empty. Meaningless. He bemoans his lost siblings, he lashes out at you for failing to save them, he drinks himself into a stupor to mask his sorrow. He does absolutely nothing to protect the people he claims to love. He sat, safe in the haven of Last Light, wallowing in self-pity while his siblings suffered. Every second that passed was a threat to their lives, a moment of agony that could never be undone. And even still, when your words finally pushed him to action, he let his damned pride get in the way of doing anything useful—so obsessed with his own need to prove himself that he risked his siblings’ only chance at freedom.

Rolan flinches harshly at the accusation, and you know your words have struck true. “What does it matter?” his voice catches on the points of his teeth. “I couldn’t save them either way.”

“You didn’t even try!” Your voice bursts out of you with the force of a Fireball, screeching into the dark. “You ran off on a suicide mission because you’d rather get yourself killed than rely on anyone else!”

It’s a drive you and Rolan share—that protective instinct. There’s no fate you wouldn’t suffer to keep your friends alive—safe. It’s the same for Rolan. You have nothing to give, save for the bulwark of your flesh. So you give it freely—your blood, your body, your life. None of it is truly yours.

You would give your life for your allies without hesitation. It’s your fate—to burn bright and fast, then die just as swiftly. But you won’t die if it means abandoning them to their fate—if it means leaving Karlach to burn out, Wyll to suffer beneath a devil’s thumb, Gale to die on Mystra’s behalf, you can’t perish. Not until your friends are safe.

You already died once. You already left your old life behind.

“At least dead I’d have a purpose—perhaps as an appetizer for some cursed monster,” Rolan says bitterly.

His purpose is to protect his siblings. He doesn’t have the right to die while they still need him. He hasn’t earned it. How arrogant to think himself worthy of oblivion when death refused to claim even your rotten soul.

“You selfish. Arrogant. Bastard,” you gasp, breathless.

Blood rushes in your ears, it crowds at the edges of your vision, surges hot in your mouth. It’s all you can think about, blood, blood, blood, and how yours burns with righteous fury. You stalk forward, leaving dark smears of ash in your footfalls. You reach Rolan in two strides, faster than any of your companions can react. By the time they register what’s happening, you’ve already grabbed Rolan by his collar.

You haul him up to meet your face with unholy strength, the muscles in your arms straining beyond their limits. His eyes go wide at the sudden burst of energy, clutching at your hand with both of his. His knees still touch the ground, but you’ve forced him to lean forward, off-balance, as your face hovers a hair’s breadth from his.

Dark clouds of smoke still escape your mouth, brushing against his skin. His eyes water at the rotten ash in your breath. Your allies tense, recognizing the sudden burst of fury a moment too late. Malice taints your every exhale, gathering in a fog so thick that the shadows begin to warp and shudder around you. Raw magic surges through the earth and sky; when Karlach attempts to grab you and pull you back, lightning arcs across her knuckles.

“You would throw your life away so carelessly while your siblings suffer?” you growl, nails scorching the cotton weave of Rolan’s robe. “What exactly do you think is going to happen to them if you die?”

If he wants to die so badly you’ll give it to him. You’ll drag him through the curtain of necrosis that marks the deepest shadows and stake him to the ground through his wrists. You’ll sit by his side, watching impassively as the Shadow Curse gnaws at his flesh, tearing at his soul piece by piece. Just before the darkness claims him, you’ll shove a health potion into his mouth and work it down his throat. His strength will return, momentarily, only for the Shadow Curse to consume it once more. You would sit by his side for hours, until pain unwound the threads of his mind, and still you would keep him tethered to the mortal plane. It’s what he deserves, for seeking the easy death that his siblings can’t.

“Do you think they’ll go free?” Your hair whips wildly around your head, braids undone by howling winds. “Do you think they’ll survive without someone looking out for them?”

For as long as you can remember, you’ve strived to protect that which you can’t live without. From the moment you decided to be more than your vile urges, more than the emptiness you can never fill, you swore to be your allies’ sword and shield. You’ve never been anything more than a weapon directed by a master’s hand. So you did the only thing a weapon can—you let yourself be used.

You awoke amidst the wreckage of a burning ship, your former self scorched away by sunlight, and desperately sought something to give you purpose. You found it in your allies—your friends. They found you, took you in, broken as you are, and you gave yourself away. Every day you begged them for a foe to slay, a burden to bear, an ache to soothe.

How are you to know that someone cares if they don’t leave you bruised?

“I failed!” Rolan yells over the building cyclone, his despair echoing across the Shadowlands. “I failed twice over!”

“And?” you shout back. “You think you just get to die while your siblings rot? Do you think you’ve earned it?” The flickering embers left in the wake of your Firebolt get swept into your storm. Your allies dig their heels into the earth, bracing against the wind’s pull.

Every day you woke up. You served. You knelt at your bedside and prayed—begged—for one more day with the people you cherished. You slept. You woke. You served.

Death isn’t an option—not while unspilled blood runs through your veins.

“You’re the older sibling!” you snarl, hand trembling on his collar, hellfire crackling through the dense clouds of ash. “Who else is going to keep them safe?” Your voice breaks on the last word, and in the same breath your anger burns out.

Your whole body shakes, the scar at the base of your skull a hot brand against the meat of your brain. Without fury burning bright between your lungs, the shadows creep back in. They settle in the gentle curl of your ribs where they’ve always belonged. You reach out, desperately trying to recapture that spark of fury.

Anger is easy—it fills you to the brim until it overflows, scorching the very ground beneath your feet. When your heart pumps scorching blood through its chambers and your veins sear the very flesh they sustain, the rest of the world falls away. Everything slips through your hands save for your blood-tainted vision and the Urge railing against the bars of its cage. You feel whole, and you can forget for one bright, burning moment the phantom ache of failure.

When the fury flickers out and darkness swallows its light, you’re left more hollow than you were before. That raging wildfire burned away the stitches of a wound you don’t remember. The scar blooms open, festering and rotten, to reveal tender, aching flesh you’ve never seen. Rolan’s failures dig into your skin with sharpened claws, forcefully dragging this hidden wound into the sun.

Much like the deep scar running from each of your collarbones to your sternum, then all the way down to your navel, you don’t know where this wound came from. It’s one more mystery from your forgotten past—a memory that someone carved out of your skull as surely as they carved into your breast. You rip and tear and dig out the meat hidden beneath this newfound scar, but for all that you bloody your hands its source remains far beyond your reach.

Somehow you know you failed. You failed before you even started.

You hang your head, hair spilling around your shoulders to hide your eyes. “How dare you,” you hiss, lashes wet. “How dare you choose to walk away.”

Copper. Iron. Rot.

You throw Rolan to the ground, cutting off the thought before it can finish. You take a few shaky steps towards the river, back turned towards your companions. That phantom grief drapes around your shoulders—the same feeling you had when Shadowheart bundled you into her arms. You stare at your hands and finding nothing, save for blood caked beneath your fingernails.

You turn your mind inward, seeking the source of the pain carving through your bones. It lies somewhere behind your tender breast. But when you pry back your ribs to peer inside, light casts out the shadows behind your bones. You find only the familiar emptiness you’ve carried with you all this time. Someone carved out the person that used to live in this body and left a hollow shell behind. All you are is an echo of someone who used to be whole—a pale imitation of a person. The source of this ache behind your breastbone died along with the memories of your old life.

But while the memories may be gone, your body remembers. Your body remembers and grieves.

Lightning dances across your fingers, up the length of your arms—a nervous energy you can’t contain. This shambling corpse of yours holds the memories that your mind cannot grasp. Your body knows that once you had a role to fill. It lingers on the tips of your fingers, fluttering away when you grasp at the memories.

There’s a chasm inside you—a great abyss that used to house something important. But someone stole it from you and your memories along with it. You yearn for something beyond your reach. For all the ugliness and horror that lurks in your past, you know you left behind something precious—something you wanted to keep.

It’s gone now. The only proof that it was ever there at all is the hollow space it left behind.

All of a sudden, the Wild Surge dies, the fire snuffed out and ashen clouds scattering on the ground. Behind you, your allies share worried glances. Save for Astarion, whose eyes never leave your back. A silent debate passes between them. Karlach shakes her head despite the concern clear on her face, effectively removing herself from the conversation. Instead she goes to Rolan’s side, kneeling down and offering him a hand. He takes it wordlessly, a deep red flush of shame across his face. Halsin looks to Gale, his lips pursed, deep in thought. Gale gestures for Halsin to go ahead, opening the floor for him to smooth things over. Of the group, he’s decidedly best suited to defusing the situation.

But before Halsin can say anything, Astarion steps forward unprompted. He sidesteps Rolan, ignoring the pair of tieflings altogether. He slows as he approaches your back, trying to read your emotions. The stiff anger that carried you until now has fled, replaced instead by a dull emptiness. Your shoulders hunch forward, your head bent, hair falling in a curtain around your face. You look pathetic—like a half-drowned rat pulled out of the river. Nothing like the arrogant, proud leader Astarion has come to care for.

But he supposes he’s come to care for this version of you, too—perhaps even more. The mask you wear is a steady comfort—a rock upon which your friends can rest their burdens. Astarion isn’t ashamed to admit he’s done much the same. It’s a blessing to have someone he can trust after the life he’s had. But the person behind the mask is flawed, afraid, and so much more real than the unbroken shield you present to the world. He doesn’t have much to offer someone who doesn’t need anything, save for his body. But the version of yourself you try to hide desperately needs someone to share your burdens. You’d never admit it, but it’s clear as sunlight.

Astarion thinks he might be able to do that. He has no clue how or where to start. But he thinks he can.

Tentatively, he reaches out to touch your wrist, the same way you touched his when he lost himself in a memory. You quickly scrub at your eyes with the meat of your palm, before turning to face him with vacant eye. Astarion keeps his face placid with a gentle smile, trying not to show surprise at the purple flush around your eyes, nor the wet shine on your skin. It’s only the second time he’s seen your composure crack, watched as the mask crumbles beneath the weight of his gaze.

He glances over his shoulder, the rest of your gathered allies watching closely. Your unguarded face isn’t theirs to see—not yet, anyways. Astarion breaks off pieces of his own mask, widens the cracks just enough to let his care and affection shine through. The care he holds for you shines radiant beams of sunshine through the gaps in his ribs. Sunlight has never dwelled inside him. Before you, there was only shadow. He runs his hands through those beams of light, trying to grasp the words you need to hear. His hands close around nothing, save for the gentle warmth of a sunbeam on his skin. He doesn’t know how to help you. But he’ll stand by your side even still—just as you’ve stood by his all this time.

“I think we’ve lingered here long enough, don’t you agree, dearest?” he says gently.

With steady hands, he fits the broken-off pieces of his mask over the gaps in your façade. He allows you to find refuge in his tenderness, and hopes that he can give your burdens a soft place to fall. He smooths his fingertips over the gentle beat of your pulse, two fingers pressed against the soft meat of your wrist. It beats strong and steady beneath his touch—proof of the life in your veins. It grounds him here, with you, just as he hopes his touch can pull your back from wherever your mind has gone.

You blink away the emptiness in your gaze. Your eyes flicker down to Astarion’s hand on your wrist. He swallows, squeezing gently over the butterfly wing beat of your pulse. He watches as you steel yourself, your shoulders squaring as your anger sloughs off like snakeskin. Astarion waits patiently as you slip into your role as a leader once more. He stands close to your side so no one else can see you undone.

All the questions and worries that weigh on the tip of his tongue can wait. You’ll never give an honest answer in front of the others and Astarion would never ask that of you. Later, when you retire for the night, he’ll take you by the hand and lead you somewhere quiet—away from the prying eyes of your friends. He’s… he’s been meaning to for some time, now. Ever since that night in the tower, something has shifted between the two of you. When he looks at you, he can’t help the way his eyes turn soft. At night he holds you without restraint, fingers intertwined where they rest beneath your breast. He sprawls over your lap in the mornings like a needy cat, and you play with his curls as you prepare your selection of potions for the day.

It’s sickeningly domestic. You play the part of two teenagers that have never been kissed. It’s wholly embarrassing, and his ears flush with your blood when he catches the knowing eyes the others send over your heads. But he can’t bring himself to care anymore. Not when he’s been starved of gentle affection for centuries and you freely offer him a feast. He can’t keep from gorging himself on your touch, feeding his long-dead heart as he feeds his body.

You haven’t kissed since that night in the tower. You haven’t asked but gods does he wish you would. He yearns for you so badly even as he holds you in his arms. He wants to know you, to learn you all over again, to start over from the beginning and do things right this time.

And there lies the problem.

He wants this to be real, and he’s the only one who realizes it’s not. He wants to make it clear that he’s committed to… this. To you. For however long you’ll have him. He’s… he’s fairly certain you want that, too.

The very thing he yearns for is so close at hand, he need only reach out and take it. But… commitment comes with… expectations. Ones he isn’t sure he can meet. He doesn’t think you’d ask for more than he’s willing to give. But as much as he cares for you, you don’t like him for his brain. No one would settle for a nebulous maybe-romantic commitment without sex.

You haven’t slept together since… gods, since before entering the Shadowlands. It’s understandable; you’ve very clearly been losing your mind. You would have slept together at Last Light if you hadn’t been so bloody exhausted. Any day now you’ll want it again and he… he doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

Until then he just… he just wants to enjoy this while he can. He pushes the guilt to the back of his mind and savors your touch while it’s within his grasp. Before it all falls apart.

You finally turn to face the others. Karlach offers you a soft smile, wordlessly offering the sympathy in her eyes. Gale observes you with a deeply furrowed brow, unwinding you with his eyes the way he unmakes the Weave so that he can bend it to his will. Halsin wears a similar expression of deep, deep focus. But the high arch of his brows signals that he’s already found the answer to the question behind his eyes. Rolan refuses to meet your gaze, back turned to you where he stands.

“Astarion is right,” you finally croak, breaking the tense silence. “We should get moving.”

Karlach nods vehemently, already bouncing on the balls of her feet to work out her buzzing energy. “Yeah, we still have a kid to find!”

Halsin glances at Rolan, the tiefling’s shoulders pull inward. “That can wait. We should accompany you to Last Light.” He reaches out to place a broad hand on Rolan’s upper back, only to be waved off.

“Oh, bugger off,” Rolan hisses, tail lashing angrily back and forth. “I can make it on my own. I don’t need an escort.”

Astarion’s nose lifts in clear disdain, sharpening his laugh lines. “You have a rather interesting way of thanking people for saving your tail.”

“Astarion,” Halsin barks in warning.

Rolan doesn’t dignify Astarion with a response, the only sign that he heard the elf at all being the sudden rise of his shoulders. “The sooner I lose sight of your faces, the better,” Rolan grumbles.

He begins the long trek back to Last Light, his boots digging angrily into the hillside. He summons a small flame into his hand, using it to keep the shadows at bay. The orange glow halos the curve of his horns and his silver-lined collar. The deep blood red of his robes draws you in. Your fingers twitch, your dagger heavy against your hip. It was one of the first things you found in the wreckage of the nautiloid. Instinctively, you fashioned a sheath for it and kept it close at hand. You’ve never once used it in combat, but its weight against your thigh is a familiar balm.

Rolan should know better than to turn his back on you. You need only Misty Step past your allies, find purchase in Rolan’s shadow. With his back unguarded, it would be so easy to slip the dagger through his occipital ridge, between the plates of his skull and into his brain. If you opened the flesh of his skull like a blooming rose, you could sink your fingers into his gray matter, scoop it out just as yours was. If you traced the rune for Thunderwave into his parietal lobe could you cast it through his hands?

The scar at the base of your skull burns.

“Do you want to save Cal and Lia?” you call out.

Rolan stops short at the top of the hill, orange flame still flickering in his palm. “What kind of question is that?” he hisses, whirling around with such force that his tail tangles between his legs. “Of course I do!”

You stare up at him with a blank expression, blood-red eye searching for twin yellow flames in the dark. The fire in his eyes burn bright. That same fire burns in your veins. Every Fireball you cast begins as a spark, born between your lungs as devotion clashes against a heart made of steel. Every torch you light becomes a holy pyre, physical proof of your resolve. The ashes that trail in your wake shine with flecks of copper and iron, forged from your blood.

For all his faults, Rolan’s conviction is real. His eyes burn like the Crown of the North against the pitch black sky, the constellation that guides weary travelers through the wilds. But he lets his arrogance and guilt cloud his vision. He loses sight of his goal and the path disappears beneath his feet. You can work with that—your arrogance far outshines his.

“Alright.” You nod sharply. “Then you’d better hurry.” You turn swiftly on your heel, making way for the bridge

Rolan narrows his eyes, deep furrows marking the space between his brows. “What?” he bites out.

You look over your shoulder, shadowed by a curtain of total darkness. “We’re staging a prison break. If you want to help, then keep up.”

Rolan stares harshly at the center of your back, cloak fluttering behind you as you lead the group up the path to Moonrise Towers. You march with single-minded intent, unswayed by any attempts at distraction from your allies. The dull buzz of fey magic on your skin parts the shadows around you like the bow of a ship cutting through ocean waves. Moonrise Towers spears the sky, rising high above the waters below. Your eyes follow it as you walk, and the spire acts as a lighthouse in the dark.

The rogue flits about at your side, leaning over to make snide comments in your ear. The ebb and flow of his attentions break on rocky shores as your gaze remains fixed firmly ahead. Disquiet and unease ripples across the elf’s brow, before determination surges forth to take its place. His attempts at distraction only become more overt, physically reaching out to brush his hand against yours. But you never once react, not even deigning to twitch an ear to show you’re listening.

The druid, Halsin from the Grove, if Rolan remembers correctly, also watches you with a careful gaze. He walks steadily at one shoulder, matching you stride-for-stride. Faint concern marks the ridge of his brow, but unlike the rogue, he simply watches and observes. Fitting, Rolan supposes with an edge of bitterness, for a druid to wait at the sidelines and let someone else do all the work. If Halsin’s druids had lifted a hand to help his “kin,” Rolan wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. Better yet, Cal and Lia wouldn’t be locked away beneath a tower.

“So…” the wizard, Gale, breaks the tense silence, Moonlantern held high overhead where he walks at Rolan’s side. “Where did you study, if you don’t mind me asking?” Rolan sends Gale an exasperated glance that the man refuses to heed. “I’m not familiar with any schools studying the arcane in Elturel.”

Rolan scoffs. “That’s because there isn’t one. Not one of any real merit, anyway,” he says bitterly. “The theocrats in charge were too busy praising the gods for a mysterious, false sun to dedicate any time to intellectual pursuits.”

Karlach strolls leisurely on Rolan’s other side, hands knitted together behind her head. “I’ll give you that. Elturel got dealt a real bad had the past few decades.”

Rolan sneers viciously in clear disgust. “They didn’t get ‘dealt a bad hand,’ the High Overseer quite literally sold his city down the River Styx.” Rolan shakes his head. “It was before my time, but sometimes I wonder if the city was in better hands with the damned vampire.”

Astarion tilts his head back over his shoulder to peer at the group lagging behind. “Ah yes, the former High Rider. I haven’t thought about him in decades.” Astarion’s lyrical voice breezes across Rolan’s skin like the memory of warm summer winds from his childhood—light and nostalgic.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Rolan sees both Gale and Karlach stiffen, physically bracing themselves for the other shoe that’s about to drop.

Astarion continues, heedless of the others’ reactions. “Bit of a loon, that one, if I’m being honest. Terrible in bed, but his delusions of grandeur were always amusing.”

Rolan trips over his own tail. Karlach reaches out to steady him as she lets out a tense breath of air. “There it is,” she mutters under her breath.

Gale pinches the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. Halsin looks away from you to watch Astarion with an almost mournful gaze, tempered sorrow lurking in the depths of his eyes. Rolan has the creeping sense that there’s some unsaid tragedy in Astarion’s words that he’s failed to pick up on.

“You knew the previous High Rider of Elturel?” Rolan splutters incredulously.

Astarion nearly vibrates with delight at Rolan’s surprise. “Oh, yes, intimately.”

Rolan rolls his eyes because, yes, he gathered that. “How.” Rolan can’t imagine anyone in a position to rub shoulders with the previous High Rider—much less sleep with the man—roughing it on the road nor wielding a shortsword as expertly as Astarion does.

Astarion flashes Rolan a wide, condescending grin. “Family friend.” When Astarion speaks, his upper lip purposefully curls back.

The Moonlantern’s pale, silver light shines on a pair of sharp, bone-white fangs. Astarion watches as a familiar look of dawning horror flits across Rolan’s face, his red-orange skin briefly turning an almost dusk pink color. A rush of power floods his brain, luxurious and intoxicating as it spreads through his veins. A delighted giggle bursts out of his mouth unbidden. What a joy, for people to finally see him as the predator he is.

Rolan stops momentarily in his tracks, eyes immediately looking to Gale. From Rolan’s perspective, the human wizard is the only normal person here. Gale meets his stare with raised brows, silently inviting Rolan’s question.

Rolan shakes his head, resuming his stride with more wariness that before. “You certainly keep strange and abrasive company,” he grumbles.

“Aw, Fangs isn’t so bad!” Karlach exclaims, loud enough to wake the Sharran skeletons slumbering beneath the earth.

‘Fangs?’ Rolan mouths to himself incredulously.

Karlach continues, “He’s all bark, no bite!”

Both Rolan and Astarion himself shoot her a flat, unimpressed look.

“Okay, a little bit of bite,” she concedes. “But he’s real funny.”

One side of Astarion’s mouth quirks up in befuddled amusem*nt. “You’re very sweet, Karlach dear, but there’s really no need to convince the impotent wizard of my finer qualities.” All the warmth in his blood-red eyes turns frigid as the bitter wind that brushes Rolan’s cheeks. “I truly do not care.”

At Rolan’s raised eyebrow Karlach only smiles. “He reminds me of that hairless cat at Last Light. Your Highness?”

Halsin’s burst of deep laughter covers Astarion’s indignant squawk. “His Majesty,” he corrects. His gentle eyes roam over Astarion in careful appraisal. “Now that you mention it, I see the resemblance.”

Rolan rolls his eyes, already exhausted by the group’s incessant banter. Even still, he can’t help but nod in your direction. “And what’s your excuse for that one’s bad attitude?” he asks with mild curiosity.

“Oh, it’s a condition, actually.” Karlach nods sagely, her lips pressed together in a rare look of seriousness. “It’s called being an arse.”

Caught off-guard, Rolan can’t help the inelegant snort that escapes his nose. Gale, too, coughs into his fist in a weak attempt to mask his bark of laughter. Karlach’s mouth spreads into a sh*t-eating grin, the points of her teeth shining razor-sharp in the low light.

Gale clears his throat, gathering his composure. “I would say they’re an acquired taste. I’m reminded of the pan-fried quipper fish served at The Yawning Portal back in Waterdeep.” Gale’s eyes glaze over and turn skyward, as he dusts off an old tome in the vast halls of his memory. “At first the sour vinegar is overwhelming, but as the fish melts on your tongue, the savory breading leaves a warm feeling in your belly.”

“Gale, are you hungry?” Astarion asks with a clear laugh. “I set aside my old pair of boots for you; did you forget to eat them this morning?”

Rolan blinks.

“For the last time, I do not eat magic items.” Every word rolls pointedly off the tip of Gale’s tongue, sharp and acerbic. “I’m absorbing the raw energy of the Weave—”

“You what,” Rolan says flatly.

Gale rubs his temples, wishing he had a god to pray to for inner strength. “I’m not doing this with you again. I no longer need to absorb raw magic anymore. All of you were there when Elminster granted me Mystra’s charm.”

“What.”

Rolan takes it back. None of you are normal. It’s somehow more humiliating to know he was saved by the weirdest group of people on the Material Plane.

You stop just short of the barrier between Reithwin and the bridge to Moonrise Towers. For the first time since beckoning Rolan to join your group, you turn back to face your allies. The levity in the air almost instantly turns brittle beneath your unyielding gaze. Your eyes pass over your allies’ faces one by one, unmoving. Rolan bristles, squaring his shoulders as your gaze drifts across his skin. He’s never served as a soldier, or had any formal combat experience at all, but he imagines this must be how it feels to stand at attention and hope your commander finds you worthy.

Rolan has no idea what’s possessed you to provide aid to Cal and Lia. You’ve made it abundantly clear that you detest him. Up until a few minutes ago, the feeling was mutual. Ever since you first stepped into the Grove and crossed his path, Rolan sensed there was something… off about you. He couldn’t put his finger on it and did his best to dismiss that kneejerk disquiet. He assumed it was those dull scarlet eyes that branded you as a servant of the Spider Queen. But as long as you kept to yourself, that was no concern of his. He had more pressing problems—namely, Lia’s bleeding heart.

That was when you stepped in and gave him a perfectly legitimate reason to hate you. But it still came as a surprise. The cautionary tales about drow stealing children in the night didn’t exactly paint them as champions of the unfortunate. Supporting Lia’s soft heart hardly fit the narrative. Perhaps the stories were wrong, and not all drow were self-serving bastards.

Even still, when Rolan peered into your eyes, he found only empty pools of blood looking back. The complete lack of emotion wasn’t exactly what Rolan imagined when he thought of a hero. Lia may have sung your praises, but he held his judgment, keeping a close eye on you whenever you drew near. Even as your demeanor softened, and those cold, unfeeling eyes beginning to shine, Rolan could never shake the feeling that he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

There was something unnatural about you—something powerful and wild surging through your veins. You would regard Cal and Lia with warmth and danced with Lia around the fire. Then your gaze would flicker to him, and some dark, ancient force would rise to the surface, lurking in the shallows of your eyes. In the next moment, you would turn away, and Rolan could dismiss that ravenous gaze as a trick of the light.

But after seeing your unholy fury, and the way the Weave frays around you, he thinks his original instincts may have been right. Rolan knows Weaving, and how powerful sorcerers know it in a way he never will. Your blood flows with raw, untamed magic, and molding it isn’t something you need to learn—it’s instinct. But whatever he saw when you gripped his robes was something else. The very air clouded with ashen malice, so heavy and thick that shadows began to bend around it.

You’re no ordinary drow, nor an ordinary sorcerer. You’re something else entirely—exactly what Rolan doesn’t know. But for now, your single-minded focus has found purchase in his siblings. He’s not going to risk drawing your ire. He doesn’t know what possessed you to agree to help him, but he’s not going to squander his best chance at saving the people he loves. You could be Thavius Kreeg himself and he’d still accept your help if it meant seeing Cal and Lia to safety.

You uncinch your cloak and toss it to Rolan. “Put that on,” you order. “I doubt the Cult remembers your face, but there’s no reason to risk it.” Karlach grabs a spare knife and sets to work helping Rolan cut two holes in the cloak’s hood for his horns.

“Now.” You looked once more over your gathered allies, making sure their attention is on you. “I’d rather not burn our cover at Moonrise just yet. We will if need be, but if we can hide our involvement, that’d be for the best.”

Gale taps a finger against his lips, curious. “I have my doubts about whether it’s possible to stage a prison break with no one the wiser.”

You shrug. “I didn’t say that. We just need to kill anyone who sees us before they can sound the alarm.”

Somehow, your ruthless pragmatism stuns Rolan. Your logic is sound, for certain, but hearing someone advocate for wanton slaughter without a shred of emotion is… unsettling.There’s nothing on your face or in your voice but cold resolve—not even a trace of anger. The druid, too, appears slightly unsettled by the suggestion.

“Killing everyone worked well enough at the goblin camp, so I don’t see why we can’t just do the same thing here,” Astarion says plainly.

You regard him passively. “Because at the goblin camp, the plan was to take the entire place out once we released Halsin. Here, we don’t want to draw any attention from the upper floors. That means cutting off the exits and interrupting any lines of communication.” Your mouth twists in a pensive frown. “I’m also willing to bet the guards here are far smarter.”

“That’s not exactly difficult.” Astarion sniffs.

“So, first we need to know what we’re dealing with. But nobody can catch us while we’re scouting. If someone sees all six of us head into the prison on the same day all the guards get slaughtered, that’s going to look suspicious.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Gale asks.

Halsin folds his arms over his chest, watching you carefully as you lay out your plans. A calm rationality falls over you when you slip into your role as a tactician. Despite the holes in your brain and your lack of memory, your mind is sharp. Gears turn behind your eyes, gridmaps carefully laid across the ground, enemy formations made—you know each of your allies’ abilities by heart. They come to mind with the same ease with which you pluck at the Weave. It’s frighteningly easy to imagine you bent over a war table, plotting the movements of wooden soldiers. Strategy is an instinct for you, both on and off the battlefield. You know how to run distraction so that Astarion can rob a merchant blind, the same way you know how to bait your enemies into a perfect cluster for Fireball.

A hundred years may have passed, but you speak with a frigid gravitas that crawls down the length of Halsin’s spine. He hadn’t realized it before, too removed from your group’s actual combat, but within these lands, beneath the dark shadow of Moonrise Towers, the resemblance is uncanny. Halsin knows your tactics, recognizes them from his youth; he and his Archdruid worked tirelessly to counter them. Infiltration, ruthless slaughter, targeting communication and supply lines—those are all strategies taken directly from Ketheric Thorm’s arsenal.

Halsin could ignore those tactics—after all, neither you nor Ketheric Thorm invented the art of war—were it not for the very manner in which you hold yourself. Halsin only ever saw the man a handful of times and only once up close. But even from across the battlefield, the man commanded attention. So heavy was his destiny that the very threads of nature began to warp around him. Much in the way that the Weave shudders beneath your touch, pure darkness spilled from the gaps in Ketheric’s armor. Even beneath the sun’s golden rays, Ketheric Thorm remained cloaked in shadow. When the man finally died, his blood stained the ground itself.

When Halsin watches you speak, that same unease tickles the surface of his skin, claws itching against the points of his fingers. The world bends around every word that you speak. Much how shadows darkened Ketheric Thorm’s soul, primordial fire runs through your veins. Your blood runs wild and untamed. Without vigilance and care, it spills out, scorching the ground beneath your feet the same way Ketheric Thorm’s will poisoned the land. If a sword pierced through your heart, would a wildfire rise from your ashes to bathe the world in flames? Would the force of your iron will bring the earth to ruin? It isn’t mastery of the arcane that conjures light in your hands nor freezes your enemies where they stand—it’s sheer force of will.

“Someone will need to scout ahead,” Your eyes roam carefully over Halsin, Gale, and Astarion. “I’m hesitant to send someone alone, but I suspect a team would only make things more difficult.”

Astarion, the group’s de facto scout, purses his lips unhappily. “You’re asking me to take a great deal of risk for the sake of some hapless imbeciles.”

While Astarion isn’t eager to stick his neck out for some useless prisoners, the truth of the matter is he simply doesn’t want to let you out of his sight. Your behavior of late hasn’t appeased any of his worries—especially not after the outburst with Rolan. Holding you in his arms nearly every night, he’s much more cognizant of just how terrible your sleep is. Rarely can you trance for a full four hours uninterrupted. Instead your rest is fitful and broken; you jolt awake after half an hour, drenched in sweat, then proceed to shiver uncontrollably against his chest for an hour before drifting back into reverie. The only time you manage a full rest is when he drinks your blood until your lips turn a sickly shade of blue. He isn’t sure what’s worse—exhaustion or exsanguination.

You hide it well from your other allies; your emotionless façade and stoic demeanor mask the brief periods of emptiness you fall into. But Astarion recognizes it well—the moments where your body remains close at hand but your mind goes somewhere else. You watch the world through glass stained with phantoms that dance across your vision. He sees it when you kneel beside Shadowheart, eyes focused on her scarred hand as pain wracks her body, when Karlach pulls you close to her chest and you press an ear to her mechanical heart—he saw it only moments ago when you stared at Rolan’s retreating form.

The last time he took his eyes off of you within Moonrise, you nearly froze yourself to one of the battlements. He isn’t about to give you a second chance to try again.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I’m not asking you to do anything at the moment.” Despite his own protests, Astarion’s hackles raise on principle. “I was going to suggest either using an Invisibility spell on Astarion or Wildshape, but Gale, I suppose you can just turn yourself invisible if Astarion isn’t feeling up for it.”

“A fine suggestion, however, I believe all that sneaking would be bad for my knees.”

To make a point, Gale lifts one of his legs and with his hands, quickly bends his knee to his chest. He doesn’t have to move very far before his knee loudly cracks.

Point made, you turn to Halsin. “So, Wildshape it is, then.”

Halsin chuckles, the gentle sound rumbling through the hardened earth. “Fair enough. I can’t be seen by any of the Absolute’s followers, anyway. Am I correct in assuming you don’t want the bear, this time?”

“Unless you can turn yourself into a very small bear, then no.” You hold your hands apart, roughly the width of a melon.

“Not that small, I’m afraid, but I have a number of other shapes that should suffice.” Halsin cycles through the small animals he’s seen, trying to determine which will be best suited for the current task. “What exactly do you require of me?”

It’s a rare occasion indeed that Halsin should be tasked with stealth. It’s not his way—he’s one to avoid the fights he can, and when diplomacy fails, he meets his foe head-on. Among his circle, there were many far better suited to subterfuge—Kagha being one of them, and one of the reasons he valued her leadership as a counterpoint to his own. But perhaps his confidence in his own strength blinded him to the danger festering beneath his nose.

The threat of the Absolute had plagued his mind for weeks—when a group of mercenaries seeking the Nightsong, a name he hadn’t heard in decades, happened upon his Grove, all else fled his mind save for the chance to undo his past mistakes. The Oak Father’s signs could not have been clearer. But in his obsession with the past, he lost sight of the present—he failed to see how Kagha’s deceptions had been turned on him. So concerned with the wolves gathering around his den, he failed to see the viper that had slithered within.

In a strange way, perhaps that, too, was fate—a chance for him to see his shortcomings and a chance for you to prove your loyalty. Had it not been for your protection of the Grove, Halsin would have been hard-pressed to find it within himself to trust a Lolth-Sworn drow seeking a cure for ceremorphosis. Nettie told him of the deal you made upon his return; Halsin can’t fault her for giving you a chance, but had he been the one that greeted you instead, he isn’t sure he would have trusted your word. Knowing you as he does now, he’s fairly certain your promise to Nettie was a bold-faced lie. Halsin is merciful, not reckless.

“Something small, that wouldn’t be out of place in the dungeons,” you begin. “You should focus on getting a lay of the land and identifying the points of entry, number of guards and their patterns, identifying possible chokepoints, how many prisoners we need to transport and their abilities. If you can identify a way to communicate with the prisoners, you should gather any information from them that you can.”

Halsin nods sagely. “Conversing in Wildshape certainly isn’t the easiest, but I’ve managed before.” A Potion of Animal Speaking is easiest, but failing that, as long as there’s a dusty surface to write on, he can make do.

You nod curtly. “If you can’t, then we can always send someone invisible down afterwards, once we know how to avoid notice from the guards.”

“Then, I believe I’m ready. Is there anything you require of me before I shift?” Halsin looks once over the faces of your gathered allies. When no one speaks, Halsin nods and closes his eyes.

Spectral vines rise from the earth, wrapping themselves around Halsin’s form. They form thick cords around Halsin’s torso, climbing higher and higher. They completely obscure the shape of the man within. Halsin begins to stoop down at the same time that the vines constrict around his body, and the formless figure, shrinks in size. The vines fuse together and disappear, just as the golden light grows brighter—so bright that you need to avert your eyes, lest they burn. Just as soon as it started, the light fades, and when you turn back you find a large, auburn rat sitting on its haunches where Halsin stood moments ago.

The corner of your mouth quirks up in mild amusem*nt. It’s certainly strange to see Halsin, large and broad as he is, reduced to the size of something that can fit in the palm of your hand. Astarion likewise folds his arms across his chest and raises an eyebrow. He lifts his foot and gently pokes the rat’s belly with the toe of his boot.

“Well. You’re certainly the juiciest rat I’ve ever seen,” Astarion teases, similarly amused.

Halsin chitters at him, slumping over and clinging to the top of Astarion’s boot. Where everyone else hears wordless squeaks, you hear: “I make an even juicier cow if you’d ever like a taste.”

An inelegant snort escapes as you turn your head away. Astarion looks to you with a questioning gaze, but soon gets distracted by Halsin skittering up his boot. “Oh, no, down!” Astarion huffs, shaking his leg. “Unhand me, vermin! I don’t want claw marks in my trousers!”

Halsin pauses his assent, little claws digging into the linen of Astarion’s clothes. He glances down, the drop to the ground now a significant risk to the small creature. You roll your eyes and quickly lean over, fitting a hand carefully around Halsin’s torso. Halsin gladly releases Astarion’s leg and curls his paws around your fingers.

“There.” You lift the palm-sized rat and set him carefully on your shoulder. “Your trousers are stained with gith blood, don’t act so dramatic.” You lift one side of your cloak, allowing Halsin to crawl beneath it.

Astarion watches as Halsin presses himself close to your neck (right next to his bite marks!) his body draped over your shoulder and claws kneading the fabric of your robes. “That’s a snack I’m saving for later,” he huffs and looks pointedly away to hide his forlorn pout.

You smooth out your cloak, eyeing it and making sure there’s no suspicious lump or tail sticking out from beneath the folds. Satisfied with your work, you stride forward, finally crossing the shimmering barrier that protects Moonrise Towers from the Shadow Curse. Without a word, the others follow; Astarion, as always, clings to your shadow, Karlach takes up the rear, and Rolan hangs close to Gale’s side, his shoulders drawn inward as he fearfully peeks out at the Absolute’s followers.

You climb the familiar steps to Moonrise, a deep pool of dread threatening to drag you under. You’ve kept yourself out of Moonrise for nearly a tenday—focusing instead on the town of Reithwin, carefully and methodically searching through the rubble to learn the town’s history. You hope to find some clue to beating Ketheric Thorm, and you worry that around every unsearched corner you’ll find another trace of your old life. There’s been nothing since the last time you stayed at Moonrise, when Sceleritas tasked you with Isobel’s murder. You aren’t sure what to expect upon your return, with Isobel unsullied.

You limit your time at Moonrise due to the memories, and you limit your time at Last Light out of fear of what your body will do. The safe havens within the Shadowlands pose the biggest danger to you.

You knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from Moonrise forever, but you’d hoped to have more time to steel yourself. But Rolan’s sudden appearance caught you by surprise, and now you’ve committed to freeing his siblings. Rolan might not be one of your friends, but for the time being he’s agreed to fight by your side. You won’t break a vow, no matter how much you dread setting foot in the tower.

Briefly, you pause at the threshold, waiting for the siren speaking to you from within the walls. But the air is blessedly silent, only the hum of the trainees and the traders within the foyer meet your ears. The tension strung between your ribs suddenly eases and you let out a heavy breath of relief.

“Something the matter?” Astarion asks with false cheer at your shoulder.

“No, no.” You shake your head to clear it. “It’s just been a while.” You force yourself across the threshold with unsteady steps, eyes flitting anxiously between the rafters overhead.

“It has hasn’t it?” Astarion scrunches up his nose, mouth pulled into a sharp frown. “And the decor is still so horrendously drab.”

His voice and steps remain light, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. He catches the way your eyes dart across the ceiling, but doesn’t attempt to follow your gaze. He’s far more concerned with your fingers twitching at your sides and the knowledge that you’re only ever one Misty Step away from disaster. He keeps his hands at the ready, his feet poised to sprint, watching for any sign that you’re about to wander out of his reach. He may not have Counterspell like Gale, but he’s never needed that to keep his prey from fleeing.

The others follow close behind, drawing little attention from the groups of people mulling about the tower’s entryway. It may have been some time since your group passed through, but you’ve become a common enough sight in that nobody pays you any mind. You hook an immediate left and walk directly into the kitchens. The room is empty, the spot of blood cleared away where the gnolls disemboweled Linsella. It’s the perfect place to gather privately. You perform a quick sweep, checking the archway and casting a glance out the back door.

Once you’ve ensured the coast is clear, you gently lift Halsin from his place on your shoulder and turn to your gathered allies. “Now, remember the plan?” you ask, holding the rat up to eye level. At Halsin’s answering nod, you continue. “Be back here in an hour. If you’re gone longer than that, we’ll come look for you.”

Halsin nods again. With a rendezvous location set, you kneel down and gently place Halsin on the ground. As soon as your hands leave his body, he scurries off, back around the corner from where you came. A cold unease settles at the back of your throat as you watch him go. If he gets captured, or worse, it will be on your orders, and you’ll be too far to provide any aid. It’s a necessary risk, and he’s best suited for the task, but even still, it’s difficult to let your allies wander out of sight.

You can’t shake the feeling the you should be the one to scout ahead. But you know full well that your skillset is unsuited for the task. Your greatest asset is the magic running through your veins, and Invisibility removes spellcraft as an option. Furthermore, with the effect this tower’s had on you, you think it best not to wander into unfamiliar territory alone. For the best chance at rescuing Rolan’s siblings alive, you need to place your faith in someone else, and likewise let them take the risk in your place.

The helplessness itches beneath your skin.

Karlach bounces anxiously on her feet. “Now what?” she asks.

You sigh and stand back up. “Now we wait.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

It’s a remarkably short time before you begin pacing the length of the room. You wave your hand in the air, anxiously tossing an orb of light between your palms. The light shifts periodically—blood red to bright pink to sunset orange, brightening and dimming, rolling slowly up the length of your arm and weaving chaotically between your legs.

Astarion’s eyes follow you from the beginning, barely even blinking as he charts your path across the floor. Unease pricks the skin at the base of his neck, as your mindless circles around the kitchen remind him of the path you made through Moonrise’s hallways just before you climbed out a window. Just like then, your body moves with almost no input from you, acting on muscle memory alone, desperate to work out the restless energy roiling beneath your skin. But from what he saw before, nothing on earth save for blood loss and frostbite are capable of halting that energy in its tracks.

Karlach, too, takes notice, and her eyes follow you with brows raised high. It’s been a long time since she dealt with a soldier’s nerves. In Avernus, all of her comrades were more than eager to charge the battlefield, hungry for the slaughter. Anyone who wasn’t nearly mad with bloodlust would never dare show it. Any perceived weakness would make you easy prey for foe and ally alike. But she remembers a time when she used to serve a young lord, who would anxiously pace the halls of Wyrm’s Crossing while awaiting an invite to a duke’s chambers. He would mutter to himself under his breath, planning arguments and rebuttals, point and counterpoint to any pushback he received.

At the time she thought it charming—proof that despite his ambitions, he was just another kid trying to get a foothold in with people who wouldn’t give him the time of day. He very rarely left those meetings satisfied—usually grumbling curses and storming out of the keep with single-minded fury. She’d sympathized with him, trusted that his strategies were as cunning and sensible as the man appeared to her, and believed that the people in charge were blinded by resentment for someone young, bright, and built from poverty.

In hindsight, she wonders if the lords of Baldur’s Gate, jaded and selfish as they are, sensed what she failed to see.

After a few more minutes, Karlach decides she’s had enough watching you run yourself into the ground. “Ugh, Soldier, watching you do that is making me nervous,” Karlach finally bursts out..

You pause, a dim, orange sphere of light resting in your palm. “Watching me do what?”

Karlach waves across the length of the room, at the path you’ve been circling ever since Halsin left. “Wearing a hole in the floor like that. You should put your feet up while we have the chance. We might need to do a hell of a lot of running in the next few hours.”

You purse your lips, the light in your hand shifting to a bright vermillion. “I have Haste and Misty Step; I can probably get away without running.”

Karlach rolls her eyes. “Okay, smartass.” She beckons you over with a wave of her hand. “Come over here and take a load off with Mama K.”

The orb of light in your palm disappears in a small shower of sparks as a breath of laughter escapes through your nose. Dutifully, you go to her, settling on the unlit stone oven next to Karlach. The nervous energy doesn’t fully leave, it still thrums beneath the surface of your skin—an itch you can’t scratch. Unbidden, your leg begins to bounce, your mind still drifting to thoughts of Halsin even as you turn your attention to Karlach.

Karlach watches you with pursed lips, a look of deep concentration set on her face. After a few moments, a spark of inspiration ignites in her eyes and she begins digging through the bag on her hip. “You know what I found at Last Light the other day?”

She pulls a sheaf of crinkled vellum from her pack in triumph. The edges turn black with scrorch marks and in some places, inked words smear into splotches of indecipherable gray. She tries to smooth out the creases against her thigh, and faint wisps of smoke tickle the skin beneath your nose. You can’t help your curiosity as she finally holds the newly singed pages aloft.

“More kindling?” Astarion tuts. “I think we’re more than set on Selûnite prayer books for Shadowheart to burn, but it’s the thought that counts.”

Karlach rolls her eyes. “It’s a torn-up copy of Volo’s Guide to Monsters.” Both you and Astarion visibly perk up. “A lot of the pages are missing, but, I still thought it’d be a fun read.”

“Gods, yes,” you breathe. “I need more material for getting under Elminster’s skin if we ever see him again.”

Astarion leans over, peering at the half-ruined book as Karlach flips through it. “Oh, please tell me he included an entry on vampires.”

Karlach thrusts the paper into Astarion’s chest, which he takes eagerly. “We’ll just have to find out won’t we?”

With her hands now free, Karlach easily wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you against her side. You can’t help the pleased hum that rises from your chest, a near purr as you bask in Karlach’s warmth. You miss the warm, sunlit days of summer. You didn’t think to relish in them as they passed. Even if you’d spared a thought to the oncoming winter, you don’t know that it would have meant anything without any reference for the season’s chill. But one thing you’ve come to treasure about autumn is the excuse to press yourself close to your friends’ sides, huddling around the fire with warm food and drink, heavy blankets draped over your shoulders. Karlach burns warm enough to outshine the sun—as long as you have her you don’t mind the chill.

Astarion grins wide, fangs on display, and flips eagerly through the pages, paying special attention to the footnotes left by Elminster. “Oh, this is too good, listen to this—” Astarion puffs out his chest, his pitch rising to mimic Volo’s speech. “‘While I’ve never had the chance to partake of an illithid brain, I suspect it would be similar to pickled squid with an aftertaste varying based on their colony’s diet. Editor’s Note: Illithid brains are poisonous and drive sentient creatures insane.’”

You chuckle to yourself. “I suppose the good news for Volo is that if this whole tadpole problem doesn’t sort itself out, he’ll have ample opportunity to find out firsthand.”

Astarion looks at you flatly over the top of the pages. “Morbid. Ooh, he has an entry about kobolds. What do you think their brains taste like?”

Karlach ponders this for a moment, gazing upward. “Like lizard, I’d imagine?”

You close your eyes and allow the familiar cadence of Astarion’s voice to wash over you, warmed to your bones by the fire in Karlach’s heart. This must be what His Majesty’s life is like—an ever-burning hearth to warm yourself by and a lap to doze on never far away. You envy Halsin. How nice it would be to shrink yourself down to something harmless and small, to burrow yourself into the crook of Karlach’s neck, where she’ll keep you safe and warm.

You could shrink down even smaller, to the tiniest spider (fitting, for a child of Lolth) and skitter up the slope of her neck, across her lovely face and into her open mouth. As she slept, there would be nothing to stop you from skirting around the points of her teeth and finding purchase on her tongue. Her airways would be wide and unblocked for you to crawl down the back of her mouth, little more than a tickle within her windpipe as you burrow down, down, down. It would be so warm, in the pocket of her lungs, right next to her fiery heart. Within Karlach’s meat and sinew, the chill of winter would never find you.

When the air grew too hot and stale, you need only end the transformation, and your expanding body would burst violently through Karlach’s flesh, shredding organs and breaking bones, her skin would encompass yours like a warm blanket and she would be yours yours yours—

Schlck, schlck, schlck.

Meat sliding across cold slate. A familiar energy needling the center of your brain. Something looming within the walls, closer now than every before.

-heir--- ---tyrant-

--FLAW-

You go completely still, your mind empty of all else, save for the voice calling you into the depths.

Across the room, Gale sits cross-legged on the floor, his spellbook spread open in front of him. Rolan stands nearby, arms crossed tightly over his chest, tail curling and uncurling around his own ankle. He peers at Gale’s spells with academic curiosity, but refrains from looking any closer than a cursory glance. It’s a cardinal sin to read another wizard’s spellbook without permission.

Gale notes his interest and flashes the young man a warm smile. “See something you like?” he asks brightly.

Rolan’s eyes dart quickly away, flustered at having been caught. “Just curious,” he mutters. “You seem to have a wealth of spells copied down.”

Gale glances at the battle-worn pages of his spellbook. “Oh, I used to know a great deal more,” he sighs.

His old spellbook, his crowning achievement, containing the sum of all the knowledge he’d gained through his studies, sits in a dusty drawer, locked away and never to be used again. All his power vanished in the blink of an eye, sapped away by the orb as surely as his life’s essence. All things the same, he’d prefer if the orb consumed more of his life and left his magic untouched. Without his mastery of the arcane, Gale’s life is of little consequence. But Gale had no choice in what the orb took from him, only that cursed choice to meddle in the affairs of gods in the first place.

Rolan eyes him quizzically, brows furrowed. “I wasn’t aware magic was something you could forget,” he says caustically.

Gale shrugs. “Under normal circ*mstances, no. But mine is a special case I’m afraid.”

Rolan casts a wary glance around the room, at you and the others absorbed in conversation. “Your group seems to be full of those.”

Gale chuckles. “I suppose we must seem a strange bunch to you.”

Rolan gives him another deadpan stare. “Strange is putting it lightly.” His words cut through the air with a harsh edge. He sighs, shaking his head wryly. “But I suppose these are strange times.”

“I find they almost always are. A peaceful life just means that someone else is fixing the problem.” That earns a small huff of laughter from Rolan’s mouth.

Gale can’t help but internally cheer at the victory, small as it is. “Here, come sit.” Gale pats the ground next to him. “We should compare spell lists.”

Rolan hesitates, a brief look of surprise passing over his face. “You… don’t mind?” He eyes Gale’s spellbook, wide open and unhidden.

Gale follows his eyes. “What, about these common spells?” Gale laughs with an edge of haughtiness. “There’s nothing here that you couldn’t find at a magic shop in Baldur’s Gate. Perhaps if I had my own formulations I’d be more possessive, but.” Gale waves a hand vaguely. “Those capabilities are beyond my reach, now.”

Rolan’s eyebrow twitches. He bites his tongue, holding back a sharp comment that Gale is holding thousands of gold worth of arcane knowledge at his fingertips. Whether the spells are available in Baldur’s Gate and whether the average wizard can obtain them are two very different things. But the offer to peer at a spellbook as extensive as Gale’s is too tempting; Rolan isn’t going to give Gale a reason to rescind it.

Slowly and with an overabundance of caution, Rolan lowers himself to the smooth stone floor. Dread and suspicion fuel the fire in his eyes. His burning gaze prickles Gale’s skin; Rolan regards him with the same disdain that Gale used to feel towards his upperclassmen when he was a young boy.

Magic has always been his first and truest love, almost since the day he was born. Even before Mystra took interest in him, he was hailed as a prodigy. His instructors praised the ease with which he took to his studies. It came naturally to him—the Weave unveiled itself plainly before his eyes while his peers struggled to grasp a single thread. His teachers recommended and pushed for his advancement, his mother couldn’t be prouder.

But the thing about children who grow up on a pedestal is that their peers have to look up to meet their eyes. Gale excelled at his studies, advancing through Introductory Abjuration and The Fundamentals of Divination and soon found himself buried in textbooks titled The Metaphysics of Transmutation and The Ethics of Enchantment. He was placed beside students ten years his senior and lacked any of their social graces.The only thing he had in common with his classmates was an interest in the arcane.

Gale would listen to the students next to him chatting and try to follow their lead. They would discuss their struggles in other courses, so Gale did the same. But his words were met with silent scorn and ridicule. When he tried to discuss his studies, he was perceived as arrogant. When he tried to mention his personal projects, people assumed he was bragging. In time, he simply stopped saying much of anything at all, instead devoting more of his time to his studies. He would advance further, only widening the gap between him and other children his age.

He’d had Tara, for the longest time his first and only friend. When he told her about the cruel words he heard from older children, she cursed them so that any cruel word left their lips as a harmless bubble. It was a source of endless amusem*nt, when someone tried to deride Gale behind his back, only for a series of pink bubbles to swallow their voice. The look of shock and embarrassment on their faces would nearly send Gale into a fit of giggles. The other students quickly took notice and delighted in another’s magical mishap. When they realized it was a curse, it started a string of curses and counter-curses among the students that eventually needed to be altogether banned.

It turned the bitter envy slithering around his heart into a source of joy. Regardless of the difficulties Gale faced in his studies, Tara was there, always, waiting for him. She would hop up from his pillow, stretch out her wings, then press her head into the palm of his hand, silently asking to be pampered. Any tears he shed were very quickly caught by her feathers, and on the days he just wanted to crawl into bed and hide from the world, Tara would tuck herself into his arms, her whole body gently purring next to his heart. He would instinctively calm, brushing his hands over her smooth fur until he drifted into a pleasant dream.

Gale can’t imagine that it would be any easier as a tiefling, in a city biased towards the divine. Gale is glad, then, that Rolan has people to rely on.

“I think our best best is going to be focusing on crowd control,” Gale murmurs, tapping a finger against his lips. “Assuming we’ll have to run, we’re best suited to stalling the guards while the prisoners escape.”

Rolan looks down at his own spellbook in his lap. “Ah.” He sounds almost sheepish.

“What is it?” Gale asks kindly in the face of Rolan’s obvious discomfort.

Rolan’s hackles raise immediately, purposefully turning his face away so that he doesn’t have to see the older wizard’s expression. “I don’t have many options for that role. The only decent spell I have in that vein is Color Spray, well… my version of it anyway.”

Gale pauses, his pointer finger still extended where it traces beneath a line of text in his spellbook. Slowly, he looks up, blinking owlishly at the young man’s casual admission. Rolan still keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the far door at the end of the room, refusing to meet Gale’s eyes. Rolan fidgets in place, nervous in a way Gale hasn’t observed before. Rolan holds his spellbook close to his chest, the cover tilted to completely obscure its text from Gale’s view. A pointed nail taps irritably against the leather cover, leaving a series of pinpricks in the old hide.

It’s a quality spellbook, Gale notes, the kind you give a burgeoning young wizard on their first day at school. Gale’s mother has one much like it kept safe in a chest in her attic, next to Gale’s knitted baby blanket and a lopsided drawing of Tara. Rolan’s is clearly well-loved, stains weathered into the cover from years of hands smoothing across the hide, the spine cracked from use so that the pages no longer lay flat.

“Your version of Color Spray?” Gale asks after a long period of silence.

Rolan’s gaze flicks towards him, head still fixed firmly forward. “Ah, yes. A few minor alterations to refine the spellcraft, nothing dramatic.”

Alterations to refine one of the most fundamental spells within every wizard’s repertoire. That’s like claiming to have improved the concept of caramelizing onions. It’s not unusual for young wizards to try their hand at modifying basic spells. Every wizard adds their own flair to their formulas—usually little more than adding cosmetic changes to fit their own sensibilities. Occasionally, they’ll try their hand at “improving” arcane staples like Shield, but it’s exceedingly rare for a fledgling mage to come up with something that’s both stable and repeatable. There’s a reason that wizards dedicate their lives to studying the Weave—without care it can become a violent, fickle mistress. One need look no farther than your own volatile magic for evidence of that.

Either Rolan is being overly modest or he truly has no idea of the magnitude of what he’s claiming.

Even asking to see another wizard’s spellbook is a massive overstep without any sort of formal contract in place. But… Gale hasn’t gotten to where he is without toeing the line of a few boundaries. “Forgive me if I’m being a bit presumptuous, but would you be willing to allow me a brief glimpse?” Rolan’s answering glare is both scathing and immediate. Gale holds up both his hands in a placating gesture. “Not to copy it, mind you! I simply find myself fascinated by the idea of an altered Color Spray.”

Rolan’s glare softens minutely at the gentle stroke to his ego, but he still narrows his eyes, regarding Gale with caution, his guard raised. Understandably so, given the viciousness of spell theft in academic circles. However, Gale is already infamous enough among fellow wizards, he has no need to codify another spell under his name. His interest is fueled by simple curiosity, not any desire for fame or fortune.

“I’ll let you copy down Gale’s Gift of Gab in exchange,” Gale offers, knowing the promise of a free spell is like catnip for wizards.

Rolan raises an eyebrow, eyes still narrowed slightly. “I’ve never heard of that spell. What does it do?”

“You wouldn’t have—I made it for myself and never shared it with anyone.” Gale laughs easily. “Have you ever said something foolish, only to immediately wish you could undo it?”

Rolan tilts his head, clearly still perplexed. “No, never,” he lies.

Gale smiles to himself at the safety Rolan finds in his pride. Oh, to be young again. “Well, should you ever find yourself in a situation where you do, Gale’s Gift of Gab lets you do exactly that.”

Rolan’s suspicion momentarily flees, his eyebrows raising in surprise edged with amusem*nt. “How?”

“I’ll tell you, if you let me see that spell of yours,” Gale hums in a singsong voice.

Rolan purses his lips, glancing down at his spellbook, to Gale, then back again, silently debating with himself. Gale waits patiently, perhaps with mild amusem*nt as he watches the argument happening behind Rolan’s eyes. With a soft sigh of resignation, Rolan finally allows his spellbook to fall open, flipping quickly through the pages before Gale can view the runes haphazardly scribbled in their margins. He stops on a spread of two pages, the words “Rolan’s Color Spray” written in neat Common at the top.

“Here,” Rolan says, slightly reserved as he slides the book onto his knee closest to Gale.

Gale peers down at the book, his already dark eyes deepening with eager curiosity. He can’t help but smile to himself, recognizing the eager and haphazard scrawl of an excited young wizard. This book is clearly Rolan’s working space, in addition to his final draft. Lines of runes and careful instructions have been written then scribbled out, copied below with a modified set of instructions, only for that, too, to be scratched out. Gale used to do the same when he was younger, though over time he learned to use a separate book for brainstorming, only copying the spell into his spellbook proper once it was finalized.

Seeing Rolan’s work laid out before him takes Gale back to the frost-bitten days of his youth, sitting cross-legged beneath the oak tree in his backyard, spellbook spread across his lap. Dark ink stained his fingertips, his level of focus measured by the number of soot-gray stains smeared across his cheeks and chin. Tara curled against his side, basking in the mid-afternoon sunshine. When she desired more attention than the young wizard gave her, she laid one careful paw over his thigh, removing it only after Gale scratched behind her ears. Gale would jot notes and ideas furiously onto the paper, despearate to grasp the thread of inspiration before it vanished.

His mother would walk out into the backyard, a dishtowel wrung between her hands. Morena would call his name, beckoning him out of the spring chill to the dinner table. The savory smell of pork pie would waft through the window, promising a warm, hearty meal. The only thing more enticing than magic to a young Gale was good food. The boy would scramble quickly to his feet, spellbook and supplies bundled haphazardly in his arms, and race across the yard to his mother’s side. She would catch him with a hand on the back of his head, fingers carding through long, untamed hair. Her arms were always welcoming and gentle, heedless of the progress Gale made in his studies. In those long, lonely afternoons, his mother always offered him a soft place to fall.

Gale’s eyes slowly widen as he traces Rolan’s work with his fingertip. “This is brilliant,” he gasps. “The use of quartz shavings in place of sand to make use of its alchemical composition is genius!”

Rolan startles for a brief moment, as if surprised by Gale’s praise. Then he remembers to don his persona and settles back into haughty confidence. “It’s really quite obvious when you spare the time to consider it. Any gemstone has more stored energy that simple rock, so naturally using that as a material component would heighten the effect.”

Gale shakes his head. “You’re too modest, my friend.” Rolan pauses, looking to Gale with wide, unclouded eyes. “Reworking a spell without compromising its integrity is no easy feat. You have much to be proud of.”

Rolan hums idly in the back of his throat, turning to the end of the section. “There are still improvements to be made,” he says dismissively. “I’ll have much to learn from Lorroakan once I get to Baldur’s Gate.”

A sudden chill trickles down the knobs of Gale’s spine. “Lorroakan,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’re to be his apprentice, if I recall?”

Pride swells within Rolan’s chest, pushing his shoulders up to their full height. He cuts a proud figure against the dark stones of Moonrise. “I am. It’s a rare honor, indeed.”

Gale has never met the man, nor had any dealings with him at all. But every wizard’s favorite pastime, apart from pursuing godhood, is gossip. Lorroakan entered the public eye out of almost nowhere a decade ago when he purchased Ramazith’s Tower, which had stood empty for nearly a century prior. Little was known about the reclusive wizard, but he very quickly gained a reputation for being abrasive and conceited, with a nasty temper. But heads full of hot air and steam were hardly rare among wizards; the man was altogether unremarkable, save for his choice of real estate. The Recluse of Ramazith, people called him, well-known among wizards on the Sword Coast for hoarding his arcane knowledge within the stone walls of his tower, never venturing beyond the threshold into the sun.

Nothing that Gale has heard suggests that Lorroakan has any genuine interest in acting as a mentor. Which either means Rolan is lying about his apprenticeship, or Lorroakan has some other use for the young man. And from what Gale has seen, Rolan’s poker face leaves much to be desired. Unease curdles beneath the surface of Gale’s skin.

“How did you become acquainted with him, if you don’t mind my asking?” Gale ventures, gently teasing around the edges of the real question he wants to ask.

Rolan deflates ever so slightly, looking almost sheepish as his eyes dart away. “Truth be told, I sent letters to a number of wizards throughout the Heartlands. Lorroakan was the only one to write back.”

Gale wonders if he should take offense to the fact that he never received a letter. Then again, he hasn’t exactly been keeping up with his correspondence. There’s an ever-growing pile of missives waiting for him back in his study, dating to his first day of self-imposed isolation. If he had seen it, would he have bothered to send a response? Perhaps, though Gale would never have agreed to take the boy on as a student. Not only because of the orb, but because he had no need of one. He had Tara and she was more than enough companionship. It doesn’t surprise Gale that few wizards bothered to respond. It shocks him more than Lorroakan did.

The disquiet slithering around his heart only tightens.

“He offered me the opportunity to come study under him in Baldur’s Gate. Obviously, I would be a fool to turn down a chance like that.”

Gale had felt so, so special when Mystra turned her eyes towards him. Elminster simply strode onto his mother’s porch one day, drawn by a sudden burst of fire and a young boy hiding his face in his mother’s skirts. Elminster spoke of potential and power, creation and destruction, responsibility and education. The conversation went over young Gale’s head, too busy mourning their neighbor’s rose bushes, guilt-laden tears streaming from his eyes.

But his mother’s relief at Elminster’s offer to mentor Gale was palpable. Gale’s magic had been wild and untamed nearly since birth—his uncoordinated, flailing limbs grasped threads of the Weave even in his cradle. Arcane energy passed across his unblemished skin with an ease and intensity that was nearly unheard of, even among the strongest sorcerers.

Gale’s sudden bursts of magic were a constant source of stress for Morena Dekarios. Gale was a sweet, sensitive boy, and that only made his magic more unpredictable. He could summon a dozen white rabbits or set the neighbor’s roses ablaze without ever intending to cast a spell.The promise of good training, under Elminster himself, no less, seemed a godsend at the time. He might very well have been sent by a god—training a new generation of Mystra’s Chosen in preparation for her Return.

Elminster directed the course of his childhood, through study and prayer, to Blackstaff, and then his first trials as a young wizard. When Mystra first showed her face to him, Gale had long prayed to the dead goddess without hope of an answer. At first she came to him in his dreams, gazing upon his unconscious mind and praising him for the intelligence she found within. When he returned to the waking world, sonorous laughter would echo through the halls of his mind. That was in the year before Mystra’s Return, when the world still thought Cyric had slain the goddess for good. Gale thought those visions as little more than the pleasant imaginings of a lonely young man.

Even when news broke of her resurrection, Gale still struggled to believe that the woman from his dreams could be the Mother of All Magic herself. Mystra had been dead for nearly a century, surely she would have more important things to do than visit the dreams of a young man. But one starry night, in Blackstaff Academy’s observatory, Gale peered through a telescope at the stars. This late in the evening, all the other apprentices had retired for the evening. Gale alone stayed up, unable to sleep, so instead he looked at the stars. It was then that a tall, slender woman, ageless in her ethereal beauty, walked out of a moonbeam and into Gale’s sight.

The Weave itself swirled in her piercing blue eyes, and Gale could no longer deny the reality of his nighttime visitor. She spent the evening with him, answering his questions, tracing runes for archaic spells into the lines of his palm, talking and giving him all the attention that none of his peers ever dared. She disappeared in the morning light with a promise to return soon. From then on, her voice would ring through his mind during prayer—praising him for his successes, granting him her blessing when he pleaded for aid. She kept her promises and on starry nights when the sky was clear, she would craft a vessel of flesh and blood to contain her soul, and grant Gale the pleasure of her company.

Gale asked, once, what it was that drew her to him, of all the people in the world. Mystra went quiet for a long time. So long, that Gale began to fear he’d crossed an invisible line or violated the unwritten terms of the contract between him and the Lady of Magic. But just before Gale fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness, Mystra answered, her voice woven into his very skin.

“When you reach into the Weave you touch the very essence of my being. My power flows into you and yours into me. I feel the potential inside you, and the loneliness,” she crooned. “For nearly a hundred years I waited for someone to come find me. You have been waiting a long time, too.”

Gale’s heart thundered in his chest as Mystra’s voice flowed through his veins like warm syrup, thick and tender. She leaned so close that for a moment he thought she might kiss him. His lips tingled with the thought. It had been so long since his last attempts at teen romance. Mystra leaned close enough that were she mortal, he would feel her breath on his cheek. But Mystra had no need of lungs, and instead on his cheek he felt the radiation of pure, raw, energy.

But at the last moment, Mystra pulled away, leaving him wanting. “You are a good wizard, with a bright future ahead of you,” Mystra hummed. “But under the proper care, you could be brilliant.”

Against the night sky, stars formed a halo around her brow. Gale’s years of loneliness and solitude finally had meaning, because they brought him Mystra. He’d finally been given a purpose. Mystra took up the mantle of his mentor, then his lover as the years passed. He thought his days of loneliness to be over. Little did he realize just how loneliness and Mystra wove themselves together.

Seeing Rolan’s youthful eagerness and dedication to his teacher unravels a thread deep within Gale’s heart. Gale has managed to do the impossible and wound the clock back to a decade hence; now he stares into a mirror, a reflection of his own ambition as a young man. A decade ago when Mystra offered him the world, Gale saw only his own unhappiness and everything he stood to gain. But looking at Rolan today, he sees everything the man has to lose.

Gale’s words tread carefully as they leave his lips—he knows the sudden drop that awaits should he falter. “You’ve already given much just to seize this opportunity.”

Rolan scoffs. “Cal, Lia, and I were driven out of Elturel, anyway. We had to find somewhere else to live.”

Gale swallows thickly. It doesn’t bring him comfort to know Rolan has no caretakers to worry after him. Gale’s mother had always fretted when Mystra came to spirit him away. Gale would be gone for months at a time, content and caged within the safety of Mystra’s domain. Morena knew that Mystra was a goddess, but Gale was her son, and it ached to know he was so far out of her reach. If Gale needed her, Morena would be unable to hear his call. Despite his mother’s worries, Gale hadn’t listened.

He isn’t sure there’s anything his mother could have said to steer him away from the Lady of Mysteries. But at least she was there after his fall from grace, to pick him up out of the rubble and patch up his wounds.

“Either way, if Lorroakan puts as much work into teaching you as you’ve put into reaching him, then you’ll have a bright future ahead of you,” Gale says with false cheer.

The corners of Rolan’s mouth pinch together and he narrows his eyes at Gale. “Have you been talking to Lia? You’re beginning to sound just like her.”

When you lay with the Goddess of Magic, you dedicate yourself to her fully. She is a god, and a lowly human boy must prove himself worthy of her love and attention. When Mystra has a thousand worshippers the world over all pledging their devotion, how is one boy meant to compare? But Gale was determined to be her most devoted lover, to worship her better than the rest, to prove himself worthy of her gift and affection. He worshipped at her altar day in and day out, took up her mantle in preserving the Weave, gave her every piece he had to give, mind, body, and soul.

When she had a dozen other lovers vying for her attention, and a thousand voices constantly whispering in her ear, Gale needed to love her loud enough to drown out the din. And for a time he did. Or so he thought.

But the years passed, and Gale stopped being the young man Mystra had favored. He grew older, his joints began to ache, and his hair went gray at the temples. Mystra was a voracious lover, and he struggled to match her libido the way he did in his youth. His mortal form got in the way as he suffered the pains of aging—weight gain, carpal tunnel, indigestion—all normal, human ailments that come with age, but inconvenient to immutable, unchanging Mystra. What use did she have for a lover whose knees ached in heavy rain when she could have another bright, young man in the prime of his life?

As Gale lay in bed, icing his old knee injury, he never expected Mystra to comfort him. That wasn’t the way of things. She had other, far more important matters to attend to than an ailing lover. But from time to time, he imagined what it would be like, if things were different and he had a lover who would take care of him the way he tried to care for Mystra.

What would it be ike to have a lover cook you a warm meal, soothe your aches, choose you in all your imperfect, human faults? He entertained thoughts of starting a family, of his mother’s unbridled joy at being made a grandmother, holidays spent by the hearth of his childhood home. Then he would quickly brush the thought away with a hint of melancholy. With Mystra, he could never have children. Even if he tried to raise a child on his own, he wouldn’t be able to devote himself to them the way they deserved, not when Mystra held so much of his heart.

It was for the best. It wasn’t as if he’d ever particularly wanted children. He’d known from an early age that a life at Mystra’s altar meant sacrificing parts of himself for her favor. This was just another piece of himself he had to set aside.

He’d sacrificed so much over the years, and still Mystra asked him to sacrifice more.

What did he have left with everything that made his life worthwhile stripped away? Every spell he casts these days leaves an acrid aftertaste in the back of his throat, bitterness rising to fill the empty chambers of a heart that used to thrum with joy. Magic is the source of his joy, but so, too, is it the source of inconceivable heartache.

He cannot cast a spell without remembering everything he’s lost. When he closes his eyes and reaches for the Weave, he sees how it draws away. The orb consumes every piece of the Weave it touches, leaving only frayed, haggard threads in its place. The Weave has flowed through his fingers practically since he was born, and for the first time it feels so impossibly far away.

When did his love for magic sour? When did ambition and pride start to curdle the honeyed joy within his chest? When did love and loathing knot themselves together and tighten painfully around his heart?

Gale laughs at Rolan’s accusation, and melancholy weaves through the sound. “No, but she sounds like she has a good head on her shoulders.”

Rolan scowls. “It won’t do her any good if she doesn’t use it from time to time. She always lets the soft heart get in the way of taking the easiest path.”

Gale studies Rolan for a long moment, eyes tracing the furrow in his brow and the twist of his mouth. Outwardly, the man shows frustration and anger towards his sister. But over the past three months he’s learned to peel away your anger so that the fear it hides can shine through. He sees that in Rolan now, the clear worry and care that he holds for his siblings, the same way you care for your friends.

“A soft heart isn’t always a weakness,” Gale says slowly. “And a keen mind can fail you just as easily as any other sense.” Rolan peers at him with a quizzical expression. “Raw intelligence is only one tool at your disposal—it means nothing on its own. Even Elminster himself has been tricked from time to time.”

Gale lifts his gaze, looking towards where you, Astarion, and Karlach still sit on the oven. Astarion and Karlach lean into each other, nearly falling over with laughter. Astarion holds a sheaf of crumbling vellum in one hand, the other splayed across his chest as he reads. He smiles so wide that the creases around his mouth never disappear and his fangs show plainly. Karlach has one arm around his shoulders, her head thrown back in raucous laughter. Her other arm curls around you, as you stare blankly straight ahead, pressed tight against her side.

Gale can’t help but smile, the sun rising over his heart. “It’s good to keep people who see the world differently by your side.” He looks back to Rolan, who watches the display with an almost wistful gaze. “And it’s good to listen. You’ll be surprised at all the ways someone can be smart.”

Rolan rolls his eyes. “They’re plenty smart, that’s not the problem.” He shifts uncomfortably against the wall, scowling briefly. “But your friend is right. I’m the eldest, it’s my job to keep them out of trouble, not the other way around.”

“My friend has a protective streak longer than the Chionthar and stubbornness to rival a deep rothé.” Gale huffs out a laugh. “Protecting your siblings is a noble goal, but they want to protect you just as much as you want to protect them. You’ll all save yourselves a lot of strife if you just accept that you’re all going to look out for each other.”

Rolan winces like Gale’s words tore the stitches out of a bleeding wound. “They’re not my siblings,” he says almost automatically. It’s very clearly a correction he’s had to voice many, many times before..

“Oh.” Gale blinks. It’s unusual for him to make that kind of blunder—if anything he often has to be told outright what most people are able to discern through guesswork and social deduction. Gale’s logical reasoning is better suited to academic pursuits, rather than interpersonal ones. “My apologies, for some reason I assumed—”

“Most people do,” Rolan cuts in, mouth twisting into a scowl. “Cal and Lia are siblings. I only grew up with them.”

Gale considers Rolan, taking in the young man’s suddenly stiffened shoulders and the firm set of his jaw. Rolan’s gaze is fixed straight ahead, hazy and unseeing. Shadows of childhood memories flicker across the backs of his eyes, imposed over the visage of Moonrise’s dirty kitchen.

Rolan and his mother lived in the ramshackle house next door at first. That was how the three of them met. Their childhood days in Elturel were spent running through the cobbled streets of the Dock District, and acting out grand adventures in the Winter Garden. Every few days, Rolan’s mother left him with Cal and Lia’s family while the shipping vessel she worked on set out to sea. Then, one day, she never came back. He was extremely lucky Cal and Lia’s family chose to take him in. In another life he was just another street urchin, sick and starving in the streets.

But no matter how much Cal and their mother insisted he was family, Rolan could never shake the feeling that he didn’t belong. Everyone in their small community knew Rolan’s situation. Even those that didn’t could guess upon seeing the four of them together. Cal and Lia shared their mother’s dark hair and orange eyes. Rolan, with his magic and his taller build stood out like a sore thumb.

Rolan was grateful that they provided him a home, but he would always be different. The wizard, the voice of reason, the orphan boy they took in out of the goodness of their hearts.

Gale’s lips press together in a thin line. He knows that feeling of isolation well, and the futility of trying to measure up to an ideal no person could ever hope to meet. The guilt and shame he feels at having failed is something he still struggles with to this day. He recognizes that guilt in the crack in his voice when he says his Cal and Lia’s names, the shame evident in his desperate attempt to save them.

“In that case, I think my previous statement rings even truer,” Gale hums. At Rolan’s questioning gaze, Gale continues. “In some ways, the bonds we choose to forge are even stronger than those written in our blood. Cal and Lia clearly must value you a great deal to follow you all the way from Elturel to Baldur’s Gate.”

Rolan’s shoulders hitch, pulling inward with a bitter scowl. “As I said, everyone cast out of Elturel needed somewhere to go. Baldur’s Gate is as good a location as any other.” Rolan waves a hand dismissively. “And I have what most of the others fleeing Elturel don’t—guaranteed passage into Baldur’s Gate and a job awaiting me there. You would be a fool to choose a different path when you already have a meal ticket.”

Rolan wears a severe, pinched expression as his voice leaves an acetic taste on his tongue. It’s a harsh way to view their circ*mstances. But it’s the reality they live in. Without his apprenticeship with Lorroakan—without his arcane prowess—Rolan is just another tiefling refugee in a crowd of hundreds.

Rolan’s words echo ones Gale has had many times over throughout his life. Without his magic and the gifts it’s given him, Gale is just another mouth to feed—a strain on his poor mother, just another lonely, obnoxious boy on the streets of Waterdeep. Gale knows well how people him annoying, boring, and tiresome. Even as a teen, Gale would note when his own mother’s eyes glazed over as he gushed about the newest spell he was practicing. That isn’t a habit he’s managed to shake. He knows that the only reason people bother listening to what he has to say is because of the power he holds and the possibility of what Gale can offer them. At least, they used to bother listening to him.

Hearing those thoughts reflected back at him by someone as young and talented as Rolan makes the orb pulse with a hollow ache.

Gale leans forward to catch Rolan’s gaze. “Do you truly think your friends so pragmatically minded?” Gale’s dark eyes shining with a somber understanding. “You yourself said that Lia’s heart was too soft for her own good. Do you think yourself the sole exception in that heart of hers?”

Hm. Now that he thinks about it, he can’t ever recall you drifting away in the middle of conversation. Despite the significant drawbacks that came with his continued presence, you still entertained his long-winded discussions. Even when you made it clear you thought he was being an ass, your attention never waned.

How strange.

Rolan blinks, stunned out of his bitter thoughts. Of course he doesn’t think Cal and Lia would think of anyone that way. The only manipulation he’s ever seen from them was when they worked together to charm rich tourists into offering up some coin. Lia’s the type of person who feels sympathy for the animals killed to put food on her plate. He doesn’t think Cal is capable of having a single mean thought about anyone.

Gale smiles to himself, as he watches the gears begin to turn behind Rolan’s eyes once more. He hopes that his words have planted a seed of doubt within Rolan’s heart that might one day flower into something truly beautiful. Rolan’s future is far too bright for him to ruin it because of baseless fears.

But no matter how much you water it, any seed needs time to grow. For now, he and Rolan have other matters to discuss.

“Now.” Gale turns to a blank page of his spellbook and furiously begins enscribing a familiar spell onto the paper, tugging at the strands of the Weave beneath his fingertips. “Allow me just a few moments to transcribe Gift of Gab and it’s all yours.”

Karlach stands up from the stone table, arms stretched wide overhead as she works out the knots in her shoulders and lower back. “Gods, how long has it been?” she groans, pinwheeling her arms.

“About forty minutes by my estimate,” Astarion hums, slipping the pages of Volo’s book into his pack.

Karlach groans, head tossed back and facing the ceiling. “It’s so boring.”

“I know, Karlach, dear, but just think, once Halsin gets back I’m sure we’ll have plenty of cultists for you to behead,” Astarion soothes with far too much cheer.

“I hope so,” Karlach huffs. “It’s gonna be real disappointing if it turns out we waited this long and we don’t get to spill some blood.”

“I can certainly agree with that,” Astarion hums. “I’m feeling a bit peckish.”

Karlach glances around at the gathered company, prepared to suggest someone offer up their wrist. But she quickly realizes the only option is Rolan, as she and Gale can’t contribute and you already offered up your neck the previous night. Their alliance with Rolan is already tentative at best. She doesn’t think he’d be as easygoing as your group is about being offered up as a vampire appetizer.

With a sigh Karlach shakes her head. “I need to go take a piss. Maybe run around the tower a few times.”

Gale tosses her a concerned look. “I wouldn’t recommend doing that without company.”

Karlach blinks at him. “What, pissing?”

“No, running around the tower,” Gale huffs. “Who knows what trouble you might run into out there?”

Karlach sighs reluctantly. “Fine, I suppose you have a point. I’ll just piss then.”

Astarion’s eyes follow Karlach as she walks into the hallway you passed through previously. Sudden relief washes over him as he quickly shifts closer to you, filling the space that Karlach’s absence left vacant. He’s been trying to think of a way to surreptitiously get you alone for a few minutes now, ever since he realized you stopped responding to his recitation of Volo’s ridiculous prose. He and Karlach laughed uproariously, all while you stared vacantly ahead, completely unreactive even as you sought Karlach’s warmth.

His bones grew restless beneath his skin, knowing something had happened to you, but unable to think of a way to fix it without drawing your allies’ attention. Just as before, after your outburst with Rolan, he knew there was no chance of you speaking honestly in Karlach and Gale’s presence. Whether you’d tell even him the truth was doubtful, but he’s certainly broken more ground than any of the others.

Astarion gently collects your hand off the stone oven, smoothing his thumb over your scarred knuckles. “Darling?” he calls softly. “Where have you gone?”

Sinuous meat slip-sliding between the walls, tendrils of flesh digging into the gaps between the stones, prying open the bars of their stone prison. The tower creaks and groans, and something far, far below the earth calls out to you. Your mind follows that siren song, descending into the bowels of the tower where a familiar presence beckons you with open arms.

-Gave-

---us- -EVERYTHING---

Astarion’s touch sears the flesh beneath his hand, pulling you back into your body as a line of fire travels up the length of your arm. You blink, the tower’s kitchens coming back into focus as your senses abruptly reawaken. The stone beneath your free palm holds a lingering warmth, the remnants of Karlach’s body heat trapped within. A fine layer of dust grits the surface of your skin, and it smears across Astarion’s fingers where he touches you. Woodsmoke rises from the burning hearth in wispy gray clouds the smell of soot and ash. A thin, dreamy haze fills the kitchens, stinging your eyes and blurring your vision. Or perhaps the clouds aren’t there at all, and your eyes simply refuse to focus.

You meet the concern in Astarion’s eyes with a blank mask, pushing down your confusion. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

Astarion’s mouth pinches severely at the corners, gaze piercing through your poor acting. You’re still hiding under the cover of his lies, using him as a shield to keep the others from realizing just how unsettled you are. Your moods are as wild as nature’s wrath—a restless ocean of churning nerves, your blank face the unnatural stillness in the eye of the storm, and anger that burns like a raging wildfire.

The others think Astarion able to tame the destruction, to steal the oxygen from your lungs with a kiss and let the flames choke on their own ash. They trust that he’s selfish enough to find another solution should the fire begin to lick his skin. He plays the part well enough, always gathering you into his arms in the aftermath. But he’s no more able to tame you than he could nature itself. He shields your still smoldering embers from sight with his body, but the storm still surges beneath your skin. He wishes he had the power the others think he does. But all he can do is watch as a flood sweeps away the parts of you he adores.

Astarion exhales a sigh of frustration. “When’s the last time you slept well, dearest?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“Never, elves don’t sleep.”

He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead. “Clever. Now answer the question.”

You pause, turning back the clock and gazing upon your memories one by one. You’ve never once had a restful night. Coming to the Shadowlands, and then Moonrise, has only worsened an affliction that’s plagued you as long as you can remember. Every night is the same. You take your place on your bedroll and close your eyes. As soon as reverie draws near, your body jolts, dreading the visions it knows will come. But eventually it falls, and you relive forgotten moments of bloodstained altars, still pulsing organs hanging from meathooks, screams of unimaginable agony. You wake. You pant into the dark as lust surges through your veins against your will.

Often you would wake to Astarion’s fangs in your neck, his tongue laving against your skin, soft moans tucked beneath your chin. Once he realized you were awake he’d pull back, your own scarlet blood spilling down his chin.

He leveled you with that sultry gaze of his and purred into your ear. “Aren’t you a delectable little treat?” He smoothed a hand from your shoulder, to your sternum, then down the length of your breastbone. “I can taste it, you know. How aroused you are. You must have been having a lovely dream.”

You were. But you shouldn’t have been. You should feel horrified. But that emotion wasn’t there, because there’s something wrong in you, some part of you that broke long ago and came to associate depravity with pleasure. Your chest heaved beneath Astarion’s hand as it moved down your torso.

“Were you dreaming of me, sweet thing?” he crooned “And all our nights together?”

You shook your head. “No.” You never want him to star in your dreams. Your mind would tear him apart.

“Oh?” That seemed to surprise Astarion. “Then I’d love to see just what it is that has you so hot and bothered. I can be whoever it is you’re dreaming of.”

The brush of his mind against yours was a familiar sensation, curious and eager to feel the inside of your skull. You forcefully shuttered your mind, abruptly cutting off the connection. You can’t let him see. You can’t let anyone see the barbarity that you take pleasure in. As much as Astarion totes himself as a connoisseur of hedonism and depravity, the memories dwelling within your mind are something else. It’s one thing to enjoy a little violence and bloodshed, it’s another to play around in someone’s open chest cavity while you f*ck them.

You curled a hand around the back of Astarion’s neck and pulled him down for a heated kiss, your own blood smeared across both your mouths. “Make me forget,” you begged.

Astarion hummed into your mouth. “Oh, I see,” he purred. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll take care of you.”

For a while you did forget, the whole of your mind filled with Astarion and nothing else. But soon enough he would shrug his clothes back on and slip through the opening of your tent, disappearing back into the dark. You would be left alone with yourself and all your sins. Sometimes, the heaviness in your limbs and the warm afterglow would pull you into a dreamless reverie. But sometimes you would close your eyes only to return to that vile place within your mind.

No matter what, your rest was middling at best. Were it not for your companions, you would think that was simply the way of things, that exhaustion and nightmares were the default state of being. But your companions slept through the night. Rarely did they speak of strange dreams. Some of them woke easily, refreshed, and ready to tackle the day’s challenges.

You can only remember one night where your sleep felt restful and you awoke feeling refreshed. It was the night you awoke to a body eviscerated at your feet that you couldn’t remember killing. Despite the gore and your own hands covered in viscera you weren’t awake to enjoy, your rest was strangely peaceful.

But obviously, you’re not going to say that out loud. “I slept well after you killed me,” you finally answer.

That admission doesn’t do anything to please Astarion nor smooth the furrow from his brow. He considers you for a long moment, his thumb still smoothing over the ridges of your knuckles. Once again he finds himself at a loss. He doesn’t know how to make this any easier for you. Hells, he barely gets any peace from his own memories most nights. It’s only with you that he’s found any measure of comfort. You’ve found comfort in him, too, but it isn’t enough anymore. He doesn’t know what would be.

If you can’t trance without waking, then the next best thing would be to just… stop, wouldn’t it? At different points, everyone in your group has been able to rest for a day, haven’t they? You rarely take everyone with you at once; really only when you’re on the move. Astarion is a mainstay in your party composition, but even he’s been told to stay back at times. He’d find some poor squirrel or rabbit, drain them into a goblet, and then find a sunny spot to read.

One time he’d even let Karlach convince him to try swimming in the river. Afterwards they both dried off, completely naked in the middle of camp. Karlach laughed the whole time, only to laugh even harder when she saw Astarion’s wild head of curls. Despite how much he hated rolling in the mud and getting dirt under his nails, these were the most restful, happiest days in his memory.

But you’ve never allowed yourself that peace. Of all your allies, you’re the only one who’s fought every single day. You deserve that happiness, too, don’t you?

“How about this.” Astarion leans forward, reaching up to gently tuck an errant lock of hair behind your pointed ear. “Once Halsin gets back and you give us your grand flawless plan for breaking the prisoners out of Moonrise, you head back to camp and let us do all the hard work, hm?”

Your gaze immediately sharpens, snapping like a whip to meet his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you hiss, that familiar bullheaded temper rising to the surface.

Astarion’s own smile dissolves. “I’m not. You’re exhausted. You can’t keep going like this.”

You pull away from his grasp, leaving his hands to fall limply back to his side. You abruptly stand, stumbling on your feet. You spread out your arms like a baby bird testing its feathers for the first time. It does nothing to ease Astarion’s worries. “I’m fine,” you lie.

Astarion stands with you, his hands coming up to hover inches away from your skin, ready to catch you should the wax melt from your wings. “You can say that all you like but you’re not going to fool me.”

His mind still wanders back to that night, pacing in front of the broken window, waiting for you to climb back through. His dead heart seemed to beat in his throat. Surely you had some reason for climbing outside. You must have seen something on the horizon, a ship approaching the pier maybe? You were furious at Gale for considering sacrificing himself on Mystra’s order so surely you wouldn’t… you wouldn’t. He counted a hundred seconds before he followed you out, and what he found was somehow both better and worse than he was expecting.

If he hadn’t heard you leave… If he hadn’t followed you…

He can’t lose you. Not when he’s only just realized how much he wants you. It terrifies him how your life teeters on the edge.

You meet his words with a hiss. “You’re my team. I’m responsible for all of you,” you snap.

Astarion’s eyes harden, the rubies in his gaze sharpening to match his fangs. “It’s a team, do you not understand what that means?” He huffs out a breath of frustration. “We work together.”

A tenday ago he would balk at the words coming out of his mouth. He sounds like one of the heroic fools from the tales Wyll loves so dearly; the kind that rescue kittens from trees and help old grandmothers cross the street and save the city without ever asking for anything in return. Damn you for forcing him to espouse the merits of, ugh, friendship, but it’s the only way to get through to you.

Astarion clicks his tongue admonishingly. “Stubborn as you are, you couldn’t have made it this far on your own.”

“I know that.”

“Then why can’t you trust us?” Astarion presses, his words seeking the gaps in your armor and prying them apart. “Do you think we’re just going to fall apart without you watching our every move?”

At one point that may have been true. In the beginning when everyone was constantly looking over their shoulders, hoarding secrets close to their chests, and one wrong move would have half the party holding a knife to your throat. But Astarion can turn his back to the others without fear, his secrets have unfolded, and the daggers no longer point inward, but towards anything that seeks to do him harm. None of your friends need you to remind them to work together—they already know how.

You shake your head. “Of course I trust you—”

“Then take a break,” Astarion begs, both his hands coming up to squeeze your shoulders. “Go back to camp and let us handle this, for once.”

His hands still hold some of the warmth he stole from Karlach. He holds you tight, nearly shaking with the intensity of his plea. You can’t continue on like this. Every day your grasp on the wild magic in your veins loosens, every day you grow more and more reckless. One day it’ll ravage you from the inside out and there will be nothing left of you to hold. You still for minutes at a time, as your mind leaves your body. You nearly stumble down the cliffside into the river, your feet unsteady. You offer up your time, your blood, your magic freely to anyone who asks and keep nothing in reserve. This insatiable need to prove yourself is going to get you killed and Astarion can only stand by your side and watch as every blow you take hurts him just as much.

He doesn’t know what you’re trying to prove, because surely you’ve already done it? You saved a child that’s been trapped for a hundred years, you led the entire Thorm family to their deaths without casting a single spell, you’ve done everything your friends have ever asked of you. And even still, you’ve committed to saving a group of refugees for the second time, putting your lives and your whole mission at risk just to… what? Prove that you can? Spite Ketheric Thorm? Make a wizard you hate stop running into the fire? Astarion doesn’t know what this is but he can’t stand by in silence and let the only person he’s ever wanted throw themselves on their own sword.

Your throat constricts painfully and you shake your head. “I can’t.” You can’t leave. You can’t let them out of your sight. You can’t lose—

---disappeared--

You shake your head violently, both at Astarion’s words and the voice calling out to you. “I won’t leave you,” you gasp. “Not again.”

Astarion searches your face, brows lifting in concern. “Again? What are you talking about?” He rubs his hands over your shoulders. “Is this about the monastery? Darling, that was over a month ago.”

--ABANDONED- -me---

---slave--

“I wouldn’t,” you croak through your closed throat, unable to draw air into your lungs. “I didn’t.”

Astarion’s voice begins to rise in panic. “Dear, I know—”

Crack. Bend. Snap. Twist. “Traitor.” Fire rips through your spine.

“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, clutching at your throat.

Astarion watches in horror as you choke on thin air. Anger turns to desperation with a sickening plunge into frigid waters. His grasp on you weakens as his hands begin to tremble. His racing mind grasps at thin threads of reason. He pulls on them, seeking any means to tether you back to earth, but they all break apart in his hands.

The last sands of the hourglass slip through Astarion’s fingers as you duck out of his grasp. Terror roots his feet to the ground and he stands there, numb as you stumble into the alcove outside the kitchen. His body jumps into action a moment later, following on your heel. You brace a hand on the wall, doubled over as you cough and strain to pull air into your lungs. Outside of the stuffy kitchen, your throat relaxes slightly, and you manage to take the smallest, most middling breath.

Hesitantly, Astarion hangs a few paces back. His palms itch with the need to gather you in his arms again, and hold you close. If he can feel you in his arms, then he knows you’re safe, that you aren’t gambling with your life. No memories or delirium can lay claim to your soul so long as he holds it within his hands. But he knows from experience that you need space to breathe, so he gives it to you, standing back with hands clenching at his sides.

Your lungs slowly fill with air once more. You stare blankly at the stone floor, gasping and heaving as a cold sweat beads across your brow and the nape of your neck. You bring a hand to the base of your skull and feel the ridge of the ugly scar that hides there. A shiver runs down the length of your spine, ice cold blood spilling across the knob of each vertebrae. It throbs painfully, piercing through bone and into the meat of your brain. Twisting, carving, excising. If you press hard enough into that scar, mapping out the crack that your memory fell through, you can feel the jagged edges of your skull, the shards of bone that never quite healed.

Wet, sticky flesh squishes beneath the hand resting on the wall.

You look up and find the stone painted with long fibers of purple meat. It drips down from the rafters, thick, viscous ichor collects in this forgotten corner of the tower. You follow the tendrils of flesh up with your eyes, and see the crack in the wall that your eyes sought before, after the encounter with the blood merchant. The break in the wall seems to have grown wider, darker, more stone cleaved away to reveal the liminal space where reality wears thin. The thick ropes of flesh extending from the crack pulse more intensely, beating to the rhythm of a heartbeat you feel through the tower’s stones.

Astarion’s right. You can’t continue on like this. You reach out to the Weave, mist collecting at your fingertips.

“Darling, what are you—”

You bridge the gap between the stones beneath your feet and the rafters overhead and disappear. Astarion realizes what’s happening a moment too late, diving to catch you just in time for his hands to close around a cloud of mist. He follows the faint echo of magic upwards, catching sight of the underside of your palms before you disappear beyond the bounds of his darkvision.

“What are you doing?” he shouts, unbeating heart caught in his throat. “Get down from there!”

But his protests fall on deaf ears as you approach the yawning void set within the wall. Your footsteps fall heavy on the wood beneath your feet, walking heel-to-toe on the platform set against the stone. A icepick drives through the center of your mind, brain pulsing painfully in rhythm with the writhing flesh beckoning you forward. You wince with every step closer, every footfall sending a jolt of electricity through your bones. The headache grows, threatening to cleave your mind in twain.

But you can’t back down. You need to know what awaits beneath the stones. You’ve run long enough and you can’t any longer. You need to know what you left behind.

Your feet find solid ground on the wooden platform, the tendrils of purple flesh writhing furiously at your approach. “Alright. You’ve won,” you breathe, skating your fingertips across a thick cord of meat. It feels just like the viscera you’ve torn apart with your bare hands. “I’m here, what do you want from me?”

On the ground below, Astarion’s unbeating heart races in his chest. “Wizard! Get over here! Now!” he shouts into the kitchen.

Gale and Rolan both immediately snap their spellbooks shut, scrambling to their feet at Astarion’s frantic call. Constant danger has trained Gale to be ready for battle at a moment’s notice. He reaches Astarion’s side in just a few steps, winding the Weave around his fingertips in preparation.

“What’s happened?” he asks, following Astarion’s line of sight, but when he looks up he sees only darkness.

“Our damned fool of a leader is about to do something stupid,” Astarion spits, his mouth twisting violently in anger.

Gale recognizes the sheer panic hidden beneath that thin veneer and immediately sets to searching the rafters. But no matter how hard he peers into the darkness, nothing will resolve into focus. Even Rolan beside him, struggles to catch sight of anything through the shadows. Rolan can at least make out the shape of the wooden beams high overhead, but nothing more.

Without any alternative, Gale shoots a Firebolt into the ceiling. The mote of fire streaks into the air, clearing the shadows for but a moment. It’s enough time for Gale to make out the shape of you in the corner, and the gaping chasm in the wall before you. But the shadows swell to fill the air once the Firebolt dies and once more Gale is left blind.

“I need to be able to see to teleport up there. I don’t have any other means at the moment,” Gale says mournfully.

“f*ck!” Astarion hisses.

You feel a presence, pulsing at the edge of your mind. You recognize it—not just from the voice that’s haunted you since arriving at Moonrise, but from those hazy first breaths you took on the nautiloid. You draw ever closer, hand smoothing along the pulsating meat that stretches out, hungry and wanting. A spindly tether of flesh reaches out from the gap and curls around your wrist. It draws you closer, pulling your body flush against the wall and you let it.

As soon as your wrist enters the beast’s maw, the cord of flesh clamps around your skin like manacles—firm as iron and just as unyielding. The creature wrenches you in, dislocating your shoulder with a sickening pop. You gasp, the blinding headache momentarily drowned out by the fire bursting within your arm. You would have been pulled through the gap entirely were it not for your hip cracking against the stone. Your free arm instinctively clutches at the crumbling edge of the wall.

Your mind unfurls and for the first time you feel the full extent of the presence that’s been calling to you all this time. The stones of the tower are your very flesh, every man and beast inside your lifeblood. Every life in this tower is yours to command, every thought your own. For a moment your brain gluts itself on every thought of every creature it touches, it swells with energy—power—growing and growing like a mosquito drinking its fill of blood. But your mind wasn’t built to house the thoughts of hundreds within, so it swells and bloats and then finally—pop. And the whole of yourself dissolves into nothingness.

Astarion searches madly around the room for a way into the rafters. He just came from the kitchen, so he knows there’s nothing there. He ducks his head around the corner, relief flooding his veins when he spies a ladder propped against the wall. He dashes for it, uncaring of the cultists glancing his way. He climbs the rungs two at a time, faster than he’s ever scaled anything before. He races across the wooden beam, the foyer wall collapsed just enough for him to slide through. His eyes find you immediately, your robes the one speck of color against the dark stone.

He nearly retches when for the first time, he sees the undulating flesh breaking through the wall. A break in the crossbeam still stands between you, the wood on which he stands threatening to splinter beneath his feet.

“What the hells are you doing?” he shouts across the gap.

But you cannot hear him. Your mind is elsewhere.

Your consciousness finds itself in a vast, empty space. Thousands of thoughts pass through you in wisps of red mist. Great in number they may be, but every mind sings the same song. In Her name, in Her name, in Her name. You flow with the current, but sit outside it. You are not part of the Design. You are the flaw.

A great beast rises from the ocean of thoughts, large enough to blot out the sun—no—large and bright enough to be the sun. For the first time in a month you feel sunlight on your skin, as a greater being chooses to shine its light on you. You feel its presence encircling you, cradling you the way you imagine a mother would if you had one. It holds you within its open palm, observing you, ready to choke the life from your succulent mind should you prove yourself unworthy.

You reach out to the presence with your mind, speaking without words.

“You called me, so I came.” Your thoughts echo across every single mind connected to the Absolute. “What do you want?”

-YOU!-

Astarion curses under his breath when you don’t respond. He backs away from the gap in the rafters, he calls upon every ounce of strength in your loaned blood, the vampiric speed that lurks so far beyond his reach now. He surges forward, the wood straining and threatening to crack beneath his pounding footsteps. He leaps across the gap, landing on the narrow wooden with feline grace. With only a few strides separating you, he runs, flying across the distance until he reaches your side.

Immediately he grabs you—one arm around your injured shoulder, the other circling your waist, clutching you tightly against his front. He pulls you back only to find you completely limp in his arms, head lolling forward listlessly. For a brief moment, he panics, fearing the worst. But he can hear your heartbeat in your chest, dull, unsteady, but still there. He pulls against whatever force has you in its grasp, and it holds fast, yanking at your shoulder. Astarion grits his teeth and pulls, bracing one foot against the wall. But he doesn’t have enough strength in his body to wrench you free of whatever beast has you seized.

“Gale, get up here!” he shrieks.

Astarion needs to get you out of here. He won’t let whatever manner of creature lives in the walls have you. You’re his. You’re his and he won’t let go.

An unholy screech cleaves through your entire being, unmaking you. The creature pauses, carefully collects your scattered pieces, and then breaks off the smallest piece of itself. It continues to hold you, to watch you, but at the same time that tiny piece swims to the forefront, a bright mass of writhing tentacles appears before you.

“This is the voice they have given me. To better speak to your kind without breaking you.”

The voice flows through your entire being, your very soul soothed by the melodious sound. It radiates with a power so vast as to be incomprehensible, but within that power is the promise of safety. All you have to do is let go.

“I was once a servant of the Grand Design. Now I am a slave to theirs. But you…”

You have so many questions that need to be answered. This presence knows you—it knows who you were and everything you’ve lost. With all the power you feel in their light shining on your soul, surely they could repair the pieces of your fractured mind. All you’d have to do is ask. But your soul feels so impossibly heavy. All you want is for the voice to sing you to sleep.

“You were the jewelled hope for their design, but now you are their flaw.”

“Who?” The ache you feel is dull and distant, even though you know you should feel gutted. You failed. Whatever it was you were meant to do before you failed. Whatever you had, you lost.

“You abandoned me… You left me the slave of the puny Chosen, used to bind this world…”

That awakens something in you, an urge so desperate that your thoughts nearly unravel with it.

“Why did I leave?”

You need to know. You need to know why you left everything behind. You need to know that what you’ve gained is worth the price of everything you lost.

“I do not know,” the voice answers, and your one moment of clarity lapses back into stillness. “But I can no longer bind you.”

An image of the Astral Prism swirls through the air, circling, pulsing with its alien power. Its sigils glow, a bright spot of yellow-orange amidst the sea of red mist. It sinks below the surf and disappears. The ocean surges around you, the gentle current of thoughts swirling, circling down, down, down to the ocean floor. Your mind wants nothing more than to let the tide pull you under, to sink until you forget life on the surface.

“Come. Become.”

Your body, far, far away, fights uselessly against the pull of the beast dragging you into the tower’s bowels, far beneath the earth.

-COME-

-BECOME-

See Also

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Your body begins to shake out of Astarion’s grasp, as the wall begins to consume you. “What’s happening? Speak to me,” he pleads, panic and anger knotting together inside him.

He digs his fingers into the fabric of your robes, knuckles turning even paler with the force of his grip. But panicked sweat slicks his plans, and despite his best efforts you begin to slip through his hold. He tries to readjust, arms and fingers straining against an unyielding force. But the beast on the other side of the wall preys upon any slack in his grip. His muscles burn like sun shining on vampiric skin, a searing pain that threatens to set him ablaze. But he holds on even still. He’d face the sun for you—he already did. He’d catch fire just to hold you in his arms.

You’re worth burning for. “Wake up!” he growls.

Gale finally reaches the platform just in time to watch Astarion’s arms finally give out. His hands desperately claw at your robes, catching briefly on your collar, your belt, the laces of your boots. But the force pulling you overwhelms Astarion’s middling strength. With a lurch and a quiet gasp, you slip through the crack in the wall, disappearing behind a curtain of writhing, purple meat.

Gale fits himself against Astarion’s side, craning to get a look into the dark crevice through which you disappeared. The only sight that greets him is darkness and undulating ribbons of flesh. He turns to Astarion with wild eyes.

“What in the Nine just happened?” he shouts incredulously.

Astarion doesn’t hear him, staring blankly at his empty hands. Sunshine lingers in the lines on his palms, your warmth caught beneath his skin. Already the chill of undeath is beginning to smother it. He feels your warmth fading as surely as he felt your robes slip through his grasp.

A cold hand gently cards its fingers through Astarion’s hair.

He looks up to meet Master’s eyes, confusion plain on his face. He kneels on the floor, Master standing tall above him, cold ambivalence glinting in his eyes. Astarion had been prepared for a hand across his cheek, cutting words deriding his poor offerings of late, his inability to do the one thing his body was made for. Instead he’s being gently caressed. The tenderness earns a gut reaction of fear, Astarion’s body train after his decade an a half of slavery to know any warmth is immediately chased by agony.

Master meets his confusion with a single arched brow. “Don’t tell me that you’re so empty-headed you don’t know how to show gratitude, boy.”

Astarion leans fully into Master’s touch, closing his eyes and forcing his body to settle. “Thank you, Master,” he sighs.

Master hums, neither pleased nor displeased, his hand continuing to play with Astarion’s hair. Master stands in silence, peering down at his spawn. Astarion stays low, hands folded in his lap, face carefully blank. Astarion fights the anxious shivers trickling down the length of his spine. Master will prey upon any sign of weakness, jam his sharpened nails into any crack he finds and pry it apart. The passing seconds fill the space of decades as Master waits for Astarion to crack.

Master gazes down at his son with sick amusem*nt. Gone is the prideful, arrogant boy he turned a decade and a half ago. In its place is a docile temptress, as dangerous as a declawed housecat. His son was ill-suited for his old position as a magistrate. That had been a titled foisted upon an undeserving child, in spite of his ineptitude.

“Your body truly is a wicked thing, isn’t it?” Master hums.

Astarion swallows, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “Yes, Master.”

“You were a truly terrible magistrate.” Master sniffs haughtily. “You serve as a far better whor* than you ever did as a judge.”

Astarion’s lip trembles. Every year, memories of his old life slip further and further away. After a decade and a half, those memories no longer feel like his. He used to hope for rescue, that someone, somewhere would care enough to come looking for him. But he gave up on those dreams long ago, and with them, the memory of anyone who could have saved him. It was easier to forget all the ways he’d been abandoned than to hold onto that sting. He used to remember his parents’ names, but now they’re only hazy afterimages of people that might have cared for him.

“Thank you, Master,” Astarion croaks.

“I’m feeling generous tonight,” Master sighs, the points of his nails gently dragging across Astarion’s scalp.

Astarion hates how good it feels. “Yes, Master?” he hums.

Sick amusem*nt curls at the corner of Master’s mouth. “I’ve brought you a gift. There’s a man waiting for you in East Wing. Tend to him for the night.”

The compulsion sets deep beneath Astarion’s breastbone, a pulsing, writhing thing that aches every moment that Astarion resists. Astarion doesn’t even have to fight down a wave of revulsion. He feels only relief that perhaps if he performs well enough he’ll be able to bed down in the spawn quarters tonight. If he’s lucky, perhaps he might even earn three rats instead of the usual one.

“It shall be done, Master,” Astarion says flatly.

Master’s hand falls from Astarion’s scalp with a harsh tug on the point of his ear. Astarion winces, but makes no other movement. Astarion stays on his knees, practiced enough to know that he needs Master’s permission to rise. Even as the compulsion twists painfully around his heart, he stays kneeling.

Master waits, far longer than he needs to, then nods in satisfaction. “Be on your way, then.”

Astarion rises to his feet, relief instantaneous as he’s allowed to follow Master’s order. He turns swiftly on his heel and walks steadily towards the East Wing as instructed. As he walks, he spares a handful of idle thoughts wondering who exactly it is he’s been loaned to for the night. Certainly a noble, but are they someone Master wants him to win over or someone that’s already deep in Master’s pocket and has purchased his company for the night? Are they a simple mortal patriar or a vampire? Astarion certainly hopes it’s a mortal, preferably one who’s paid for his company. If he’s been sold off like a common prostitute, all he has to do is doff his clothes and get on his back, and the client will do the rest. If it’s some simpering noble that has aspirations of winning over the heart of Lord Szarr’s frigid son then he’ll have to act and smile and pretend he cares at all about noble politics. It’s far more exhausting than just laying down and letting someone have their way with him.

As he nears the first guest room, he casts the thoughts from his mind, and works on slipping into his role. It hardly matters who’s waiting in the room. He’ll know soon enough. He prepares a sultry smile on his face, straightens his back and squares his shoulders. He takes a moment to smooth down the creases in his shirt, unlace his collar just enough to show the barest hint of collarbone. Once satisfied he clears his throat and raps his knuckles on the door before pushing it open.

Astarion sweeps into the room with a practiced flourish. “I hope I haven’t kept you wai—”

He stops in his tracks.

The young man sitting on the end of the bed stands so forcefully that he nearly tips forward. Long auburn hair is tied back from the man’s face, tawny, freckled skin glowing gold beneath the candlelight.

“Star,” the man gasps. “It’s really you.”

He crosses the room in three strides, reaching to pull Astarion into a bonecrushing embrace. Astarion violently recoils in an even mix of revulsion and horror, his back slamming up against the now closed door. The man stands in the space Astarion just vacated, arms still spread wide. His brow furrows in deep confusion, Astarion’s rejection an open wound.

“What are you doing here, Finn?” Astarion hisses, throat tight.

He was never supposed to see this man again. He never wanted to see this man again. Astarion spent a year in silence, alternating between cursing this man’s name and praying for his safety. Finn was responsible for the worst year of Astarion’s miserable existence. If it weren’t for him and his gentle heart, and sweet kisses, and the way he made Astarion feel truly loved for the first time in a decade, Astarion never would have tried to run, to do the impossible and escape his Master’s clutches.

Even just seeing Finn’s face now makes panic rise in Astarion’s throat. His lungs heave with breaths he doesn’t need. Even so, the stagnant air chokes him. The walls of the guest room press in. Every time he blinks the room shrinks, smaller and smaller until Astarion is trapped in a tiny stone box, with air that stinks of undeath and rot, his nails broken, sores forming on his back where he can’t move.

“Star, there’s no need to cry.” Finn gently tries to swipe the tears off Astarion’s cheeks.

“Don’t touch me!” Astarion shrieks.

He ducks out of the way, pressing himself into the corner of the room, staring at the other man with wild eyes. This time, Finn keeps his distance, both hands raised in a placating gesture, guilt and sadness clear on his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just don’t understand why you’re upset,” Finn says with that familiar rural twang that Astarion once learned to love.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Astarion hisses bitterly. “You got to go on living your life while I—” He shudders, blood threatening to rise from his stomach.

The first month was easy. Astarion rested his eyes, content that at least here, sealed away from his Master, no one could hurt him. The worst part was that trancing was no reprieve, as it only brought him memories of the torture and indignities he’d suffered. But still, the silence wasn’t so bad.

During the second month, he began to grow restless. The hunger was truly starting to set in, his belly a constant painful ache. There was no space within the tomb to move. He became hyperaware of every sensation in his body. Every itch he couldn’t scratch, every phantom sensation of spiders skittering over his skin, every stir of arousal in his loins. By the third month, he began to shout for help, knowing it wouldn’t come. He scratched his nails uselessly against the stone, until they splintered and his skin rubbed raw.

During the fourth month, he revisited a pleasant night with Finn in his reverie, one of the scant few times meditation brought him peace instead of torture. When he woke, he found his trousers sticky and soiled, and realized that he had no means of cleaning himself. He cried pathetically at the humiliation and the awful sensation of dirty linen against his skin.

In the fifth month, reality and his memories began to blend together. Faint memories of a warm hearth and sunshine would return to him, so vivid that for a moment he truly thought the past decade with Cazador had been nothing more than a nightmare, only for reality to gut him upon waking. He heard voices, convinced himself that someone had come to save him, that he would finally be free of this hell.

After six months he began to wonder if he’d been counting the days wrong. The only way he could measure time was through his trances and he’d lost track of them often enough. Surely it had been a year? He felt like he’d been born in this tomb and he would die here, too. If he hadn’t counted wrong… if it truly had only been six months… then he had to live through this hell once more. He stopped counting then, because he simply couldn’t bear the agony.

All that time he regretted running, instead of just handing Finn over to Master. One piddly elven boy wasn’t worth this torture. All his affection for the boy died, rotting inside his heart just like his body should have rotted in the ground. Finn got to spend the rest of his life in the sun, he would find another lover, get married, have children, all that fairytale bullsh*t. Finn would live the entirety of his life and die, and Astarion would remain a slave, a whor*, a thing to be owned and used.

His sole comfort when Master pulled him, stumbling and atrophied from that dusty tomb, was that at least Finn would live, that at least he had suffered for something.

So why was he here?

The darling boy that Astarion once saved, now filled out into broad shouldered man watches him with those gold-flecked brown eyes, downturned in sorrow. “I’m so sorry. Your father told me how hard—”

A burst of bitter laughter escapes Astarion’s chest. “My father?” he cackles. “What exactly did my father tell you?”

Finn hesitates, clearly shaken by Astarion’s erratic behavior. “He told me about your uncle.”

Astarion has no idea what ridiculous lie Master told Finn. But he knows how to work with the material he’s given. “How much did he tell you about my uncle?” he spits.

“He-he told me you had to run because your uncle crossed the Zhentarim.” Finn swallows thickly. “That, that sending word would have put me at risk.”

What a cute little lie. How very quaint. It seems Master has placed him in the midst of a children’s story, has lured Astarion’s white knight into the lion’s den with the promise of a trite fairytale ending, where Finn and his lost love get to ride into the sunset together.

But this isn’t a fairytale. There will be no happy ending, no sunsets over the glimmering Sea of Swords, no heroes.

Astarion realizes then, as his heart plummets to the seabed; Finn isn’t walking away.

There will be no days in the sun, no lovers, no beautiful wedding, or children. It was all for nothing. Astarion’s year of silence amounted to nothing in the end. He was punished for protecting this man, only to be the siren song that lured him into the depths. Finn is going to die here and Master is going to make him watch.

Astarion’s heart withered and died in that tomb. He has no love left to give. But despite that, he still bursts into ugly, agonized tears. Heaving, guttural sobs tear his throat raw. He resigned himself to an eternity of slavery in that tomb, vowed to only care for his own survival, everyone else be damned. What does he care for this foolish man who put his faith in a fairytale and answered the pied piper’s call? It was the same ridiculous mistake Astarion made when he tried to spare this man’s life. He thought the world was a storybook and that he could be a hero, only to have the veneer of justice shattered beyond recognition. There were no heroes or knights in shining armor—only those with power and the people held under their control.

At least Finn would get to die, a mercy that Astarion had prayed for a thousand times. Finn would find eternal peace while Astarion would be forced to go on suffering. Finn was unbelievably lucky. Astarion should be grateful that his flesh would remain unmarred, his task was simple compared to the tortures he’s suffered. Hells, Astarion didn’t even have to seek this target out, it served itself up to him on a silver platter. Astarion has cursed this man a thousand times over.

Yet he can’t stop sobbing, nor can he settle the unbearable ache in his chest. His ribs strain where his lungs threaten to break their cage. Astarion thought he’d trained himself better than this. He’d dulled his emotions to the point where he barely feels them at all. The pity he feels for his targets is a distant shadow of sympathy. The anger he feels towards Master is defanged, dulled by exposure. The only emotion that ever truly reaches him is fear, the panic that alights in his veins at his Master’s threats.

But the grief he feels now has hidden within his heart all this time, a wound so deeply embedded within his flesh that he forgot the part of him that used to fill the now empty space. Astarion never made any attempt to stitch his skin back together because he didn’t know it was broken. The despair and loneliness he felt while laying in that quiet tomb comes rushing back in a tidal wave of anguish. The heartstrings he cauterized years ago begin to hum violently, and his numb, deadened soul suddenly aches with the full weight of his fifteen years of slavery.

Astarion sobs, hands clutching at his own shoulders in a pathetic mockery of an embrace. “Why are you here now?”

Astarion prayed for him. He prayed that someone would come looking for him and save him from that wretched darkness. He’d had a family once, hadn’t he? Had they already forgotten him, too? There were people that knew his face; nobles he’d lain with, people that claimed to enjoy his company. Wouldn’t one of them miss his presence enough to search for him? There were regulars at the Elfsong that knew his face. The surly bartender, the alcoholic bard; they would wonder where he’d gone, surely? They’d worry after him?

And of course there was Finn, who claimed to love him, and painted a beautiful picture of the life they’d have together. A farm out in the countryside, far away from the politics and machinations of the city. A simple, happy life, just for the two of them, it was a ridiculous dream, but Astarion had let himself pretend, if only for a little while. He’d done the right thing. Wasn’t this the part of the story where the hero swooped in to save his love? So where was his hero? If Finn loved him so much then he should prove it. Astarion saved him, so now it was the other man’s turn to do the same.

But no one ever came.

(Astarion knew that if anyone tried to rescue him, Master would end them before they could cross the threshold. His only hope of salvation was another vampire lord or a group of monster hunters, and neither promised peace, only a different form of torture. But isn’t that what those grand tales of love were all about? Risking it all in the face of impossible odds? Staying by someone’s side no matter how much it hurt?)

Finn staggers forward, arms still outstretched. “I looked for you, Star,” he breathes, voice trembling.

“Not hard enough,” Astarion hisses.

Finn sucks in a breath through his teeth, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. “No one knew where you went. It was like you just disappeared.”

Because for all intents and purposes he did. He returned to the Szarr Palace one night and emerged a year later a different beast. The Astarion Finn knew died in that tomb. The wretched thing cowering before Finn now is just an empty shell.

“You were supposed to move on,” Astarion says pathetically.

He had wanted Finn to have that fairytale ending. The farm and the husband and the family. Giving Finn a future was the last good thing he ever did, before resigning himself to playing the rake. His last act of defiance before becoming a slave. Now, Master had managed to take even that from him.

“How could I move on from you, Star?” Finn asks warmly, his hands coming to grasp Astarion’s elbows.

Easily, Astarion thinks, everyone I knew when I was alive seemed to do it well enough.

Astarion falls limply into Finn’s arms, the compulsion that he’s been ignoring all this time finally takes hold in his chest, forcing him to hold still as Finn cradles Astarion against his chest. Astarion buries his face in the other man’s shoulder, hands fisted tightly in the linen of his shirt. He’s still warm from the evening’s sunset, the last fading rays of sunlight still wrapped tight around Finn.

Astarion squeezes his eyes shut and carves this moment into his memory. Finn’s embrace is gentle; a warm, calloused hand smooths gentle circles between the knifepoint of his shoulderblades. Astarion immediately remembers why he couldn’t bear to bring Finn back here and has to fight off another wave of tears. Master’s order is an almost unbearable tightness in the center of his chest. He can’t put it off much longer before his body will begin to act on its own, and at the very least, he wants to savor this.

It might just be the last time he sleeps with someone who makes him feel something other than disgust.

“I’m here now,” Finn says gently, one hand carding through Astarion’s curls. “I won’t leave you again.”

A wretched wave of guilt shudders through Astarion’s body. It’s an empty promise, one that could never come to pass. Very, very soon, Master will come through the door and take Finn away. Finn thinks that this is his happy ending—the lovers reunited, now never to part. He doesn’t yet know that this is the final act of his tragedy. Astarion can play his part until then. For a brief moment, he can pretend that he’s the kind of man that gets to have a future.

He pulls back, just enough to meet Finn’s eyes, and brings both his hands to those sun-dappled cheeks. His lashes flutter, shedding crystalline tears. “Oh, I missed you, darling.”

It’s not entirely a lie.

“What’s all that shouting up there?” Karlach calls from down below.

Astarion crashes violently back into his body, hyperventilating on air he doesn’t need, dark spots crowding the edges of his vision. He braces himself on the wall, avoiding the throbbing purple meat. Gale glances at him, his instinct being to place a hand on the man’s back, but knowing better by now.

“There, uh… there seems to have been a small problem,” Gale calls over his shoulder, keeping a close eye on Astarion.

Astarion turns on Gale with a jolt, eyes aflame as he glares at the wizard. “A small problem?” he shouts. “This is what you call a small problem?”

Gale’s shoulders sag in relief, which only serves to stoke Astarion’s anger. “There you are. You worried me for a moment.”

“Focus, wizard!” Astarion snaps, baring his teeth.

Karlach rolls her eyes. “Will one of you please just tell me what’s going on?” A realization suddenly hits her when a third voice doesn’t step in to pry Gale and Astarion apart. “Where’s Soldier?”

Gale coughs into his fist. “You see, that’s the thing. There’s a rather strange crack in the wall up here with… some sort of aberrant flesh spilling out. It actually reminds me a bit of the appearance of the nautiloid. It has a definite psionic presence, I can feel it stretching down—”

“Oh for Gods’ sake, the wall ate them,” Astarion cuts in.

“What?”

Gale purses his lips and shoots Astarion an affonted glare. “I was getting to that point!”

“Within the next tenday? We don’t have time for your useless prattle, our leader just got eaten by a wall!” Astarion seethes, gesturing wildly towards the crevice you disappeared into.

Gale swallows thickly, his own nerves showing in the erratic pulsing of the Netherese stain around his eyes. “I think it’s a bit of a leap to use the word ‘eaten,’ it’s possible the wall only drags people somewhere, or even just seals them away. For all we know, we just need to cut through this first layer of flesh—”

Without another word Astarion unsheathes two daggers and begins hacking at the purple meat lining the edge of the crack.

“That wasn’t a suggestion!” Gale huffs, aghast.

Astarion doesn’t even bother to glance over his shoulder. “Do you have a better one?” One dagger sinks in with a satisfying squelch.

The entire wall to begins to pulse with malice, spilling into each of their minds (save Rolan) via the tadpole. It leaves a bitter, coppery taste in the back of Astarion’s mouth, but he doesn’t stop, only begins sawing at the flesh with his second dagger. The thick cords of meat writhe and undulate at the assault, purple ichor spraying from the incision. Astarion doesn’t shy away from bloodshed, but on his skin, the strange dark liquid begins to burn.

Astarion just grits his teeth and keeps stabbing, powering through the pain. A long, slow squeeeeeelch sounds as Astarion’s chosen tendril unsticks itself from the wall, each fiber of muscle and sinew peeling back one by one. At first, Astarion thinks he’s made progress, that the beast in retreating. But when he next tries to pull out his dagger for another swipe, the blade won’t budge. Once again, he finds himself straining to hold onto something as it slips through his hands. The tendril undulates, and the dagger gets sucked even farther into its flesh, deeper and deeper until Astarion finally has to let go lest his own hand be sucked in. As soon as he lets go, the flesh retreats, only for another, undamaged spindle of flesh to take its place.

Astarion wheels on Gale in a panicked frenzy. “What now?” he gasps.

Gale looks between Astarion and the wall, dark eyes wide, his own frantic energy a feast for the Netherese orb in his chest. The wisps of tainted magic swirling his veins writhe plainly on his skin, pulsing up the long column of his throat. Were it not for Mystra’s charm, he’s sure the bomb would go off, killing all the souls in this tower, the blast stretching past even Last Light Inn. He feels that destructive power at the tips of his fingers, a taut bowstring digging into the crook of his knuckle. He need only let go and the arrow would find its mark. It’s intoxicating, the amount of power at his fingertips, but none of it is any help in rescuing you from the mess you’ve landed yourself in.

“I… I don’t know,” Gale admits quietly.

Astarion’s hands shake, fury swelling like high tide to crowd out his rising panic. “What do you mean you don’t know?” he snarls, fingers clenching and unclenching into claws.

“I mean I don’t know!” Gale shouts back, his own nerves frayed at the prospect of a problem he can’t solve—at failing you after all the faith you’ve placed in him. “I didn’t study Mindflayer colonies at Blackstaff!”

“Then what good are you?” Astarion spits.

Immediately after Astarion pivots on his heel and tangles both his hands in his own hair. Gale steels his jaw. The needlepoint of Astarion’s vitriol shouldn’t sting as much as it does. He knows Astarion’s ire is born of panic and not genuine disdain. He knows that the loss and fear Astarion is experiencing in this moment is something he’s never had to contend with before. Gale knows better than any how love erodes common sense and allows the heart to reign where the brain should prevail.

But sting it does, because Gale has asked himself that very question time and time again.

“I’m sorry, Astarion,” Gale sighs, pushing his own hair out of his face. “At the height of my power I could create an Arcane Eye or even Scry so that we could follow but those abilities are beyond my reach, now.”

Gale could have done a great many things before the orb burrowed itself into his chest. Now it resides there, leeching off his connection to the Weave, consuming all the magic in his veins yet never feeling satisfied. Even now, with its progress halted, it still hungers—it still siphons off his own power, dampening the symphony that’s been his lullaby since birth.

What good is he, indeed, unable to do the one thing that anyone ever wanted him for?

Astarion’s hands shake, buried in his curls. Once, as punishment for lying, Cazador poured acid down his throat. The draught branded a trail of hellfire down the length of his throat, then pooled in his belly. His flesh bubbled and blistered, slowly melting away like perfectly rendered fat on the tongue. He could only writhe and scream as the caustic brew slowly spread white-hot agony into every crevice of his abdominal cavity.

His chest burns hotter now than it did then, fury and despair melting from his veins into all the hollow spaces inside him, where he was so certain nothing could ever stir again. He’s used to being helpless—he resigned himself to slavery long ago. Ever since he gave himself over to every command and indignity without objection. His only choice was to leave his body when the pain and revulsion grew to be too much. He found safety in oblivion, that empty space where his mind retreats.

Once again, he finds himself helpless, unable to save you as you slipped through his grasp. But he has choices. There’s an infinite number of options at his disposal—magic, diplomacy, violence, stealth—but not a damn one will do anything to help you. For the first time in his life, he was able to speak his mind. He was trying to help, to pull you back from the precipice as he had before, on that cold moonlit night in this very tower. But instead he fumbled his words and watched as you practically threw yourself onto the jagged rocks below. He made one last futile attempt to catch you as you fell and was only able to feel as bit by bit you slipped away.

The first person he’s ever cared for—the one that raised hope from the grave he laid his in—and he couldn’t do a damn thing to save you. He can’t do this. Caring for someone is the one torture Cazador was never able to inflict on him. It’s the one pain he hasn’t managed to dull.

He crouches down, propping his elbows on his knees and hiding his face in the shadow of his arms. He hears a high-pitched keen, hissing through bared teeth. It isn’t until he registers the buzz in his throat that he realizes the sound is coming from him.

He hears himself whimper, weak and pathetic. “Gale, I can’t—”

Gale’s own throat seizes, constricting painfully at the sight of his proud friend brought so low. “I know—”

“You don’t!” Astarion hisses through his teeth. His voice suddenly turns quiet, somber. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”

No one knows what it’s like to lose hope so thoroughly, to excise it from your chest to survive and bury it beneath six feet of dirt. No one knows how terrifying it is to feel it blossom again, blooming beneath the golden sun in spite of all his attempts to smother it. No one knows how having it ripped away will be the thing that finally breaks him.

Gale swallows with a heavy breath. “You’re right,” he breathes. “But I promise, I’ll do whatever it takes, and I do mean whatever.” Gale borrows the conviction he’s heard from you so many times.

It’s the same resolve you used when you vowed to find another method to destroy the Absolute, and again when you promised Karlach to find a solution for her engine. To you, their lives were more important than all the realms. You’d let the world fall to keep them both alive. At the time he found the admission startling, emblematic of your naïvete and selfishness. But he understands a bit better now. In this moment, Mystra and the Absolute fall away, the task that’s consumed so much of his thoughts these days suddenly unimportant. What matters is bringing you back to safety and protecting his dear friend’s fragile heart. In this moment, he finds that there’s precious little he wouldn’t do to save you.

Gale continues, speaking with false confidence in the face of Astarion’s fear. “None of us are going to abandon one of our own.”

Astarion is quiet for a long moment, staring down at the rotting wood beneath his feet. He recognizes your words echoed in Gale’s voice. He isn’t used to trusting Gale, not the way he trusts you, but the familiar words still strike the same chord. Gale’s power is immense, and the company he keeps even stronger. He’s infuriatingly earnest to boot. If Gale vows to save you, Astarion thinks he’s the type of man that keeps his promises.

Astarion would like to be that kind of man, for you. He told you that he and the others can manage without you; it’s time to prove it. You’re not the only one willing to do the impossible to protect the people you cherish.

Astarion lets out a long sigh, his jaw steeled. “Is there truly nothing you can do?”

Gale considers for a moment, mentally cataloging all his spells. “I could send a familiar after them,” he suggests meekly. “However, Find Familiar takes an hour to cast and Halsin should be back before then.” Gale snaps his fingers, an idea coming to him suddenly. “Halsin! He can Wildshape into something small enough to slip through and investigate!”

Astarion rises to his full height, turning on his heel with a sharp nod. “That’s as good a plan as any, I suppose.” He checks to make his shortsword is tightly secured on his belt. “He’ll have to follow me down.” Astarion turns ninety degrees to face the crack in the wall and braces both arms on the opening.

Gale takes a step forward with a start. “What are you doing?” he asks, shocked.

Astarion looks over his shoulder at Gale, then forwards, where he’s already fit one foot through the crevice, then back to Gale with a raised eyebrow. “You know I’ve developed a sudden interest in Selûnite architecture.”

Gale exhales through his nose at the mockery in Astarion’s voice. “We have no idea where that thing will take you,” Gale warns. “For all we know, there’s a meat grinder at the bottom.”

Astarion pastes on a bitter smile, his laugh lines sharp with disdain. “Then I should hurry down and fetch my darling so that there’s enough left to bring back, shouldn’t I?”

Before he tried returning the shard of the Weave to Mystra—the one that became the orb in his chest—he told Tara of his grand plan to prove his worth to Mystra. Tara, the more cautious of them both, warned him of the dangers, that for all his magical prowess, perhaps he was reaching beyond his capabilities. Full with equal amounts arrogance and ambition, Gale heard none of it. Not even Mystra herself could have convinced him not to try. He was desperate and in love and desperately in love.

Gale knows that Astarion’s mind is set and not even divine intervention would change his course. “At least hold a moment,” Gale sighs.

Astarion does with one impatient eyebrow raised as Gale traces a familiar sigil in the air, cornflower blue magic collecting at his fingertips, as he carefully gathers loose threads of Weave between his fingers. “Sine metu.” As his words form the final trigger that sets loose the carefully crafted spell in his hands, he touches two fingers gently to Astarion’s forehead.

Astarion doesn’t move, watching Gale’s hand draw closer. His eyes close with a slow blink at the touch. Gale thinks of Tara, faking an put-upon sigh and closing her eyes when he pressed a kiss to her forehead before leaving for class. Feather Fall finds root in Astarion’s flesh, his body buoyed gently as he prepares to leap.

Gale pulls back with a gentle smile. “Now, go, my friend. Do try not to get yourself killed.”

Astarion flashes him a roguish grin, fangs glinting in the low light. “Just don’t bring the tower crashing down on our heads and I’ll be fine.”

With a last nod from Gale, Astarion grabs at the first hanging rope of meat with a sickening squelch, the tendril wrapping around his wrist. They hang down much like jungle vines made of alien meat—thinking of them in those terms makes Astarion’s climb easier. Astarion grimaces in disgust, but lifts one foot from the stone tower’s edge to find purchase on the interior stone. He stretches his other hand out, grasping at another cord of flesh. Clear, viscous fluid oozes out from between fingers. He gags in the back of his throat, but continues to hold on.

The strange being within the tower is strangely still, not writhing as it had when Astarion sliced it with his daggers. The tentacle around his wrist releases easily when he reaches to grab another further in. It… seems to realize that Astarion is venturing into and not out of its maw. It’s unsettling, but at the very least means his journey will be more peaceful than yours. He lifts his foot from the towers edge, his last tether to safety, and wraps his leg fully around his chosen rope. He can see the long, writhing ribbons of meat stretching far, far down into the base of the tower. A dull pink glow emanates from somewhere far below, his one guiding light as he hangs by the meager strength of his own arms.

Tentatively, he casts a wide net with the tadpole, scanning across the minds of everyone within reach. The presence of the creature inside the tower looms large in front of his mind, pulsing with unimaginable power, beckoning him to join with it. Despite his own inclinations, he ignores it for now, searching below, down, down… there. The familiar brush of your tadpole against his is a welcome sensation—flame-tempered iron and sunshine, a harsh edge that offers warmth and protection. You protected him from the others when he drained you dry. You stepped in when he was ready to trade his body away on Lae’zel’s orders. You dug through Lathander’s holy rubble for three days in hopes of finding enough of a body to bring him back. It’s time for him to return the favor.

He lets go. He falls, and falls, and falls.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Far below the earth, you dream.

--COME--- -BECOME-

Ketheric Thorm waits on his throne, the plates of his gauntlet tap, tap, tap, against the carved rock. He waits, and waits, and waits. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a spray of black ichor erupts from his neck as a clean slash cuts his flesh from ear to ear. An assassin’s invisibility breaks as they wrench the dagger from his throat, twisting it to separate the knobs of his spine.

The nearest guard startles as necrotic blood sullies the back of their armor. The guard turns to the assailant, weapon drawn as the assassin casually saunters down the steps away from the throne. Instead of panic or pain, Ketheric Thorm lets out a world-weary sigh. It escapes as a rasp through the gash in his neck.

“You’re late,” he growls, leveling his burning gaze at you.

A laugh you don’t recognize bubbles out of your throat, sour metal exploding on your tongue as you lick the curved blade of your favored dagger. “I wouldn’t be able to catch you by surprise if I showed up on time, now, would I?” someone else says in your voice.

Ketheric’s flesh knits back together all too quickly, even as the ichor remains, an enticing black stain down the front of his cuirass. A familiar anger ignites beneath your breastbone. There is nothing worse than a man who cannot die. Thousands have been felled by these hands, but no matter how many times you butcher Ketheric’s flesh, no matter what method you use, his soul stays firmly rooted to his bones. The wounds disappear like they were never there at all. What a waste of a good kill.

“Three of my generals have gone missing in the past tenday.” Ketheric levels his gaze at a subordinate and beckons them closer. When he turns his eyes back to you, they burn. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

You raise an eyebrow, carefully eyeing the soldier that steps forward an old, rusty bucket in hand. Weathered. Human. A strong jawbone that you’d love to rip from its hinges. You’ve seen him at Ketheric’s side before, and more importantly, he’s seen you. He pointedly refuses to meet your eyes—you quickly dart your gaze to one of the other guards. They freeze when you lock eyes. You flash them a manic grin, all teeth, that pins them in place.

Without fanfare, Jawbone empties his bucket onto the floor, and an assorted pile of viscera spills out. Literal ribbons of flesh unspool and tangle together, organs peeled open, innards facing the ceiling like flowers in search of the sun. You note two spleens in good condition (one elven—the tighter coils imprinted by the colon is a dead giveaway, the other smaller—halfing or dwarvish), a pair of kidneys (dwarvish, definitely—larger adrenal glands), three lungs (all elvish—narrow and long). By your estimation, there’s about two and a half people cut to ribbons in front of you, flesh sliced and torn until the meat was near unrecognizable.

What could three lowly footsoldiers have possibly done to earn such attention? All those precise cuts and incisions, and for what? To string up as a grotesque warning to the others at Moonrise—lambs that would serve as fodder for the Absolute anyway? You hold back the frustrated sigh trapped within your lungs and keep your expression carefully blank.

A sapphire blue eye rolls aimlessly across the ground and comes to a stop by your foot. You bend down, snatching it up by the optic nerve and hold it up to the light. It’s a pretty little thing, the iris a lovely deep, sky blue, flecked with sea green. Your eyes sweep over the people in attendance—it’s only Ketheric and his closest command. There is a new face though, presumably to replace one of the people piled at your feet. Perhaps even the one who used to view the world through this eye. They’re younger. Drow. Long delicate fingerbones that would snap neatly between your teeth.

You make a show of tilting your head back, mouth open wide as you dangle the eye playfully over your gaping maw. In your peripheral vision, you see Fingers visibly flinch. Even some of the veterans, used to your antics, turn green and avert their gaze. Ketheric has no such qualms, looking on with a bored, irritated expression. You drop the eyeball into your mouth like a gold coin into a wishing well beneath the full force of Ketheric’s searing anger.

You don’t swallow just yet, and turn back to face Ketheric. “Apologies for the men.” You gesture at the unfamiliar pile of meat on the floor. “My hand must have slipped.”

You flash him a smile that’s all teeth. As you do, you push the eyeball between your incisors with your tongue. Everyone in the room is forced to watch as you bite down—the eye deflates between your teeth with an audible pop and clear jelly spills down your chin. Two of the guards have to cover their mouths, Fingers audibly retches. Ketheric stares you down throughout it all, unmoving. This is the man that salted the earth on which he stood to spurn a goddess that never answered. He died in battle, and his very will cursed the land to ruin. When death came for him, he clawed his way out of hell. Your display, no matter how vulgar, will not force the mountain to move.

Ketheric rises to a stand, spurts of black ichor still dribbling from the open wound on his neck. The stones of Moonrise, built by Thorm’s ancestors long ago, tremble as he approaches. The smell of undeath, sweet rot and decay, expands to fill the air with every step. He pays no mind to the entrails of his former men, smashing them beneath his heel. He stops when you’re nearly toe to toe. He peers down his nose at you, mouth twisted in clear disdain beneath his beard.

“It’s none of my business how you handle your men, but in my halls you answer to me.” The ground quakes at the force of his growl.

The guards who remained unshaken by your display shrink back now at the oppressive wave of vitriol that fills the room, darker than the shadows beyond these walls. But Ketheric’s shadow is no match for the spark of divine fury in your heart.

“How dare you speak to me that way?” you growl, canines bared.

Ketheric remains unimpressed at the gnash of your fangs. “You’ve forgotten your place.” Ketheric’s low voice echoes through your very bones, rattling your teeth. “Unlike you, I was chosen for a higher purpose. A god called upon me to lead their army.”

Ketheric’s lip slowly curls back over rotten teeth. “You’re no general or politician. You and your ilk are blades, worthless without hands to wield them.”

Ketheric’s eyes darken with mirth at your expense. He takes a single step back, chin held high as he holds your gaze. He casts a glance down at the gore beneath his heel. Blood splatters against the sides of his greaves, a familiar scarlet unlike the oily shadows that fill Ketheric’s veins. He kicks away a collapsed lung with the toe of his boot.

“A sword that acts on its own is worse than useless.” He levels a cold, emotionless stare at you. “The only cure for an errant blade is to return it to the forge.”

White-hot fury carves a path through your veins. You toss your dagger in the air, easily catching it in a reverse grip. Your hand streaks through the air as lightning, seeking to ground itself in Ketheric’s shoulder. Your movements flow together like the course of the Chionthar, and with all the force of the river rapids you bury your blade in the crook of Ketheric’s neck. The force of the blow pushes a breath of air from Ketheric’s lungs, but he remains standing, immovable as the cloak of shadow that shrouds these lands..

You use the dagger in his neck as an anchor, and haul yourself up onto your tiptoes, face so close to his that your breath ghosts across his cold, pallid skin. “And what, pray tell, is the cure for a broken shield with nothing to guard?” you hiss, lips nearly brushing the point of his ear. “All those battles won and lives taken, yet you couldn’t save the thing you loved most. I wonder…” You twist the dagger in his shoulder.

When next you speak, your words are a gentle purr against his flesh. “How did she scream as she died? Did she beg for her father? How agonizing were those final moments when she realized you would never come?”

The very ground beneath your feet trembles as the tower’s foundation feels Thorm’s fury. A mesmerizing abyss opens in the pits of his eyes as the darkness in his gaze threatens to swallow you whole. This is the man that cursed his own lands for daring to take that which he loved—this is General Ketheric Thorm, Chosen of Shar, emptiness and loss in the shape of a man.

“Did your father never teach you the meaning of respect?” he growls. “Bow before your betters, child, or I will break you!”

The Command takes hold of your body and folds your knees to the ground. As much as you struggle against its hold, each second that you resist doubles the force pressing down on your shoulders. After only a few moments, the burden is so great that you fear your spine will snap. Your knees hit the dark stone with a sickening crack and your body pitches forward. Your hands instinctively reach out to brace your fall. When the compulsion releases, you find yourself on hands and knees before Ketheric Thorm, head hanging low between your shoulders.

He grunts his approval, then squarely plants his boot between your shoulderblades and shoves you into the ground. Your forehead knocks against the stone and you grit your teeth against the rattling in your skull. Even once you’ve lowered into a proper prayer, Ketheric keeps his foot on your back and forces you to hold.

“Better.” He wrenches your dagger out of his shoulder and carelessly tosses it on the ground, its blade nearly slicing through your fingers. “When this is over, you will make a fine soldier in my legions of undead. But if you wish to survive until then, remember your place.” The force of his voice shakes you to your very marrow.

You turn your head to the side, cheek pressed to the floor so that your words will carry. “If I pried open her ribs and wrenched her heart from its cradle, would you still have a place within it?”

Ketheric exhales a mix of anger and disappointment. He lifts his boot from your back just long enough to slam the toe of it into your ribs. You fold easily with a pained cough, curling onto your side, the floor still smeared with viscera. Days old blood and bile sticks to your hair, your skin. Blindly, you grasp for your favorite dagger, needing its comfort as you catch your breath. Your fingers close around the curved edge. You let the blade cut into your palm as it has a thousand times before and draw it closer, clutching it against your breast with both hands like a childs’ toy.

Ketheric watches the pathetic display, unmoving in the face of his men. They expect the General who denied a peaceful surrender and sought a massacre instead, so that’s what he must provide. For the plan to work, for him to repay his god for the gift of Isobel’s life, Ketheric must don the mantle of an unfeeling tyrant once more. He holds no compassion in his long-dead heart for you, the perpetual thorn in his side. You have no business standing in the company of titans who changed the world. Ketheric Thorm earned his place through two lifetimes of pain and suffering—yours was handed to you from birth.

No, he holds no love for you and the innumerable wrenches you insist on throwing into his plans. But Ketheric recognizes a child out of their depth when he sees one. He shakes his head with a bitter sigh.

“Your threats don’t frighten me. Touch a hair on her head and retribution will come for you.” He watches you, rolling on the ground amidst the blood and gore you relish in. His lip curls back in a bitter sneer. When faced with an enemy unmoved by the threat of death, you are little more than a worm, uselessly wriggling towards the surface.

“Of all the vile, tainted creatures roaming these cursed lands, you are by far the most abhorrent.”

With that, Ketheric Thorm sweeps away, the metal of his boots clanking against the cold stone floors. Both he and his men leave, emptying the throne room of all but you and the remnants of an unfamiliar slaughter. You catch your breath against the pile of offal left in Ketheric’s wake, flecks of blood and pulverized flesh staining your lips.

Slowly, you push yourself up with a groan, ribs bruised and aching where cold steel dug into your flesh. You observe the refuse between your fingers, blood and meat staining the lines in your palm. Instead of the pleasure that usually floods your brain in response to bloodshed you only feel a cold wash of relief. The beacon of Ketheric’s fury blinds him to anything else lurking in the shadows. You only need keep it fixated on yourself until… until…

Like so much of your life, the memory slips away.

A large, auburn rat weaves through a pair of armored feet as it darts through a heavy wooden door. The guard shies away with a grimace, but otherwise pays the creature no mind. Rats aren’t exactly uncommon in the prisons. Joke’s on the blasted creature though; any vermin that dares to venture into the upper floors of the tower is a future meal for Steelclaw. The rat hops up the stairs with unusual grace, bounding in a straight line across the floor. The creature moves with single-minded determination, eyes never straying from the path directly in front of its nose. It squeezes through the gap of two more doors, little claws scrabbling for purchase on the smooth stone. But without much difficulty, the rat arrives in the alcove outside the kitchen.

The noxious smell of burning steel precedes the appearance of a tiefling woman, hair alight with writhing flames. She paces back and forth in the small alcove, restlessly swinging her arms wide. Anyone passing by can sense the unease rolling off her, fueling the fire skittering across the breadth of her shoulders. The rat comes to a stop in front of her, sitting back on its haunches to watch the display.

It takes Karlach a few moments to notice her audience. She spots it when she twists to stretch her opposite arm. Her face breaks into a pained smile, and she shakes out the lingering tension in her hands. She crouches low, face to face with the rat.

“Halsin, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” she breathes with clear relief.

The rat stands up taller on its hind legs, eyes curiously scanning the room, whiskers twitching fervently as it sniffs the air.

Karlach’s smile fades. “You are Halsin, right?” She carefully looks the rat up and down, trying to remember exactly what Halsin’s wildshape looked like. “I’m gonna be honest, mate, I’ve talked to two other rats that looks exactly like you and I’m pretty sure they were just rats. The first one did not appreciate being picked up.”

The rat covers the end of its snout with both front paws, chittering in a way that’s distinctly reminiscent of laughter. Karlach’s face breaks into a relieved smile once again, worry still evident in the set of her brows. The rat, Halsin settles back onto all four legs, gazing up at Karlach with warm yellow eyes.

Karlach nods, satisfied. “Good enough for me. If you’re not Halsin, you’re certainly the friendliest rat I’ve ever met.” She lays her hand on the ground, palm upturned. “I’ll take you to the others. There’s been a, uh…” Karlach trails off, lips pinching together tightly as a shadow flits through her eyes. “Well, you’ll see.”

Halsin co*cks his head in unsettled curiosity. The situation must be very dire indeed if even Karlach can’t bring herself to put on a smile. Halsin squeaks at her softly before settling himself in the cradle of her palm. He can’t comfort her with words in this form, so he does the next best thing, and gently nuzzles his soft, furred head against the crook of her thumb.

Karlach’s smile widens, the sharp points of her teeth on clear display. She smooths the pad of her thumb between Halsin’s eyes with a soft coo. She’ll have to ask later if Halsin can do this again. It’s been over a decade since she got to hold something small and fluffy in her hands. Scratch and the owlbear cub are great, but there’s something about holding something small enough to fit in the palm of your hands that makes her metal heart melt. Neither of the cats they’ve happened upon so far have been the cuddling type, and Karlach would really like to make up for all the puppies and kittens she couldn’t pet over the past decade. She’ll have to remember to make time for it at some point, before…

Well. Before.

Karlach stands back at her full height, Halsin laid carefully across her palm. For the druid’s part he settles easily into Karlach’s hand. Her warm, broad hands form a lovely den within which to bed down for the winter. He casts an idle thought to the Grove, wondering how their preparations for the winter have fared without his guidance.

At this time of year, life in the Grove would begin to slow, efforts focused on building food stores for the coming frost, ensuring that the previous year’s shelter was still in good order, that the Hollow would be warm and large enough to house all that needed it. But the thought slips away before he can pay it further mind. Heat rises from Karlach’s skin just as it does from the Oak Father’s soil, gentle and soothing. It’s easy to let his mind drift. It’s a rare occasion indeed that Halsin gets the opportunity to be held.

Karlach giggles as she walks, seeing how Halsin practically melts into her palm. Part of her wants to keep him there and allow him the rest. But even if she can probably manage to climb the ladder with one hand, it’s better not to play with fire.

“Sorry, mate,” she whispers, transferring Halsin to her shoulder as gently as possible.

Halsin goes easily, chittering idly as he burrows himself into the furs at Karlach’s collar. Karlach continues smiling. She’s grateful for the reprieve, given the anxiety of the past half hour, and the dread of the trials yet to come. She climbs the ladder swiftly, then hops the gap with ease. On the platform, she finds Gale and Rolan set up just as they were when she left. Gale sits cross-legged in front of the crevice, his spellbook spread carefully in front of him, alongside a smattering of components—a deck of cards, a pouch of glimmering dust, a harpy feather. Rolan stands nearby, arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring down at Gale’s work.

“Hey, I got Halsin,” Karlach says by way of greeting, quiet, so as not to draw attention from those walking below.

Rolan looks up with a sharply arched brow. “Are you sure this one is actually your druid?” he grumbles.

Karlach wavers her palm in the air in a “so-so” gesture. “If not, this one’s real cute.” With her remaining hand, she grasps the rat on her shoulder and carefully sets him back on solid ground.

The three onlookers hang back, Karlach and Rolan watch the rat with intense focus, while Gale remains buried in his spellbook. The rats turns a quick circle on the wooden platform, before standing on its hind legs, nose twitching as it takes a final survey of the area. In a now familiar show of golden light, the rat’s form grows.

It quickly expands, the same spectral vines from before once more appearing around Halsin’s form. But this time, instead of compressing him down, he breaks through them, strong human arms stretching out of the light, knees and ankle bones shifting back into place. The wet creak of strained flora echoes through the air, as Halsin pulls in a deep breath through his nose, his barrel-chest expanding with the sudden rush of oxygen into suddenly straining lungs. The light fades, leaving the four people in dim silence once more.

With a relieved sigh, Halsin rises to his full height, surpassing even Karlach once more. He takes but a moment to roll his shoulders, work out the sudden aches earned from the transformation, quickly rolling his joints just to ensure he’s returned to himself in one piece. It’s been centuries since her first, embarrassing attempts at Wildshape, often resulting in sprained ankles or bruised ribs as he worked to tame his unruly magic and wild spirit. But it’s still habit to check, one he instills in every young druid.

Once certain that all his bones and tendons have settled in their proper places, Halsin casts his eyes over his gathered allies, immediately noting two obvious absences. “What’s happened?” he asks severely, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “Where are the others?”

Gale finally closes his spellbook, acknowledging Halsin’s presence. “That is exactly the predicament we find ourselves in.” He shifts his weight, beginning the slow process of standing after a long period of stillness.

Instinctively, Halsin offers a hand that Gale gladly takes, grasping the other man’s forearm ask his knees creak and protest the sudden movement. Halsin casts a worrying glance at Gale’s joints, but lets the topic lie for now.

Gale clears his throat. “To sum up our circ*mstances”—he gestures broadly at the cracked wall—“they both disappeared through here.”

Halsin’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline, creasing the lines on his forehead. “Disappeared?” he repeats incredulously.

He steps towards the wall, Gale allowing him space to examine the strange opening. He follows the line of alien flesh emerging from the darkness with his hand, hovering a few inches over the unknown entity. All of the Oak Father’s creations are born tethered to the land—instincts that are passed down through the generations. It is only that much of mankind leaves those senses untrained, relying solely on logic and reason. Such tools have their place, to be certain, but there is much one fails to perceive if they abandon their baser instincts entirely. He imagines it is similar to the way you and Gale can sense the patterns in the Weave. But where Gale feels the energy flowing through the fabric of reality, Halsin feels the world itself; the stones beneath his feet and the vast sky above.

The beast beneath Halsin’s skin awakens. He draws a deep breath into his lungs, chest expanding. His nose twitches at the static buzz of distant ozone, signalling oncoming rain. The humidity from the Chionthar is a familiar and ever-present cloak over his skin, dampened here versus what’s familiar from the Grove. The tower’s stones themselves echo beneath his feet—not part of the natural landscape but still weathered by the touch of a thousand summer storms, lined with moss and river algae in its cracks. And of course, there’s the unsettling emptiness stretching deep beneath the earth where the land’s spirit—Thaniel’s spirit—was cored out and left hollow.

The only thing he detects within the tower’s walls is the faint sound of… something fleshy and wet sliding against the smooth stones. Halsin’s brow furrows. It is… unnatural just how little presence the creature within the walls has. Halsin can still smell faint traces of wet, bloodstained fur in the kitchens—the unmistakable remnants of the gnolls that worked there. He can even smell the faint trail of mud that your party has tracked from the Tollhouse into the tower. But he smells nothing of the being within the walls—no pheromones or sickly sweet rot. The only trace at all is the faint schlck of wet meat rubbing against the stone—so quiet that Halsin can only sense it now that he knows it’s there.

Perhaps it is an obvious conclusion, but the creature within the walls is distinctly alien, so far removed from the natural world that Halsin’s senses are nearly useless.

He purses his lips as he stares into the depths. “This… texture.” Halsin nods at the pulsing flesh beneath his hand. “It reminds me of the wreckage of the nautiloid.”

Halsin never had much chance to see the crash site; by that point he was already captured and there were only a couple days between his release and your party’s departure into the Underdark. Nettie had taken what notes she could, but she had more important matters at hand, such as delaying the Rite of Thorns as best she could. Given the chance, Halsin would have studied the nautiloid wreckage for days, weeks even. That was how long he and Nettie had spent investigating the drow assassin, then the tadpole that came out of him.

Gale nods beside him. “It certainly does. It has the same… presence, too.” Gale gestures towards his head, signalling the tadpole.

Halsin blinks, turning his full attention on Gale. “You can sense it?” he asks.

Gale nods. “I believe we all can—Karlach?”

Karlach’s eyes turned skyward as she stretches out the edges of her mind—a far more unfamiliar sensation to her as a barbarian than for you or Gale. When her mind brushes the edges of the looming psionic presence within the walls, she visibly recoils. “Oooh, yeah. That’s just like the nautiloid.” She makes an exaggerated gagging noise in disgust.

Halsin turns back to the cracked wall, a sudden urgency brewing within his chest. “We’re on the right track then. This is almost certainly related to the tadpoles.”

The biologist in him, the one that’s spent the past few months investigating and worrying over the emerging cult near the Grove, desperately wants to know what lies at the end of this path. He has been searching for answers almost twice the length that your group has—though with far less urgency—and the prospect of those answers being so close at had is a tantalizing prospect. With the goblin leaders slain, the Grove is safe, for now. But the cult could reemerge at any point, and he worries greatly for the Grove’s capacity to defend itself without him—without you.

Halsin glances between the rest of your gathered allies. “Tell me exactly how the other two disappeared.”

Karlach shrugs. “I was busy pissing so don’t look at me.”

Gale coughs awkwardly into his fist. “To tell the truth, I’m not entirely certain what happened. Rolan and I were discussing what spells to prepare. The next thing I know, Astarion was shouting for help.” Gale bites his lower lip, eyes downcast in clear guilt. “I followed him up here, but by the time I got up here it was already too late.”

Halsin’s brows draw together in deep concern. “Too late? They were… what? Dragged into the wall?” he asks, once again baffled by the circ*mstances.

He supposes after everything he’s seen so far, he should stop being surprised by such things.

“Ah.” Gale’s presses into a thin line. “You’re partially correct.”

At Halsin’s apparent confusion, Rolan rolls his eyes in clear annoyance. “Oh, Hells, out with it, already,” he spits bitterly. “The insufferable drow got dragged in. The vampire jumped in willingly afterwards.”

Halsin gives Rolan a look of appraisal for the first time since his return. Rolan stands at the far end of the platform, arms crossed tightly across his chest, sharp nails pulling at the threads of his own robes. His tail whips sharply back and forth in clear agitation. Halsin can smell the anxiety rolling off the boy—caustic brimstone and copper sharp enough to sting.

Halsin puts up a placating hand. “Of course. Apologies for my distraction, your family is unharmed.”

The veil of agitation immediately drops to reveal the terror it hides. “Cal and Lia?” He takes a lurching step forward, breath caught in his lungs.

Halsin nods. “Aye. They, Larissa, and Danis are all alive and well, given the circ*mstances.” He catches Gale and Karlach’s eye as well. “Additionally, the allies of the Deep Gnomes from Grymforge are there, as well.

“From what Lia told me—”

“You spoke to her?” Rolan interrupts, his arms unfolded now, one hand clutching tightly at his collar.

Halsin nods. “As much as one can speak as a rat.”

It was easy enough to get the prisoners’ attention. Halsin is adept at disgusing himself as an animal, but it’s fairly easy to identify a druid in Wildshape if said druid wants to be recognized. Rats that will understand and respond to Common are few and far between. Lia was smart enough to guess that he was a druid from the Grove, at which point she quickly relayed everything she and the Ironhands had gathered.

Rolan swallows thickly. “Is she…?” His voice trails off, breath turning to a wordless rasp through his teeth.

In truth, Rolan isn’t sure what the end of that question was supposed to be. Is she angry with him? Disappointed? Is she taking care of Cal? Is she doing perfectly alright without him? He isn’t sure what answer he wants to hear. Moreover, he isn’t sure he can bear it.

Halsin shakes his head. “I was only able to gather information related to the prison itself. I thought the rest of my time better spent scouting the area. Speaking of which…” He turns to Gale. “Do you have paper and a quill? Or any writing implement you have on hand will suffice.”

Gale nods and quickly hands over a scavenged book and a stick of charcoal. “Inkpots and quills don’t exactly travel well,” he says by way of explanation.

Halsin quickly flips to the back of the book, finding a blank page. He sketches out a rough map of the prison, pointing out the cells, the Warden’s office, and the location of the guards. “According to Lia, the refugees and the Ironhands already have a plan in place to mine out the back wall of the prison,” Halsin explains as he draws. “I was able to confirm there’s a dock leading out to the on the other side of the wall.”

“A dock built into the back of a prison?” Karlach tilts her head curiously, looking over Halsin’s shoulder as he draws. “I’m no architect, but that doesn’t exactly sound like solid dungeon design.

A brief chuckle leaves Halsin’s lips. “Moonrise Towers was built by the Thorm family long before Ketheric’s time.” He indicates a door to the right of the entrance. “This door leads out to the docks—I suspect storage and trade was the dungeon’s original purpose, and Ketheric repurposed it during his crusade.”

Gale nods his agreement. “Either way, it certainly works in our favor.”

“Indeed, it does.” Halsin strikes a line through the central tower, indicating a second floor. “The Warden confiscated the prisoners’ belongings and has them stored above her office; one of the Ironhands is apparently rather insistent on retrieving his hammer to knock out the back wall of both cells, though any blunt tool should suffice.”

Gale raises an eyebrow. “And how exactly do they plan to accomplish that without being caught?”

Halsin smiles ruefully. “I believe that will be up to us.” Halsin shades in the area surrounding the narrow walkway, indicating the sudden drop into the abyss. “Though I’m sure our friend would point out that getting caught by the guards won’t matter if they don’t live to tell the tale.”

Gale tips his head in acknowledgement. “Morbid, but true.”

Karlach frowns down at Halsin’s sketch, pursing her lips. “Wait, is the prison really built on top of a giant chasm?” she asks incredulously. “Who in the Hells would bother digging out all that rock?”

“I’ll admit, it was certainly a surprise. But that brings me to my final point.” Halsin draws a circular platform on the far side of the Warden’s office, with a smaller, shaded circle inside. “For lack of a better term, there is a body disposal pit here.”

Rolan visibly blanches. “A what?”

Halsin nods, mouth twisting in a foul grimace as he recalls the cloying scent of decay. His sharpened sense of smell caught it as soon as he darted into the prison. A lingering, fetid stench clung to every stone of the dungeon. With every step towards the chasm, it only grew stronger. Every hair on his tiny, furry body stood on end. He had already known there was a great evil lurking within Moonrise and the Cult of the Absolute. But the overpowering essence of rot rising from the earth signalled to him that the evil here was somehow more vile than he’d anticipated.

The rancid odor clings to his skin even now, heavy and suffocating. “There is a deep hole on this platform, with bodies in various states of decay discarded nearby.” He looks up towards the cracked wall, a picture beginning to coalesce in his mind. “The pit had the same texture as this.” He gestures towards the flesh emerging from the crevice. “I’ll admit, I didn’t know what to make of it at the time. But seeing this now I think perhaps—”

Gale’s eyes widen, mind working faster than Halsin can speak. “You think there’s a way up into the prison from below?”

Halsin nods. “I have no way to know for certain, but if there’s a pit beneath the prison, it must lead somewhere.” He purses his lips staring intently into the darkness beyond the wall. “I think that might be our best course of action.” Halsin passes the finished map and charcoal into Gale’s hands, wiping the dark stains off on the bark of his bracers. “Anything could be down there, and I don’t relish the idea of leaving two of our most vulnerable allies to fend for themselves.”

Rolan scoffs, sneering bitterly. “Are you about to suggest we all jump into the fire based on a hunch?” he spits.

Halsin shakes his head. “No, of course not.” He turns to Gale with a sobering gaze. “If either of them is injured, they need medical attention. As the only healer present, I believe it’s in our best interests to split here.”

Gale meets Halsin’s gaze with a blank expression, eyes glassy as he runs through every plan at their disposal. Should they stick together and raid the prison, they would have to hope that you and Astarion weren’t too severely injured. If you or Astarion succumbed to blood loss or fatigue before they could reach the bottom of the chasm, the both of you might be lost forever. If they all went down together, there would be no means of escape should Halsin’s intuition prove to be faulty.

Halsin’s logic is sound, as much as Gale loathes to split the group even farther. “While I’m inclined to agree, I feel that I should point out you might be heading into the jaws of the beast yourself. If all three of you fall, then there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to find you.”

Halsin nods in agreement. “I am aware. But if the danger is too great, I’m able to fly out. The rest of you cannot.”

Gale hates standing by uselessly while another of his companions ventures into the lion’s den. But learned as he is, Gale is no healer. If you or Astarion need more assistance than a simple pat on the shoulder and tacit support, Gale won’t be able to provide. A long sigh escapes through Gale’s nose. Only an hour ago, your group was riding high after easily besting Gerringothe Thorm with nary an injury. Somehow, everything since has happened at a rapid fire pace that fills the breadth of eons. It has been a long, excruciating day that still stretches onward. He anticipates at least one more tense battle, followed by a mad dash onto the water. His bones ache at the thought alone.

But he certainly can’t stop now with you and Astarion missing. Just as you’ve done so many times before, there’s no choice but to blaze a path forward. Wherever you’ve gone, they’ll find you. He made a promise, after all.

“I suppose that settles it, then.” Gale nods sharply, catching Karlach and Rolan’s eyes. “We’ll work down from here while you work your way up from below.”

Halsin claps a sturdy hand on Gale’s shoulder allowing the group one last moment of peace before the inevitable storm. “I will return shortly to inform you of the situation below. Then I’ll be on my way for good.” His hand falls, leaving Gale to steady himself.

Halsin casts his gaze across his gathered allies once more. It strikes him just how young the lot of you are. Even Gale, older by human standards, has only lived a tenth as long as Halsin. Yet all of you have managed to accomplish so much in such a short time. Halsin was far, far older than all of you on the eve of his greatest failure, and it’s only a century later that he’s been granted the chance to right his wrongs. Here Gale is, donning the mantle of leadership in your absence. Your group’s sheer power of will shames him.

But there is no time for bitterness nor jealousy. Not when the goal he’s sought for a century lies so close at hand. This is just one more piece of the puzzle necessary for fate to fall in line. Halsin shifts, consumed once more by that golden light. His legs draw up into his torso and long, pitch-black feathers sprout down the length of his arms. In only a moment, Halsin’s form disappears, and a Dire Raven breaks through the veil where Halsin once stood.

Gale catches Halsin’s glowing yellow eye one last time. Then, with a great beat of its wings, the bird carefully slips through the cracked wall, beyond his companions’ sight. Halsin finds himself in a deep, dark abyss. Behind him is the bright light of Moonrise Towers, and far below is a dull, pink glow—a perfect echo of the pit he saw behind the Warden’s office. Without another thought, Halsin tucks his wings ito his side and dives.

Astarion’s feet touch the ground with the grace of a gently falling feather. Well. His feet would have touched the ground if not for the massive pile of bodies beneath his heel. Astarion is hardly the squeamish sort, but even he can’t help but recoil at the nightmare he finds himself in. More of that now familiar, alien flesh lines the walls and floor, long strands of sticky purple meat oozing down from above. The pulsating flesh glistens in the dim light, like a sheen of saliva coating the inside of a creature’s mouth—a creature that Astarion now finds himself inside of. Beneath the fibrous ropes of lean muscle, chunks of bedrock line the walls.

Whatever excavation happened here was cursory at best, the rocks jagged and uneven. Astarion feels a deep hum within the earth—distantly, he can hear the rush of the River Chionthar surging overhead. He is far, far below Moonrise Towers, perhaps even as far down as he was in the Underdark. But stranger still, Astarion can see a thin membrane in the wall, and the shadows of figures moving in the distance. A thick, massive tentacle rises up from the depths, stretching upwards beyond Astarion’s sight. As far down as he is, whatever this structure is goes down even further still.

The familiar scent of putrid blood hangs in the air, left to rot over the course of months. It reeks just like the blood merchant, unnatural and acrid—illithid. His fangs tingle unpleasantly, vibrating in time with the cavern’s ominous hum. This blood is far, far more overpowering than any of the fetid rats Astarion has eaten throughout his life.The phantom sensation of matted fur and rotten flesh sticks between his teeth. He swipes his tongue across his fangs, just to confirm there’s nothing there. There isn’t, but the feeling remains, along with the rancid aftertaste of raw sewage in the back of his throat.

He looks down at his boot with a grimace. The “pile” of bodies he landed on is less of a pile and more of a soup. The only reason he can identify the congealed mass as a collection of bodies is due to the fresh corpses on top. But rather than decaying as expected, the older bodies seem to simply… melt, flesh and viscera falling off their skeletons like succulent meat off the bone. Skin, organs, and bone marrow mix together, liquefying into one gray, congealed mass that now sticks to the soles of Astarion’s boots in stringy bits of meat soup.

“Oh, for Gods’ sake, I just cleaned these!” he complains, his mouth warping in bitter revulsion.

He casts a glance at the bodies strewn about the floor and quickly dismisses the idea of trying to scavenge another pair. He’s more than fine with a little blood, but he draws the line at getting bits of peasant stuck beneath his nails. Unlike you, he doesn’t enjoy wearing corpses as hand puppets.

Speaking of you. “Darling?” he calls, eyes darting furiously around the cavernous space.

Given the size of the pit, Astarion expects his voice to echo. But to his ears, the words seem to die as soon as they leave his mouth. His voice doesn’t reverberate off the river stones as he expects, instead falling flat at his feet. The walls pulse ominously, more alive than Astarion’s dead heart.

“My love, can you hear me?” he tries again, louder.

Still, the oppressive air seems to swallow his voice. The alien flesh stuck to the walls dampens the sound and steals the very air from his lungs. Not for the first time, he’s grateful that he doesn’t need to breathe. But he very much needs to speak. When there’s no response, Astarion begins scanning the ground, eyes roaming over every body, searching for the familiar flash of lavender skin and scarlet eyes.

A wading pool of blood surrounds the pile of congealed meat on which Astarion stands. Blood stains everything Astarion sees. Rust-colored flakes of dried blood clump on the eyelashes of decapitated heads. Trails of blood drip continuously down the cavern walls, so thick and fresh that the stones themselves seem to bleed. All Astarion sees is red, red, red.

That ever-present vampiric hunger gnaws at the bars of his ribcage. Four months ago, he would have gotten on his back for a mere mouthful of intelligent blood, putrid or otherwise. Now before him lies a whole lake of it. Despite the nausea roiling in his belly, his mouth waters and his fangs begin to elongate. Even rotten, blood is blood. Blood means life, healing, strength. Here lies enough blood to bathe in.

He shakes himself out of it. This blood is distinctly illithid, and he has no desire to find out how the tadpole will react to more illithid filth in his veins. He casts one last mournful glance at the pool of unpalatable blood, before returning to his search.

“You know, dear, all this blood is making me hungry!” he calls, eyes darting around the cavern. “I could really use a bite right now!”

No response, not that he truly expected one. It’s warm down here, far beneath the earth, the hollow heated by the slow process of decay. But even so, Astarion feels the bitter autumn wind gust over the knobs of his spine. Where in the Hells are you? He scans the mass beneath his feet, grimacing as he kicks a body off the top, followed by another. He followed right after you—you couldn’t possibly have gone far, assuming you didn’t break every single bone in your blasted body. Then again, if anyone could manage to cause problems without a single working bone, it’d be you.

Astarion casts his eyes wider, to the pockets of stone peeking out from beneath the bloody lake. There are so many bodies. Each one covered in dirt, blood, and viscera—they look exactly the same. Is he supposed to go turning over every body he finds? Could you have somehow managed to burrow into the gelatinous mass of sinew beneath his feet? Did you drown in the bloody pool? Astarion should have thrown Gale over his shoulder and dragged the wizard down with him. Gale would be able to do some magic bullsh*t and “feel your aura” or something equally ridiculous.

Astarion only has his own senses to rely on, and right now every single one is clouded by panic and the stench of alien rot. You have to be here, but he can’t focus enough to follow your trail. Where are you?

A wordless groan beckons him to the pool’s edge.

Astarion’s eyes immediately dart to the noise. There, lying face-down in a pile of offal, he sees the shape of a familiar drow. Astarion leaps into action, skidding down the side of the body pile. His heels leave clear track marks through the sticky remains, bits of lean meat and sinew sticking to his boots. A half melted arm separates from its carcass and goes tumbling into the bloody lake.

None of that matters, not the stench, the squelch of unknown organs beneath his feet, nor the stain of expelled waste on his trousers as he falls to his knees by your side. Your upper half rests on “dry” land, your cheek cradled by a corpse’s collapsed ribcage. But your lower half lies submerged in the lake of blood. Blood streaks across your skin and clothes from head to toe. His unbeaten heart lurches at the sight.

Panic cracks across the synapses in his brain, linking what he sees now to a thousand different lovers, blood spilling in thick rivulets across bare skin. If he was on his back, sometimes stray droplets of blood would collect on his own skin. His mouth would water, the blood collecting in the dish of his collarbone smelling of the sweetest red wine. Drool would spill from his mouth unbidden. More blood, dripping down the valley of his breastbone, collecting in the hollow of his navel like rainwater. Cazador was being purposefully wasteful, painting his slave with table scraps that Astarion couldn’t have.

Cazador would drink his fill until Astarion’s lover for the night fell limp, their heartbeat sputtering out as it dies. Then he would lick the blood off Astarion’s skin, like he was a piece of silverware. Finally, Cazador would drag the dead body away, leaving Astarion to clean the spend between his thighs.

Two hundred years of experience tell him that you’re dead or dying. It takes another moment for his mind to catch up, to counter his panic with reason; most of that blood isn’t yours. Astarion exhales a breath he doesn’t need, the shards of ice digging into his lungs slowly melting away. The residual fear still pools in the tips of his fingers. His hands continue to shake despite his best efforts.

He makes another attempt to assess your injuries.

His hands hover, trembling over the back of your shoulder. “Are you alright, my love?” He doesn’t dare touch his hand to your skin, terrified of startling you and sending you reeling back into the pool of blood.

Another high-pitched whine sounds in the back of your throat. Astarion notes the rapid flutter of your eyelashes against your cheeks. You must be dreaming, then. He watches a moment, taking note of the creases around your eyes and between your brow, the hard clench of your jaw and the strain as your bone-white teeth grind together. You fist handfuls of stringy viscera like a lifeline, then suddenly your arm falls unnaturally still. The slow rise and fall of your chest assures him that you’re still with him. You still breathe, even as the air in your throat catches on the apex of every inhale.

Astarion frowns. With no sign of awareness, he’s hesitant to move you. If he inadvertently worsens an injury, he’ll have no way of knowing. But he doubts soaking in a pool of fetid blood and using a rotten corpse as a pillow is doing you any favors. He quickly checks the pouch on his belt. He has one healing potion left after the day’s battles. He supposes a restock was on your list of preparations for the prison break that fell to the wayside. It won’t feel pleasant, but it should at least be enough to drag you back from death’s doorstep.

Astarion watches you for another few seconds with a severe expression, hoping that you’ll rise on your own and save him the trouble of playing caretaker. But his hopes have never been answered, and you remain eerily still. A sigh equal parts fear and frustration escapes Astarion’s lips.

He wipes his palms on his leathers, brushing off imagined sweat. “I’m going to move you, now,” he declares. “If you have any objections, I suggest you start screaming.”

With all the care Astarion grants the most delicate locks, he carefully places his hands on your shoulders. He waits a moment, still expecting you to cry out in agony. When you remain unnaturally still, he turns you over onto your back. Astarion’s mouth twists violently as moist, rotting meat rubs against the length of his arm. The ground suckles wetly as his fingers as they slip beneath your body. He mentally blocks out the nerves in that part of his body, a skill he’s long perfected.

Despite his middling strength, you flop over easily enough, your upper body twisting while your legs follow sluggishly behind. He looks down the length of your body and waits for one agonizing moment. If your spine or ribs broke in the fall, turning you like that would unstick the shards of bone and dig excruciatingly into the surrounding nerves. He waits for a pained yelp that doesn’t come.

In the mess of viscera coating your front, it’s nearly impossible to determine if any of it belongs to you. Besides, with a fall like that, it’s entirely possible you’re bleeding—just not on the outside. Astarion tries in vain to sniff the air, searching for the familiar tingle of raw magic in your blood. But the rotting corpses and putrid blood overwhelm his senses so fully that it deafens the familiar babble of your coursing veins.

All he can cling to is the fragile hope blossoming in the chambers of his heart, tended to by your own careful hands these long months. Astarion slips his hands beneath your armpits and drags you from the bloody lake. Thankfully, as a sorcerer, you’re not one for heavy armor. The weight of your body is a strain, but far from unmanageable. Your limp heels carve a clear trail through the muck.

With Gale’s help, the bulk of Astarion’s armor has remained relatively clean. It’s mainly his boots and gloves that have suffered the most—easy enough to clean with the stores back at camp. But the state of his armor is little more than an errant wisp of a thought as Astarion hauls you into his lap. Your head lolls to the side as he moves you, body completely limp in his hold.

He settles your back across his knees, trying to remember the little he’s picked up of first aid from Dal. He curses his past self for not paying more attention when she tended to Leon’s brat. It never mattered to him before; it wasn’t as if he needed to patch his own wounds, nor would he be able to beneath Cazador’s watchful eye. He never bothered to learn—why would he ever want to play doctor for a mortal? More blood spilled meant a fuller belly for him.

Keep the spine and neck straight, check for breathing, put pressure on any bleeding wounds. Astarion cradles the back of you head with his hand, long fingers tangled in your hair. It falls messily across your face in stringy wet clumps, braids undone and stained a bright red. With his free hand, Astarion tenderly brushes your hair back, his touch on your skin featherlight. Even without your veil of hair, blood still stains your cheek, bits of flesh stuck beneath your jaw. But he can see the beginnings of a dark blue bruise blossoming along your cheekbone.

One hand still braced on the back of your skull, Astarion wraps the other around your waist, uncaring of the blood and offal smeared across the front of his armor. What matters to him most is pressing your ribcage to his—feeling the swell of your lungs and the steady rhythm of your heart. He can match his breaths to yours, allow your chests to wax and wane together like the tide. With your heart beating so close to his, he can pretend that it beats for him, too, driving the flow of blood through both of your veins.

Your eyelashes flutter, just enough for him to see a sliver of white sclera. “Darling?” he gasps, the hand on your waist squeezing an unintelligible groan from your lips. “My love, are you with me?”

Your eyes scrunch shut once more, a deep wrinkle forming over the bridge of your nose. “Wha—?” you mumble through lips that barely move.

Astarion’s throat tightens painfully around the breath of relieved laughter. “You’re alright,” he breathes—an assurance meant for himself as much as you. “I’m here.”

You turn your head away, lip trembling as even still you refuse to open your eyes. “—eave mmmmm,” you mumble incoherently.

Astarion uses the hand on the back of your skull to face you towards him once more. “You’ll have to use your words, dear, if you need something.”

You slowly shake your head back and forth. “Jus’ leave me ’ere.”

If Astarion’s heart still beat, it would have seized. “Oh, don’t you dare.” Astarion releases your hip and grabs at the potion on his waist. “You don’t get to die either, you bloody hypocrite.”

“Already did.” Your eyes finally open enough for him to see that familiar red eye.

Your one working pupil is blown wide, only a thin ring of red left, as if the moon eclipsed the blazing sunrise. You gaze up at Astarion, only able to make out the familiar shape of something very pale and cold. The world tilts and spins beneath your back—just as it did when the Absolute pulled you down below. You must still be waiting to hit solid ground.

You gaze up at Astarion, malleable splotches of white swimming before your eyes. Your eyes roam his face, searching for the anchor of his familiar scarlet gaze. But the whole of Astarion’s visage is a blanket of unspoiled virgin snow. Astarion knows immediately that your gaze passes straight through him, unseeing. The last few hours blur together in your mind. You remember the glow of arcane lights in the distance, gold, an impossibly vast presence crowded within the folds of your brain.

It’s gone now, and in its space remains a cavernous empty chamber. Echoes of grief cling to the edges of your fractured mind. You ache for something you can’t name. In your pursuit of answers you’ve found only more questions. Every step forward is another step into the shadows of your past failures. Something waits for you at the end, as razor sharp memories reform into the glass prism that shattered when you died. Light pierces the darkness, scattering across the ruins of everything you’ve lost—everything that will never be yours again.

It hurts too much to bear.

“Aren’t the dead s’posed t’ rest?” you breathe.

Astarion sighs, ripping the cork out of the healing potion with his teeth and spitting it into the lake before he speaks. “Some of us just aren’t that lucky, I suppose.”

He presses the rim of the bottle to your lips, slowly tilting it back into your mouth. He remains quiet while you drink, watching carefully as you drain the potion. Once you’ve finished, he tosses the bottle into the lake to join the cork and tenderly brushes the back of his hand over your cheek.

“Sometimes death is just the beginning.” He whispers, catching a stray drop of potion on his knuckle.

Death is Astarion’s first clear memory. It was the first impenetrable link in the chains of his slavery—immutable and unchanging. Every torture and indignity became another loop, tightening around his throat. Now two hundred years later, his body only knows how to be bound. When his chains dug into his undying flesh, it simply healed around them. Death is the only thing holding him together. Break his chains and he’ll fall to pieces just as surely.

Were it not for his death, he wouldn’t be here today—far below Moonrise Towers with the person he treasures most in his arms. If he’d never died, he wonders if someone else would take his place. Shadowheart perhaps? Wyll? Gods forbid, Petras?

He shoves those thoughts aside. He’s the one holding you and he’s not letting you go.

Whatever carved out your brain and left you for dead is the very thing that brought you into Astarion’s path. Had it not been for whatever killed you… you would have been an enemy, he supposes. Just another poor casualty of their assault on Moonrise—another drow turned away from the Spider Queen’s embrace. The thought makes him ill.

Would they have even survived this far without you? The early days seemed a constant landmine, navigating everyone’s secrets and the dangers lurking in their shadows. Who would have stepped up to lead the group in your place? Wyll, most likely, and gods, how much selfishness would Wyll have tolerated? Would they wake up one morning to find either Lae’zel or Shadowheart dead? No doubt, Wyll would have cast the other out at that point, leaving Astarion as the only selfish bastard in the group. How long would that last, until they realized they were better off without him?

Would he even have survived that first bite without you? You were the only one foolish enough to defend him after he lost control and drained you dry. No one else in the group would have given him a second chance. He would have died terrified, physically free but still mentally trapped beneath Cazador’s heel. He would have never known what it felt like to have sex on his own terms, nor how it felt to enjoy it. He would have never known the joy of caring for you, how the small pockets of laughter and fun make everything else easier.

Whatever “killed” you led you to his arms. Selfish as it is, he’s grateful for their work.

Your eyes shimmer as you look up at him, still hazy and unfocused. You make an attempt to lift your hand to his face, but when you try to move your arm, hellfire burns down the length of your arm. You gasp in pain, hand missing Astarion’s face and flopping bonelessly against his chest.

Astarion’s eyes go wide. “What, what is it?” he asks, a clear tremor in his voice.

You push your voice through clenched teeth. “Hurts.” A dull throb pulses through your shoulder in time with your heavy heart.

Astarion fits his palm against the curve of your fingers, slowly bringing your hand to his face. He basks in the radiant warmth of your skin, jaw trembling. Your arms have been his safe harbor for so long now. He washed upon your shores, alone and afraid, snapping his teeth at anything that ventured too close. But heedless of the wounds he left on your skin, you took his hand and showed him the sun rising over the water, resplendent and divine. A new beginning—freedom—lurking just beyond the horizon.

You promised him the sun before he even dared to dream he could reach it.

But he’s beginning to believe again. He’s gathered the wax-stained harpy feathers from the dirt and dusted off his bloodstained wings. He doesn’t know if he can truly reach that horizon, but he’s going to try. As terrified as he is of falling, he’s going to try. But when night falls and the sun sinks below the horizon once more, he needs you there to assure him it will return.

He threads his fingers through yours and clutches your hand against his cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut and carves this moment into his memory. Whatever happens next, he needs to hold onto your hand—he needs to remember how it feels to be treasured.

A shuddering breath escapes through his nose. “It’s alright,” Wet, rancid blood smears from your palm across his cheekbones. “I’ve got you.”

He has no idea if that will be enough. He has no idea what to do if it isn’t.

Over the course of two hundred years, Cazador carved out all the happy memories from his childhood—if he ever had any to begin with. Cazador stripped him down, carefully splitting apart tendons and bones, and trimmed away the fat like a prize cut of meat. Anything that didn’t suit his tastes was broken and reforged in Cazador’s image.

The man that awoke amidst the wreckage of an alien ship three months ago was entirely molded by his Master’s careful hand. But in his time with you, the parts of him that Cazador cut away have begun to fill out once more. His body became flush with life; saliva wetted his tongue, and his injuries would spill your blood. It’s your blood that’s brought him back to life. The new muscle forming along the length of his arms and shoulders is part of you. The subtle fill of his waist and hips is your blood, converted by his kickstarted metabolism into fat.

You lay your body alongside his every night and allow his broken bones to heal with you as a guide. The parts of him born from freedom have grown around the shape of you. You’re part of him now. There’s so little of him that remains. He can’t allow himself to forget this. Whether he dies again or lives another millenia, he vows to remember. No matter what he suffers, or what the road ahead brings, he never wants to gaze upon his empty chest, and wonder who left their fingerprints on his heart.

Spiderweb cracks of molten agony climb up the sides of your neck. You take a deep steadying breath, the expansion of your lungs only fanning the flames. But you force yourself through the fire. It’s easy enough. This body knows pain, even if you yourself have forgotten. A patchwork quilt of scars covers the surface of your flesh, deep gouges where fat and flesh have been carved out. There are so many dead zones along your skin, even down to the tips of your fingers—places where nerves were carved out and left permanently numb. The flat of your right palm, your breastbone, the back of your left knee. It must have hurt, you think, when someone cut you open from navel to sternum and peeled back the flesh of your torso to gaze inside. What did they find there, you wonder? If you ever meet them, you’ll need to ask. Is the inside of this body as rotten as it feels?

A pale, featureless face presses your palm against their cold flesh. Their cheek is familiar in your hand. A shock of snow-white hair piles atop their head. You bury your fingers in it, scratching gently against their scalp. Stiff curls twist around your fingertips, carefully waxed to perfection. It surprises you, but you don’t know why.

“Your hair. ’s’different.” Your words spill together, tongue heavy in your mouth.

Astarion raises an eyebrow curiously. He has half a mind to smooth a hand over his hair. He’s become quite skilled at knowing when a curl has fallen out of place. But both his hands are currently occupied. He’s fairly confident nothing happened to his hair—he would know, anything touching his scalp without permission makes him bare his teeth. He must have gotten blood in it at some point, ugh.

“I believe those are the bloodstains, dear,” he says with thinly veiled amusem*nt.

Your blurred vision can’t even tell if there are stains in his hair. It’s something else that’s wrong, You don’t know what, but an itch at the base of your neck says this is wrong. All of this is wrong. Everything spills together, the walls of your broken mind shattered. Who are you, really? No matter how much you try to distance yourself from the person you were before, their will still remains. You weren’t given a blank slate upon which to build a new life. You were given a reanimated beast with all its innards ripped out. You try to crawl inside, cloak yourself in fur and hide, but you don’t quite fit. Even with its heart gone, it still remembers the animal it used to be.

You cast your gaze upward, unseeing even as Astarion blocks out your vision of the sky. “M’sorry,” you finally mumble.

Did you leave or were you discarded? How did you end up on that ship? Why do you now stand in opposition to the very empire you crafted with your own hands?

You gaze up at Astarion’s form, haloed by light. It’s because of you, you think

“For getting yourself dragged into a wall and forcing me to follow?” Astarion clicks his tongue. “You’ll have to do a lot more than that to earn my forgiveness.” Astarion’s voice remains even, despite the tremor in his hands.

Lae’zel, Shadowheart, Astarion, Gale, Wyll, Karlach, Halsin. You wanted to keep them, so you forged yourself into a shield to keep them safe. They stand against the Absolute, and so too, do you.

You wait for his voice to quiet then continue, as if Astarion had never spoken at all. “Don’ r’member wha’happened.” Your eyelids begin to droop once more, your grip on the waking world fading fast.

Astarion’s laughter rings hollow off the cavern walls. “I suppose you wouldn’t, you seem to have hit your head rather hard.” The grin he forces is a fragile, pained thing.

You gaze through him, up towards the heavens. A kind bear smelling of oak and peat moss taught you to use the night sky as a map, every pinprick of light a beacon through the dark. The walls of the tower hide it from sight, but that dark canvas still hangs high overhead, empty, and vast. Someone took a butcher’s blade and carved out the stars. Then they turned the blade on you and carved out your heart.

Once, someone loved you enough to forge a beautiful blade from your marrow. Once, someone loved you enough to own you.

Did you love them back?

“M’not ready t’let you go.” Your eyes flutter shut and you fall limp in Astarion’s arms.

“Then don’t,” he rushes out through clenched teeth.

He grips your hand so tightly, it would ache if you could feel it. He turns his face into your palm, trailing his lips desperately over your life line. Your head lolls to the side, out of the safe cradle of his hand. Astarion quickly shifts his hold, throwing your other arm over his shoulder and pressing the whole of your upper body against his chest. He fits his hand against the curve of your skull once more and guides your cheek to rest on his shoulder. He holds you tight, curling around you in a desperate attempt to keep you here. He just needs to hold on tight enough to keep you from slipping away.

Desperately, he grasps at the pack he knows you keep on your waist. He tears it off and uncinches the clasp with fumbling fingers. He roots through it, searching for every aid he can think of. Another potion, a spell scroll, some blasted herbs, anything. But he finds nothing of use, all the supplies you brought for the day drained by your previous adventures. You hadn’t packed enough to carry on this long. Someone should have insisted you stop at one of the merchants as you entered the tower. Why didn’t anyone think of it?

He knows exactly why—you’re the one who keeps track of supplies and no one else has used a potion today. You were the fool who offered yours to the damned worthless wizard and no one thought to ask if you had another on hand. Why would you? You had a healer with you, there was no need for potions.

He doesn’t find any potions, but a dull surprise echoes through him when he finds a pair of rings in the bottom of the bag. He yanks his hand out, looking down at his open palm. There they are—the damned cursed rings you found on a pair of doomed lovers. He has no idea why you kept the blasted things. He remembers reading over the diary of the man who didn’t realize his betrothed was strangling the life out of him. He’d laughed at it back then—some poor lovesick fool unable see the signs no matter how clearly they were laid out before him.

And here he is, about to play the part of the fool himself.

He rips off his glove with his teeth then replaces one of the enchanted rings on his finger with the ring that doomed lover wore as love strangled him to death. What an imbecile, he’d thought before tossing the ring in your direction. He isn’t sure why you still have the damned things on you. In all likelihood, you tossed them into your bag and then proceeded to forget they were there. One day, they’re going to have to turn your bag inside out and throw out all the rotten food, limbs, and useless junk that’s gotten lost inside.

Not for the first time, though, he’s grateful you’re such a pack rat.

He takes your limp hand in his and slides the other ring into place, then brings your palm to his cheek once more. The cold bite of unwarmed metal chills the skin below his eye. Astarion presses the underside of your wrist to his lips, kissing the gentle thrum of your pulsepoint. He has no intention of feeding. He only wants to feel the proof of your heartbeat against his skin. He whispers a quiet prayer to any god that will answer against the thrum of your lifeblood.

He doesn’t know if the spell will do a damned thing, if it can even help with whatever damage no doubt hides beneath your skin. But if there’s a chance, he needs to take it. If he can do nothing else, then he needs to do this.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” he hisses—begs. “You don’t get to bring the sun back into my life just to take it away again.”

The emotion in his words forms the final piece needed for the spell to cast. Golden light spreads from his lips into your veins as Warding Bond shrouds you from harm. You don’t respond, your body still and silent save for your heavy breaths, completely oblivious to the magnitude of what Astarion’s just done—how the most selfish man alive has chosen to shield you with his heart. Because losing you in this moment would be far, far worse than any pain he might suffer on your behalf.

This is why he sealed his heart in a dusty tomb over a century ago. Most of his lovers didn’t deserve to be mourned. They were drunks, criminals, whor*s—dirty, disgusting, pathetic people scrabbling around in the dirt for means of survival. The death Astarion led them to was a mercy, compared to the hunger or disease that awaited them.

The handful that stirred Astarion’s long-dead heart, as hidden away as it was… those were selfish indulgences. Instead of taking back an easy target, the drunkard falling over himself in the corner, Astarion wined and dined some young thing with a tender smile and soft hands. Instead of a rough, unsatisfying f*ck from someone who understood exactly what he was, he brought home someone that would hold him gently. He whispered sweet promises in their ear of a future they would never have, and he could almost pretend he enjoyed letting them use his body. He could pretend he was the kind of person that deserved to be loved, all the way up until the very end.

He traded some poor naïve soul’s life for a single night of peace. Not just once, or twice, but again and again and again. After a particularly brutal torture, or an especially taxing party, or sometimes for no reason at all, Astarion would choose someone sweet. He used gentle lovers the way normal people bought themselves a nice meal or a pretty bauble after a hard day at work. They were just a means to an end. Something to make the long, awful years slightly more bearable.

If Astarion hadn’t snatched them up, some other bastard would have wrung them dry eventually, anyway. At least this way their lives wouldn’t be a complete waste. Why bother feeling sympathy for people who were damned long before Astarion ever waltzed into their lives? They didn’t deserve his compassion for being fools.

But you snuck your way into that quiet, hidden place, and broke the seal of that old tomb, long forgotten by time. You have a habit of doing that, it seems. Inside lay his heart, discarded alongside the hope he’d carved out of it. You carefully knelt down and scooped his heart into your strong, wild hands. He’s seen radiant hellfire burst from your palms and invisible strings tied around your fingers, snatching the breath from an enemy’s lungs. There is raw, untamed power in your hands, ancient spellfire bursting at the seams to set the world ablaze.

But your body stands against the tide, and you cradle his heart against your breast like a baby bird fallen from its nest. You keep him warm, you whisper soft words into his ear, you promise to bring him the world, without ever asking for anything in return. You nurture that fragile, broken thing back to health, and one day you spread out your palms and watch it soar.

And soar it does. There’s a lightness in his chest that he’s never felt before—the constant anticipation of pain and humiliation lifted from his shoulders. He laughs, genuine and unburdened for the first time in his memory, smiling without the taint of bitterness or disgust. Through you, he begins to trust again, first in battle, then on the road, until secrets he never imagined himself sharing dislodge themselves from his chest. Despite his sharper edges and acetic words he is… liked. Valued.

You promised him the sun, then gave him the space to fly. Every day he soars a bit higher, reaches just a bit farther. Every day he falls back into your arms. He never had a choice not to fall for you. You ruined him from the start.

He fell, far below the earth, into this cesspit of death and rot, in a vain attempt to save you. He’s saved you from drowning in a lake of blood or suffocating on rotten flesh. But exhaustion and pain have made you delirious. That isn’t something he can fix.

The only thing he can do is wait, and hope that time returns you to your senses.

He presses his forehead against your temple, words a soft caress against your skin. “If we make it out of this, I’ll tell you everything,” he promises. His plan, his feelings, his… his needs, he supposes. “No more lies.”

An oppressive silence fills the empty, cavernous space. The only sounds are the steady drip, drip, drip of wet viscera into the pool of blood and your labored breaths against Astarion’s neck. He’s reminded once more of just how small you both are. Two dying embers flicker amongst the sea of bodies, washed away by a river of blood. This is where the two of you belong—floating down the River Styx. Had fate not intervened, the current would have carried the both of you out to sea. But it seems the gods made a mistake when it came time to cut your lives short. Instead the threads continued on, weaving themselves together, using your friends as the backbone to hold yourself together after your own had been ripped out by the seams.

He joins that dim ember with his, hoping that what little shelter he has to give will keep you burning through the night. There’s no one he can call on for help, save for gods that have never answered. The allies you hold so dear are far, far away. All the bonds you’ve forged through hellfire and brimstone, unyielding even as the others falter, determined to craft them all the lives you think they deserve. You’re a force of nature, molding the impossible from your own flesh and bone. After everything you’ve given, no one’s coming to save you, just as no one came for him.

Then—powerful wings beating against the sky.

Astarion’s jerks his head back, looking up into the darkness. His eyes scan the shadows, searching for the spread of feathers against the dim light. The muscles in his neck strain with sudden tension. You’ve run into your fair shair of Shadow-Cursed ravens in your travels. The last thing he needs is to try and fight off a feathery beast while covering your flank. He flexes his fingers, mentally planning how he intends to grab his bow without dropping you. Perhaps it would be better to just throw a dagger, but then it might fall in the pool of blood and he’d have to fetch it, ugh.

A handful of seconds and he hears that same pair of fluttering wings. But no birds burst from the shadows. Briefly, he considers that he might be imagining things. This would be the part of some tragedy where angels come to take you to eternal rest in Arvandor. Though he’s fairly certain Corellon doesn’t want either of you in his domain and he doesn’t think Lolth would send angels to drag you to the Demonweb Pits. A cambion, then? If Raphael ever wanted to show that punchable face of his, now would be the time.

But when the creature finally emerges from the darkness, Astarion sees neither deva nor devil. Instead, he sees only a raven, spiraling slowly down from the ceiling. Astarion frowns. Raphael would have been infinitely more useful. Astarion glowers at the pathetic creature. The dirty animal must have gotten snatched by the wall just like you did. But the damned bird will be able to fly out, unlike the two of you.

He follows the bird with his eyes, a bitter frown marring his face. He has half a mind to shoot the damned thing down out of spite. As the bird gets closer, he notes that its spirals tighten, with you at the epicenter. Astarion protectively draws you in closer. Its feathers shine a tawny brown in the red light instead of the pitch black Astarion expects. Astarion tilts his head. If he’s not mistaken, the bird is looking directly at him, its yellow eyes nearly glowing in the dark.

… Oh.

“It certainly took you long enough, you tree-hugging oaf,” Astarion calls as the bird nears.

Despite the sharp edge of his words, the relief in Astarion’s voice spills freely from his mouth. The dim light glints off the renewed hope in his eyes, blooming now that there’s someone else to tend its roots. Astarion doesn’t ever think he’s seen a bird look unimpressed before, but Halsin manages to eye him with clear disdain. Halsin slows, wings spreading to catch the air with his feathers, talons thrust forward.

All of Halsin’s wildshapes appear so flawlessly natural, Astarion muses. Between the bear’s lumbering strength, the rat’s skittering paws, and now the raven’s smooth flight—it’s impressive that one man can change shape so seamlessly. For a man whose mouth has never told an untruth, Halsin’s body certainly knows how to obscure his true nature. He supposes Halsin truly is a wild, untamed thing—much like you. But where your wild nature lies in the raw magic setting your veins alight. Halsin’s lies in his malleable, ever-changing form—flesh becomes fur becomes scales becomes feathers becomes flesh again. Blood becomes fire becomes ash becomes fertile soil becomes the first blossoms of spring. The original form fades away so that something new can take its place.

Cycles within cycles. Sunrise, sunset, sunrise. Life, death, then life again.

Astarion, too, is wild. Astarion, too, has been reforged.

Astarion balks when Halsin lands on his shoulder. “Oh, no, I didn’t want you on me before, that hasn’t changed now that you’re a rat with wings!” He rolls his shoulder in its socket and knocks his head against the bird.

Halsin expertly dodges Astarion’s headbutt, with the ease of someone who’s spent decades evading the grasp of curious children. He flutters down in front of Astarion, talons sinking wetly into the soft meat that blankets the ground. He hops, unsticking the strings of viscera from his razor-sharp claws. But preening himself of gore is a futile effort, when rotten meat squelches sickeningly beneath his weight. Halsin settles in, wings tucked tightly against his body. He levels Astarion with the full weight of his yellow eyes, glancing pointedly at you, then back to him.

Astarion turns your face further into his shoulder. Every instinct in his body says to hide you away, find a dark, quiet place for you to lick your wounds in peace. Allowing his siblings or Cazador to see his wounds would only lay out a roadmap for where to stick the blade when it was his turn on the table.

The moment teeters on the edge of a precipice. Only he truly understands just how stubborn you are, how you adamantly refuse to take Astarion’s hand even as the ground beneath your feet falls away. The only reason he knows just how much you struggle is because he refused to let you hide away, he refused to let you leave. You’ve only ever let your walls down with him, in the quiet moments where you can lay down your burdens for just a little while. A selfish, ugly part of him likes being the only person who can reach through the looking glass to the reflection of himself he sees in you. He doesn’t want to share you with anyone else, not when you need him.

But he’s no healer, and in this moment, he can’t be what you need. Loathe as he is to trust someone else to care for you the way you deserve, neither does he trust himself. But he’s the only one willing to do what it takes—and right now that means entrusting someone else with your scars. He caught your hand before you fell into the abyss, but someone else needs to reform the ground beneath your feet.

He relaxes his hold on you ever so slightly, just enough for Halsin to see your face. “I already used a healing potion, but it clearly wasn’t enough,” Astarion begins, trying and failing to speak evenly. “There’s something else wrong—their arm doesn’t seem to be working and they aren’t… present.”

Halsin tilts his head, regarding your face for a long moment. He hops to the right for a better look at your arm, then back again to regard your face. Astarion’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, drier than Karlach’s bedroll. What does Halsin see? What is it that Astarion’s missed? Astarion hasn’t spared much time for interacting with the druid, largely because the man has only ever asked for favors without offering anything in return and Astarion doesn’t make a habit of banking favors he can’t collect on. But the few times Astarion has spoken with the man, he’s proven to be annoyingly perceptive.

It would be nice, Astarion thinks, to be able to see patterns where others only see vague shapes. Astarion has only ever been able to see that which is right in front of his eyes. It’s infuriating for everyone around him to constantly be three steps ahead, to always be lagging behind. Foresight was never any use beneath Cazador. The man’s whims were subject to his own fickle moods, not Astarion’s actions. His spawn were just as likely to be punished when they were “good” as when they were “bad.” Sometimes his “rewards” were just as degrading as his “punishments.” If Cazador even caught wind that his spawn had learned to anticipate his moods, he’d simply fake his tells to throw them off.

Perhaps if he could see more than a couple steps ahead, you both wouldn’t be here. He would’ve been able to anticipate just how horribly talking to you would go, or grab you before you vanished from his grasp.

Suddenly, Halsin nods once and spreads his wings once more. “Wha—”

Halsin kicks up a fine mist of gray viscera as he lifts off the ground. Astarion flinches away as Halsin casts a spray of stringy innards from his wings. It sticks to Astarion’s arm with an unpleasant splurt. By the time Astarion looks back, Halsin is already halfway to the ceiling and quickly rising.

Astarion gapes at him, spluttering wordlessly. “Where do you think you’re going?” he shrieks. “Come back here and help, you bastard!”

Halsin’s only response is to beat his wings harder against the air, rising ever faster. Astarion can do nothing but watch as Halsin’s dark form disappears into the shadows from whence he came. Astarion stares deep into the shadows, mouth agape, and his brain struggles to wrap around the events of the past few minutes.

“Worthless druid,” he grumbles to himself. “When we get back to camp, I’m hiding all the honey!” he shouts uselessly into the air.

His voice echoes off the cold, dripping stones, and then the cavern falls into near silence once more. Astarion sits there, face upturned towards the ceiling, blinking into the low light. A torrential downpour smothers the flickering embers of hope in his chest. Distantly, he recognizes that Halsin might be going for help, or to get some supplies, or any number of things. But that possibility feels so, infinitessimally small compared to the reality that Astarion has always been alone. No one has ever come to save him.

Everything that he’s ever dared to love has been cruelly ripped from his hands.

“So,” Astarion began, draping himself over one of the glowing mushrooms Halsin set up next to in the Underdark. “You’ve decided to throw your lot in with this band of strangers.”

Halsin glanced up from where he kneeled by his pack. Astarion noted with equal parts satisfaction and disgust as Halsin’s eyes briefly traveled the length of his body, from the long line of his neck, to the exposed flash of his chest through his collar, and along the expert arch of his back. The burgeoning swell of lust in Halsin’s eyes is a sight Astarion knows well—and part of his reason for seeking out the druid in the first place. At that moment, Astarion had his fangs firmly latched onto you. But should things have gone south—or if you got yourself killed by sticking your nose where it didn’t belong—it would be good to know who else was susceptible to his charms.

“I would hardly call you and your friends strangers.” Astarion bristled at the presumption that he was friends with your band of loons. “We may not have known each other long, but you have already done much for me and the Grove.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes slightly. “I’d think it would take more than a few petty favors to lure an Archdruid out of his favorite mud puddle.” Astarion’s voice was light, teasing despite the bite to his words.

It didn’t earn the ire that Astarion expected, instead a look akin to bemusem*nt flickered across Halsin’s eyes. “Nature lives in a delicate balance. The land enriches the rivers where salmon breed, which feed the bears as they swim upstream, and when the bears die they nourish the land again.” Astarion’s eyes glazed over. “Remove any piece, or add something new, and the entire structure falls apart.”

The smile Astarion wore was placid and unmoving. “Did you have a point, or did you just want to lecture me about your favorite subject?”

Once again, Halsin simply chuckled. “My point is that the Cult has thrown nature out of balance, and it cannot heal until the threat has been dealt with.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow, finally intrigued. “Dealt with, you say,” he murmured, resting his chin in his hand. “Quite ruthless for a druid. I thought your god was all about peace, love, orgies, and all that nonsense.”

Halsin tilted his head, the corners of his mouth pulled taut. Astarion might have thought he’d finally managed to get under the druid’s skin, were it not for the clear amusem*nt in Halsin’s eyes. The man was holding back laughter of all things, which only served to irritate Astarion further.

“Forgive me for presuming, but you’ve never left the city, have you?” Halsin asked, clearly struggling to keep his voice even.

Astarion had half a mind to just turn up his nose and leave. Clearly, he’d already gotten as much useful information as he was going to out of the druid. Any extended conversation seemed to devolve into more nature talk, something Astarion would rather avoid, all things considered. Nature had lost its charms on the third day, when no matter how much he scrubbed the dirt out from under his nails, it came back minutes later.

“Not that I remember,” Astarion said caustically. “I’ve lived a very… sheltered life.”

Halsin no doubt saw him as a stuck-up, reclusive nobleman’s child from the city. Astarion had no intention of correcting that assumption just yet. Let the man put his foot in his mouth first. Astarion couldn’t imagine it would take very long.

But instead of the disdain or laughter Astarion expected, Halsin’s subtle laughter faded, an almost somber look coloring his features. “Of course.” He nodded sharply once. “Regardless, while the Oak Father does preach peace and harmony, any threat to nature’s balance is to be met with all its cruelty.”

Astarion swallowed, his skin suddenly prickling beneath Halsin’s gaze. “I see.” He couldn’t imagine that the undead were considered natural in Silvanus’s eyes.

“But as you said, Silvanus teaches us to only use violence as a last resort.” Halsin flashed him a warm smile, almost boyish in its charm. “Otherwise it would get in the way of the orgies.”

Astarion tamped down the bark of laughter rising in his chest. Instead he attempted to redirect the conversation back to familiar ground.

“Halsin, was it?” Astarion idly twirled a lock of his own hair around his finger. “You know, if you’re trying to extend an invitation all you have to do is ask.”

Halsin leveled him with a calculating gaze, one that seemed to pierce Astarion through. “Any other time, I might be tempted,” he admitted easily. “But I find myself far too distracted of late to entertain more base urges.”

Astarion scoffed. “Darling, times of stress are the perfect times to f*ck like wild animals.”

Halsin gave him another look of amusem*nt, this one edged with doubt. “If you are truly interested then speak to me again once we’ve crossed the Shadow-Cursed Lands.” For the briefest of moments, so quickly that Astarion almost missed it, Halsin’s eyes flicked in your direction before returning to Astarion.

Astarion’s mood immediately soured, for a reason he couldn’t quite explain at the time. Ah, so that’s it, Astarion thinks bitterly. Settling for the whor* because he can’t get what he wants. It shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did.

Astarion turned abruptly on his heel, dismissing Halsin with a wave of his hand. “Fine. Suit yourself,” he snapped, before proceeding to walk away.

Astarion can’t help but wonder—if he’d pushed harder, flirted better, if the druid would have actually stayed to help you. His shoulders begin to tremble uncontrollably, a desperate keening wail building in his throat. He curls in on you once more, tucking his nose into your hair. His lips remain firmly pressed together, fruitlessly trying to hold back the pathetic whimpers begging to be set free. What would be the point? There’s no one here to plead for mercy, no one to take pity on him. It would just be him, falling apart in the darkness, unable to help you, and unable to stay strong as you have for him.

He doesn’t bother to look up when he hears the familiar flutter of wings. Too many times he’s basked in a small sliver of hope, only to watch it die. During his year of silence when hallucinations began to blur together, all the years after that where Cazador worked to break his spirit, and on this very journey, where he thought he finally had something worth living for only to cradle its mangled body in his arms. No matter how many times he’s thought he finally excised hope from his chest, it’s a parasite that refuses to die.

There’s a familiar squelch as something small lands in front of him, then a flash of familiar golden light shines through his eyelids. He squeezes his eyes shut, ducking his head further from the light.

A familiar sigh whispers through the air. “Astarion,” Halsin calls, voice rumbling through the very ground beneath their feet.

Astarion’s jaw trembles, feeling the gentle warmth in Halsin’s words. With his eyes closed, Halsin’s voice feels like a bed of sun-warmed peat moss, soft against the tender skin of his back. The Chionthar babbles gently in the distance, not the incessant roar of its currents overhead. Everything was kinder, warmer, easier. Every day he was terrified—of death, of recapture, of vulnerability—but it was so much easier. He’s been afraid as long as he can remember. Letting go of that fear only means opening himself up to a new kind of pain. It was easier when he didn’t care, when you were the one with all the answers and he didn’t care how much danger you put yourself in.

“Astarion.” Halsin’s voice rumbles gently through his bones. “I believe I know what’s wrong.” Leather creaks as the other man inches closer. “You don’t have to let go, but I need to see clearly.”

Astarion grits his teeth, hope somehow managing to blossom beside his heart, no matter how many times he tears it out. He holds his breath and dares to open a single eye. Halsin kneels in front of him, one hand braced against the vile ground as he leans slightly forward. Halsin’s face breaks into a relieved smile when he catches Astarion’s eye, warm like cradle of the earth. It’s a warmth Astarion desperately needs, after being trapped in this cold, desolate place. Astarion cautiously sits up, opening his other eye. Halsin remains still, holding fast against the steel edge of Astarion’s gaze.

“You’re back.” Astarion’s voice remains carefully flat, edged with suspicion.

Regret turns Halsin’s brows downward. “I’m sorry, my friend.” The vibrant green in his hazel eyes withers to the brown of autumn leaves, crumbling as they fall. “I never had any intention of abandoning either of you.”

Halsin’s eyes drift slowly from Astarion’s face to yours. Cradled as you are, Astarion’s arms obscure much of your face from Halsin’s view. The full force of Astarion’s fear trembles through every tendon and muscle in his arms. It’s a small blessing that the tadpole has lessened Astarion’s vampiric strength, because Halsin doesn’t know that Astarion is aware of just how tight his hands grip you, your skin blanched a pale gray-white beneath the press of his fingers. It’s the most emotion Halsin has ever seen the vampire display. Despite the dire circ*mstances, Halsin can’t help the distant glow of pride deep in his chest.

“I only needed to let the others know that we would be able to continue on from here,” Halsin explains, voice soothing. “But if I had reverted to human form to tell you of that, I would have needed rest before I was capable of shifting again.”

Astarion’s mouth pulls into a severe line. It makes perfect sense. Had Halsin taken the time to shift back just to tell Astarion the plan, Halsin and the rest of the group would have been forced to wait an hour until his Wildshapes returned. If they need the other group’s help getting out of this hellholle, the sooner they can make preparations, the sooner Astarion can get you back to safety. It’s the sound, reasonable decision.

But it doesn’t erase the minutes of helplessness where Astarion thought no one would come, that he’d failed you for the final time.

Halsin leans closer, catching Astarion’s eyes with his own, clear and bright like the babbling brook. “I know believing this may be difficult for you, but it is not in my nature to abandon my allies.” A brief fog rolls across Halsin’s eyes, there and gone in an instant. “I had to, once, long ago. I am here now because I seek to right those failures.”

A long moment passes in silence, the air between Astarion and Halsin charged with electricity. Cycles within cycles. Old ghosts return to life and haunt the earth. Long-healed scars tear themselves open anew. All the hopes and failures of the past converge into this one moment. The past and present consume each other, turning, reflecting, refracting endlessly. Your weight is heavy in Astarion’s arms.

Astarion shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He doesn’t care for old ghosts or older regrets—only this moment where you need to be saved. “You said—” Astarion swallows thickly. “You said you know what’s wrong?” His voice breaks at the end, no matter how much Astarion tries to keep it steady.

Halsin nods, eyes clear once again as the past slips away. He gestures for Astarion to lay your body flat. Astarion hesitates, fingers digging tightly into your shoulders. You slipped through his arms once already, and his palms still burn where your robes rubbed his skin raw. If he sets you down, he fears you’ll be lost forever this time.

Halsin offers a soft, knowing smile. “Just for a few moments,” he assures.

Reluctantly, Astarion leans back, settling you into his lap, instead of against his chest. He keeps one hand behind your head, the other settled low on your hip. Carefully, he lays you flat across his thighs, his eyes darting between you and Halsin. As soon as Halsin has a clear view, he leans in, carefully scanning your body as he did before.

His face remains gentle, even as a severity lines his brow, a thousand puzzle pieces slotting into place behind his eyes. “You’ve done a good job keeping them stabilized,” Halsin praises.

He speaks the way one talks to a frightened animal, voice low and soothing, the first olive branch before offering a warm hand. Astarion’s shoulders bristle instinctively at the condescending tone, but even still he can’t deny the soothing effect, how his hold on you relaxes ever so slightly as Halsin leans in. Despite the low volume, Halsin’s voice penetrates the silence with a sureness and clarity that Astarion desperately needs. For all that Astarion hates being regarded as an animal, Halsin’s voice soothes the part of him that never rests.

Halsin’s broad hands gently lay themselves on your arm. “Health potions are essential in battle, but they’re intended to mend life-threatening injuries.” His voice maintains that same, unwavering tone, warm and steady like the earth. “More complex injuries still need to be tended to after the fighting stops.” A soft glow emanates from his hands—no true spell collecting in his palms, only energy, passing slowly and painlessly over the skin beneath your robe.

“If an arm is still causing pain that means something is likely misaligned…” His hand stops on your shoulder, the gentle glow of his palms flickering briefly. “...or dislocated.” Halsin nods to himself.

“What?” Astarion’s breath escapes in an anxious rush.

The glow fades from Halsin’s hand. “This shoulder is out of place.” Halsin levels Astarion with measured eyes. “Setting it right is a simple procedure, but it is best done with the joint exposed.”

Astarion nods, quickly reaching for the clasps on your robe without a second thought. The top half of your robe comes undone easily enough—he’s never been more grateful that you’re not a fighter like Lae’zel. Pulling your arm out of the sleeve is the hardest part by far. Halsin assists, carefully holding your forearm steady while Astarion holds your shoulder. It’s when Astarion starts to carefully shimmy the linen down your bicep that he hesitates.

Eight adults living in close proximity for three months means privacy is a distant fairytale. You’re hardly shy, you’ve bathed alongside the others and shucked off bits of armor in the middle of camp. But even still, your preferred camp clothes cover the length of your arms and the whole of your chest. He’s certain the others have caught a flash of skin from time to time, or even seen you naked from a distance. But Astarion believes he’s the only one who’s seen your bare skin up close for any length of time.

He’s never asked, but it’s not exactly hard to guess why. The first time he managed to get you naked, it took all two hundred years of his composure not to react when he saw the way something had carved and sliced up your body. His first thought was that there was no way in the Hells you should be alive, closely followed by his second thought he had no leg to stand on in that regard. You didn’t make any mention of it, so he didn’t ask—he also didn’t care until much, much later, by which point it seemed far too late.

“Astarion, are you having trouble?” Halsin asks, brow furrowed in concern.

Astarion lets out a sigh. Your arm needs to be fixed. The others have been through the same at various points—Wyll’s trousers rolled down to remove a poison arrow, Shadowheart’s bra unclasped to treat a nasty burn. Now that Astarion considers it, it’s far stranger that you haven’t needed invasive medical attention up to this point. Knowing what he knows now, he highly suspects you have needed it, you’ve simply refused to ask. Regardless, you’re worthy of the same level of care that’s been granted to the rest of the group.

Astarion wordlessly rolls down the rest of the sleeve, gently pulling your arm through with Halsin’s aid. The worst of your scarring is still covered, but the whole of your arm lay exposed, your undershirt low cut enough to show the very top of the, for lack of a better word, autopsy scar on your torso. A grim look of understanding passes across Halsin’s face, but he says nothing. Instead, he sets to work, broads hands wrapping around your injured shoulder, checking the joint to confirm his assessment.

Halsin feels the tense, strained muscles beneath his hand, the unmistakable feverish warmth of swelling beneath the skin, and most notably, a telltale bump where it shouldn’t be. Satisfied that his diagnosis is correct, Halsin glances at Astarion. “Hold them steady. I’ll need to rotate the shoulder back into place.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “Please, you think I haven’t fixed a dislocated shoulder or two?” Or five, or ten, or a couple dozen.

Halsin hums, carefully bracing your hand on his closest shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to presume.”

Halsin’s large hands encompass your forearm, carefully adjusting it so that your palm lays comfortably flat. He pauses for the briefest moment as his thumb swipes across the underside of your wrist, a shadow of concern flickering in his eyes. The moment passes, and his warm hands continue down to your elbow, scars both new and old brushing against his weathered palms.

He carefully bends your arm at the elbow, broad hands cradling your bones like they’re blown from glass. He guides your arm into a near ninety degree angle, palm still anchored on his shoulder. He holds you in that position for a while, his other hand carefully massaging the taut muscles of your upper arm and shoulder. Your entire body holds the kind of tension that Halsin expects from weathered soldiers returning from war, not someone young and in the prime of their life.

Anyone in your position would be tense and unbalanced—being forced to fight or die doesn’t lend itself to proper form, and the nights spent resting on whatever flat surface you can find certainly wouldn’t help. But the muscles loosening beneath his hand indicate years of tension and abuse, not months. Halsin frowns as he traces the muscles beneath his fingers, finding ridges and divots where he expects smooth, fibrous tissue. Your scars run much, much deeper than your skin, and your muscles have tied themselves into tight knots to compensate for the damage. Even so, the muscle slowly relaxes as he prepares to move the joint back into place.

Astarion watches, somewhat familiar with Halsin’s movements—dislocated shoulders and broken bones were near daily occurrences in the Szarr Palace. Vampiric regeneration meant that their injuries would heal on their own, but they still needed to be monitored. Joints wouldn’t roll back into place on their own, nor would bones set properly without being splinted. The only good news is that they were all broken down and put back together so often that an improperly healed fracture was a minor annoyance at best. It was hardly worth the effort to fix because it would only be a matter of time before they found themselves in the kennels again, anyway.

Astarion hums, needing some noise to break the tense silence. “You know, one of the other spawn was a doctor. I probably know more about medicine than you think.”

Halsin nods without looking up, gaze focused entirely on your arm. “I’d wager you know quite a few things that I don’t.” Carefully, he begins turning your arm outward, his broad hands cradling your arm with gentle pressure. “I’m sure medicine for vampires is a different beast than what I’ve encountered.”

Astarion breathes out a wry, bitter laugh. “Yes, I imagine your circle is more in the business of killing vampires than healing them.”

Halsin’s brow furrows deeply as he continues to guide your arm out and down. “Have I slighted you in some way to give you that impression?” Genuine, sincere concern lines his words.

Astarion narrows his eyes, crimson daggers piercing the skin of Halsin’s cheek. If the druid feels the needlepoints of Astarion’s piercing eyes, he doesn’t react, his attention still wholly focused on your injury. Astarion’s first thought is that Halsin is toying with him, or for some reason seeks to humiliate him. The reason a guardian of nature’s order would detest vampires seems rather obvious. Every broken piece that remains of Astarion blasphemes the very balance that Halsin holds so dear. Vampirism is called a curse for a reason—Astarion was once an elf, a child of Corellon bound to the land, but he was corrupted, turned into the foul wretched beast he is today. Where mortal creatures take from the land, and one day become it, Astarion can only take, and take, and take for an eternity. Should he die, his body will become ash, unable to bear even the weakest of seeds.

Astarion’s mouth turns downward, his laugh lines sharp as daggers. “Isn’t the cycle of life and death one of ‘the Oak Father’s gifts?’” he sneers. “Doesn’t my very existence disrupt your precious balance?”

Halsin hums. “There are those that may hold that view, but the laws of nature are rarely so strict.” He feels around your shoulder joint with his hand, gauging how it’s begun to roll back into place. “Undying creatures have their own place within the cycle.” Halsin nods as he feels the gentle glide of your shoulder. “In the right conditions, an oak tree can last through the eons. Elves in coastal cities have reported seeing the same sea turtle return to its roost across generations.”

Astarion raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Do I look like a turtle to you?” he deadpans.

Halsin’s eyes briefly flick in his direction, a glimmer of mischief twinkling within. “With that hard outer shell of yours, I can certainly see the resemblance.”

Astarion bristles immediately. “A turtle?” he hisses through his teeth. “One of the ugliest animals alive?”

Halsin’s smile broadens, eyeing the points of his fangs peeking out from below his upper lip. “Hm. Yes. A snapping turtle, I think. You certainly have the bite for it.”

Astarion sniffs distastefully. “Come closer and I’ll show you just how terrible my bite really is.”

Halsin’s eyes fall back to his task once more, sensing that his work is nearly done. “You may no longer be part of nature’s cycle the way you were meant to be, Astarion,” he says, voice as gentle as his hands on your skin. “But there is still much you can give back.”

A shard of ice stabs through Astarion’s heart, the familiar chill of his tender skin being ripped from the comfort of his shell. His mouth opens with a knee-jerk rebuttal before one even comes to mind. But a soft pop halts his thoughts in their tracks. Halsin lets out a long-held breath, his hold of your arm instantly relaxing. Slowly, he sets your arm back down, laying it carefully across your stomach. All Astarion’s bluster leaves him as he intensely tracks Halsin’s movements, eyes darting between the druid’s face and yours, waiting for your expression to twist in pain. When nothing comes, his gaze eventually settles on you.

The look on your face is strangely peaceful without a single trace of the tension or pain that Astarion associates with your reverie. For the first time in a very, very long time, there’s no bitter snarl pressing against the backs of your teeth, no uncontrollable twitching beneath your skin. Everything is still and quiet, the way it should be. Your entire body slumps back into his arms bonelessly. It should be a relief, Astarion thinks. After all this time, you deserve a peaceful rest. But an uneasy chill settles in the basem*nt of Astarion’s heart, a distant siren hinting that something isn’t quite right.

“Why aren’t they waking up?” Astarion asks sharply, eyes darting towards Halsin.

Halsin holds up his hands placatingly in an attempt to quell Astarion’s burgeoning anger. “I can treat a dislocated shoulder, the concussion is a different beast entirely.”

Astarion blinks at the other man, waiting for Halsin to lay out the next steps of his treatment plan. But nothing comes, and the vast cavernous space remains infuriatingly silent.

“Well?” Astarion raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Get started, then!”

Halsin shakes his head with a heavy sigh. “For now, rest might be the best remedy—”

“Rest?” Astarion exclaims incredulously. “Here?”

Astarion jerks his head behind him at the damp, ominous space the three of you find yourselves in. Bodies still rot beneath your feet, blood and viscera ooze from the ceiling into the pool of blood only a few strides away. Without a tadpole, Halsin may not be able to feel it, but a looming presence lurks on the fringes of Astarion’s mind—watching, waiting. This is no place to rest. They need to leave.

Halsin glances at the surroundings with his own grimace, wiping his bloodstained hands on his own leathers. “Had we a choice, I would not want to rest here either.” A heavy sigh leaves Halsin’s mouth. “But it would be unwise to venture into the unknown with my power depleted as it is.” Halsin casts a measured glance over you and Astarion. “Should we find danger ahead, someone will need to fight on the front lines—a role neither of you are suited for.”

Astarion recognizes the logic in Halsin’s words. He even understands that this is the best option for survival—for all three of you. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“So we just sit here uselessly for an hour while bodies slowly decay around us?” Astarion hisses.

Halsin levels Astarion with a stern gaze, pinning him in place. “We rest.” His eyes soften, falling to your face, slumbering peacefully. “And we hope that our friend regains some measure of strength in the meantime.” Halsin glances at the cavern’s sole exit, up a series of tall stones and around the corner. “The path forward will be much smoother if we can all stand on our own feet.”

Astarion’s gaze falls to you, and he carefully bundles you back into his arms. He curls a hand around your cheek, relieved to feel your warm breath against his skin. You lay so still and quiet in his embrace. The only time he’s ever seen you this unburdened was after that first bite—when all of your blood filled his veins and your heart stilled. You drifted quietly into the eternal dark, and you were finally, finally at peace.

He hopes that you’ll return—from wherever you’ve gone.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Rolan finds shuffling in single file when the middle of the line is invisible to be surprisingly difficult. Karlach leads the charge into the prison with a cheeky wave to the guards as Gale and Rolan follow suit. Gale, invisible, keeps a steadying hand on Karlach’s waist as he steps carefully in her shadow. Trying to keep a hand on both tieflings, however, proved to be far too unwieldy, so instead, Rolan is left making his best guess on how much space a grown man takes up.

So far, his best guess has proven to have a very poor success rate.

Rolan’s foot once again catches the back of Gale’s heel. To his credit, Gale stays completely silent, shying out of the way with nary a sound. Rolan, however, doesn’t come off so lucky, tripping over what appears to be his own two feet. He nearly goes sprawling across the floor in full view of the guards, saved only by Karlach’s steady hand on his arm.

“Whoa, there, soldier!” she laughs, hauling him to his feet.

Rolan coughs into his fist, thankful for the cover that his borrowed hood provides.

Karlach pats him on the back, her strength making him stumble forward again. “I told you to lay off the ale!” She throws a smirk towards one of the guards by the entrance. “New recruit,” she laughs.

The guard remains perfectly still, statuesque if not for the track of their eyes across the newcomers. If she recognizes Karlach from all adventuring they’ve done in and around Moonrise, she makes no mention of it. When the guard’s eyes settle back into their neutral stance, Karlach guides Rolan forward with a warm hand on his back.

Once they’re a good distance away, Karlach leans in, speaking to Rolan out the side of her mouth. “Remember, kid, your siblings are gonna be around this corner here.” She nods towards the walkway, recalling the map Halsin had drawn.

Rolan’s heart beats in his throat, a cold sweat collecting on his palms. He’s so close—Cal and Lia are within reach. If he spoke loud enough they could hear him. When he set out from Last Light that morning, he never actually imagined he could make it this far. Rolan is no fool, and he knew the might of one wizard could never match up against an entire cult, especially after he’d already fought them and lost. But he had to try.

It had been a desperate, vain bid to try and save the two people that mattered to him more than anything. When the Shadows backed him up against the river, he’d seen the darkness closing in and accepted it with open arms. If Cal and Lia wouldn’t make it out of the Shadowlands, then it was only fitting. They’d promised to stay together forever and Rolan was a man of his word. At least he could go to his grave knowing he’d tried—even against insurmountable odds, he’d tried for a miracle.

And then, light.

A barrage of Magic Missiles burst out of the darkness, quickly followed by the most insufferable, arrogant sorcerer he’d ever met. He’d prayed for a miracle, and the gods had decided to play a cruel trick on him instead. He’d tried to go out a hero and he couldn’t even have that. As much as he didn’t want to retreat to Last Light emptyhanded, throwing his life away after you went to the trouble of saving it wasn’t exactly the heroic tale he’d wanted. On the off-chance Cal and Lia made it out and he didn’t, Lia would bring him back just to kill him herself.

You chewed him out exactly the way Lia would, spitting fire quite literally. For a moment, he thought you’d saved him from the shadows just to gut him yourself. But right before you burned him from the inside out, the fire died and you walked away. Then, after berating him for trying to do what’s right, after mocking him and his sorrow, you offered him the very thing he wanted most.

Rolan doesn’t understand a single thing about you, and every time you meet he understands even less.

But at the moment, none of that matters. What matters is Cal and Lia, so very, very close, but still beyond his reach.

Karlach rubs his shoulder gently. “I know you wanna stop and chat, but we need to keep moving, yeah?”

Rolan’s mouth runs painfully dry, his mouth pulled into a sharp line. “Yeah,” he agrees reluctantly.

Karlach gives him one last pat on the shoulder before releasing him. “Once we’re outta here, you’ll have all the time in the world to tell them how much you missed them.”

Rolan’s mouth twists into a sharp grimace. “If I did that, Lia would never let me live it down.”

Karlach rolls her eyes with a breath of laughter. “Oh, come off it.” She shakes her head. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have come all this way.”

“Obviously,” Rolan scoffs. “But if I said that I’d never hear the end of it.”

Karlach hums idly, rolling her shoulders to work out the tension in his muscles. “Maybe after this you should say it more.” She looks back with a gentle smile. “Why wouldn’t you want them to know you care?”

Rolan purses his lips but says nothing.

When they turn the corner to approach the cells, Rolan’s heart pounds in his throat. According to Halsin, they’re in the first cell. Rolan searches desperately through the bars for a familiar face. Halsin was only here an hour ago, but what if something happened since then? What if they were worse off than the druid claimed? What if—

Lia approaches the front of the cell when she sees Karlach, her hands wrapping tightly around the bars. The recognition is clear on her face, and she watches Karlach intently. The pieces come together clearly in her mind—the druid, then Karlach; they must be working together. The druid agreed to help in their bid for escape, but the exact form of that help is still a mystery. Lia searches Karlach’s face, orange eyes blazing with determination. The others in the cell, Cal, Danis, and Lakrissa take notice when Lia’s demeanor changes. They watch her but hang back, doing their best not to draw suspicion.

Karlach catches Lia’s eyes and winks, then silently jerks her head in the direction of the Warden’s office. Lia nods in understanding and without a single word, pulls away from the bars. The exchange occurs in a fraction of a second, so subtle that anyone watching would be hard pressed to notice anything happen at all.

Rolan’s steps falter for a moment beneath the sheer wave of relief that sweeps through his veins. Save for a few minor scrapes and bruises Cal and Lia are okay. They’re okay. He’s barely slept since they were captured. How could he, when the only thing waiting in his dreams are visions of Cal and Lia tortured or dead? The only way he could keep from losing his mind altogether was by drinking himself to numbness.

But as far as he can tell, none of those dreams have come to pass. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, and he holds them back with a shuddering breath. With his hood up, no one can see his face. Perhaps if Cal or Lia paid attention to the shape of his horns poking through, they’d realize who he is. But at the moment, they’re preoccupied with thoughts of escape, knowing that very, very soon, they’ll need to be ready to run.

Rolan’s infernal blood burns with the desire to go to them, to reach through the bars and crush them against his chest the way he used to when they were young. He was always the one to keep them safe in the schoolyard. Bullies, feral dogs, religious zealots—it didn’t matter. They always trusted him to fight their battles and this is no different.

Your voice echoes in his mind. You’re a prick, but in this one instance, he agrees with you. He’s the eldest, it’s his job to protect them. And right now, the best way to do that is to pass them by.

He feels a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. Both of Karlach’s hands hang down at her side, so it must be Gale. Rolan lets out a heavy breath with a nod. It takes all of his willpower, but he tears his eyes away and follows Karlach down the path. She hooks a sharp left to the wooden bridge leading to the tower in the center of the room. She casts a brief, puzzled glance over the side to the depths below.

She’s happened upon her fair share of prisons in the Hells, yet this might be one of the strangest. She certainly didn’t expect to find a giant pit at the bottom of Moonrise Towers. For now, she continues on, but keeps it in the back of her mind. A sudden drop is a great way to get rid of people very quickly. Karlach pauses briefly in front of the door, looking over her shoulder to make sure Rolan hasn’t wandered off. He gives her a quick nod, which she returns. Karlach pats the invisible hand still pressed against her waist and earns a squeeze back.

Karlach turns back to the door and raps her knuckles on it. “Knock, knock!” she calls and proceeds to swing the door open without waiting for a response.

A tall, circular room lies inside, bare save for a large desk and some bookshelves by the wall. The most notable features are the large iron levers set into the wall behind the desk, and the ladder in the center of the room. An identical door faces them from the opposite wall—according to Halsin, the way up from the pit lies there.

The only person inside the room is a dark-skinned tiefling woman, cloaked in the by now familiar cult robes. She sits at her desk, a quill in hand and a spread of documents before her. She doesn’t bother looking up Karlach’s boisterous entrance, but a heavy, aggrieved sigh escapes her mouth.

“We must not have met before, True Soul.” The Warden’s voice swells to fill the room, every word dripping with ice-cold disdain. “If we had, you would know not to waste my time with nonsense.”

Karlach strolls in, unbothered by the frigid welcome. Gale, and then Rolan follow close behind. “We haven’t! Karlach, recent escapee of the Hells, new devotee of the Absolute!” Karlach’s voice rings with her usual cheer, completely unfettered by the Warden’s apparent lack of interest. “Thought I’d have a look around, check out the setup.” Karlach thumbs over her shoulder, back out the door. “Love the pit, really ties the place together.”

The Warden’s chair shrieks as she pushes it abruptly away from her desk. She stands, finally deigning to glower at Karlach and Rolan standing in the doorway. The Warden’s feet fall heavy against the ground as she circles her desk, the floorboards shaking with each step.

“You think you’re funny, do you?” she drawls, unamused. “If you like the pit so much, perhaps I should allow you a closer look?” The implied threat sends a shiver down Rolan’s spine.

Karlach continues to smile blithely, rocking back and forth on her heels. “These are Balthazar’s digs, yeah?” She asks, ignoring the Warden’s previous statement entirely. “Disciple Z’rell entrusted us to help him out. Thought I’d come see if you knew anything useful.”

That’s the first thing that seems to cool the Warden’s ire even slightly, but the look of contempt remains. “Anything I know can be learned through Disciple Z’rell herself. You will find nothing of use here.”

Karlach tilts her head. “Still, I’d like to determine that for myself.”

The Warden waves her off dismissively. “It’s no concern of mine, as long as it’s your time being wasted. A word of warning, however: none may speak to the prisoners—Disciple Balthazar himself was most clear.”

Karlach purses her lips nodding along. “Yeah, yeah, that’s all fine and good. Couldn’t help but notice though.” She jerks her head back in the direction of the cells. “Heard we picked up a Duke back in Waukeen’s Rest, but none of them out there seem very noble.”

The Warden lets out a long-suffering sigh through her nose. “As stated, these are Disciple Balthazar’s prisoners—anyone whose body is more useful alive is taken somewhere else.”

Anger alights beneath Rolan’s skin. He grits his teeth, biting back the urge to blast this woman with a Magic Missile. No matter how good it would feel, it would do nothing to get Cal and Lia out of here safely. Knowing this “Balthazar’s” plans for them, Rolan knows he needs to get them out of here as quickly as possible.

“Oh.” Karlach grimaces to herself. “Where are they taken?”

“That is none of my business.” The Warden levels the both of them with a piercing glare. “Now, if you’ve finished with your inane questions, I ask that you leave.”

Karlach holds up her hands placatingly. “Alright, alright!” She nods back in Rolan’s direction, who dutifully steps back out through the door. “Nice talking to you! Let’s do this again sometime!” Karlach calls back through the opening, before closing the door behind her.

Karlach physically shakes the chills off with a full body shudder. She taps the hand on her waist again. “You got it?”

Rolan watches as a hammer seems to materialize out of thin air as Gale presses it into Karlach’s hands.

“Nice,” she cheers under her breath, sliding the hammer seamlessly into her belt. “Think that’s the first time we’ve ever finished a plan flawlessly.”

A disembodied chuckle escapes next to Rolan’s ear. “Considering half the party is currently at the bottom of a ditch, I would hardly consider this flawless.” Gale laughs.

Karlach waves him off. “Shh, you’re ruining the mood.”

Rolan glances out over the prison, two cells of prisoners set on either side of the walkway. “So we have the hammer,” he murmurs. “Now what?”

Karlach purses her lips. “We hope the other three find their way out of the ditch before Gale’s Invisibility wears off.”

You begin to stir roughly thirty minutes into Halsin’s self-imposed rest. Astarion spends the time cradling you in his lap, carefully brushing his fingers through your hair, working out the knots and clumps of dried blood. Halsin takes the time to fashion a makeshift sling from spare rags. His pack contains basic first aid supplies, enough for field medicine, but the majority remains back at camp. He has a sachet of herbs for numbing the pain, and some salves to treat minor cuts and bruises. Shadowheart should be able to heal you properly, but until then, Halsin doesn’t envy the journey ahead of you.

As Halsin carefully loops his shoddily-constructed sling around your neck, your eyelashes begin to flutter. “Hrrrrnn…?”

The first thing you’re aware of is the splitting headache throbbing against the back of your eye. That isn’t horribly unusual—it’s rare that you ever go a full day without at least a mild headache. What is unusual is the way the rest of your body aches just as badly. Every attempt at movement ends with an uncontrollable muscle spasm—in your fingers, your arms, your neck. Your lungs don’t seize, but their swell still burns.

A surge of adrenaline shocks Astarion to attention. “My dear?” he calls breathlessly, smoothing his thumb over the curve of your cheekbone. “Are you back with us?” His eyes search your face, cataloging every twitch beneath your skin.

You blink, slowly parting your lashes. Astarion first sees the whites of your eyes—one bloodshot, the other a stark, unnatural white. His pale shadow looms over you, blocking your sight. Light slowly bleeds through into your eyes and you wince as it burns away the last dregs of sleep. Your eyes roll aimlessly inside your skull, passing sightlessly over Astarion’s face, then straining to see your surroundings without moving your head.

Astarion’s throat seizes at the now familiar look of complete indifference in your eyes. He’s used to seeing you with a blank expression, but even then your eyes are piercing and alert. Now, the crimson ring of your iris nearly disappears behind a blown pupil. The world shifts randomly in and out of focus. You can clearly count each tendril of flesh hanging from the ceiling, but you only make it to three before they fade into the background; your vision instead settles on a familiar face.

“Star…?” you murmur, recognizing the dim glow of his scarlet eyes. “Is that you?”

A small sigh of relief leaves Astarion’s mouth. You may still be disoriented, but you seem to be slightly more coherent than before. He’ll take whatever victories he can.

Tenderly, Astarion fits the curve of his palm against your cheek, feeling the movement of your lips beneath his hand after so much stillness. “Yes, I’m here.”

A solemn promise lies in his words, the same one that you make every day; Astarion is here now and he will always be here.

Halsin leans in, his broad form casting a shadow over the both of you. “Astarion, if I may?” Halsin gestures for Astarion to lay you flat again.

Astarion glares at Halsin briefly. Astarion’s lips press together, his laugh lines dark with annoyance. You’ve only just awoken, and Astarion fears that if he loosens his hold on you even slightly, you’ll slip through his fingers once more. Already, he can feel it, the growing weight in his arms as you fall gently back into reverie. But Astarion can’t allow that—the three of you need to get moving. As much as he wants to keeps you to himself—Halsin is the healer, not Astarion

So once again, despite his reservations, Astarion unfolds you from his chest so that Halsin can do his work.

Halsin’s eyes scan over your body, checking for any signs of pain now that you’re awake to feel it. “There you are, friend,” he greets gently. “You gave us quite the scare.”

It takes a moment for Halsin’s blurry image to resolve. “Did I?” You squint, as if the memories might appear in front of your eyes should you look hard enough. “...can’t remember.”

A name doesn’t come to you immediately, but his smile shines on your skin like sunlight. His eyes remind you of the soft forest floor. His hair is smooth and straight, but for some reason you think if you tangled your fingers it it, it would be coarse and thick. The details elude you, but you are safe with him, you know that.

Halsin nods, summoning a small flame into his hand and moving it so the light shines across your eyes. You wince away, as does something squirming inside your brain. “That’s not abnormal.” With his other hand, he gently presses down on the skin beneath your eye, carefully pulling your eyelid down to check for swelling. “Tell me, what’s the last thing you remember?”

Halsin, you think as his calloused hands brush your skin. The Archdruid Halsin.

Your memories run together like blood spilled on a sacrificial altar. Your skin tingles with phantom sensations: cold dark stones pressing against your palms, mind thrumming with more power than it can hold, thick vitreous humor spilling down your chin, and then your hand clasped tightly in someone’s familiar grasp. The feelings bleed out from your wrists and fall on the sullied ground, slowly joining with the lake of blood. Your fingers grow numb and cold, and slowly you forget the pinch of Astarion’s nails against the meat of your palm.

You go back further, desperately searching for solid ground. “We… ran into that tiefling wizard. From… the Grove?”

“We” you say, without even thinking about it. That’s right. It’s never been just you. It’s always been us. Your allies, your comrades, your… friends.

Your mind may be a mess, but the vague impression left by that wizard sets your blood alight.. There were lights on the horizon, then a desperate race across the riverbank—Wild Magic and fire. “We were leading him to Moonrise…”

That name weighs heavier on your lips than any other. It gathers a swarm of feelings inside your gut and calcifies them into unyielding stone. You turn your gaze inward and examine the new lump of salt tucked beneath your lungs. You break it off from your lowest rib to examine the way it shines beneath the moon. When it cuts into your tongue it tastes like pride and dread, rapture and grief.

A relieved smile breaks over Halsin’s face. “Yes, that’s right.” Now his thumb moves to your brow, gently lifting your eyelid this time. “Do you know where we are?”

Astarion raises an eyebrow at the druid. He barely knows where they are and Astarion’s brain isn’t full of holes. Even still, you move to push yourself into a sitting position. Astarion’s hand braces against your back, carefully guiding your shaky movements. All the blood pooled in your head suddenly drains as you sit too quickly. With all the folds of your brain empty, something else slithers into its place—a familiar presence, urging you deeper, beckoning you home. Bile bursts from your mouth and drips between your knees.

Astarion grasps your shoulder tightly, as Halsin braces you. “Easy there,” Halsin soothes, slowly guiding you to brace yourself on your bent knees.

Your head hangs low between your shoulders as you wipe your sleeve across your mouth. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” you gasp around the grit on your teeth. “Just sat up too quickly.”

Astarion scoffs. “You said that before, too, and yet here we are.”

You ignore his comment. After a few moments of rest, you slowly lift your gaze to take in your surroundings, piece by piece. The soft ground below you sticks to your skin. You turn up your palms and gaze as the bits of sinew caught between your fingers. Dark red blood dries beneath your fingernails, but there’s no guarantee that’s from the fall. Taking a closer look at the ground, you easily pick out the malformed faces melting into oblivion, an open torso sunk in on itself.

The bed of bodies sinks beneath the lake of blood—though you suspect it’s more than just blood. Bodies are wet, beautiful things. Blood, plasma, humours, and bile—an overabundance of fluid ready to be drained like tanned hide in the sun. You know how to turn skin into leather; strip the meat and fat from the back, then cure it with saltwater, wash it, strip off the natural oils with lime. Some of these corpses would have made a fine piece of armor.

Halsin prepares himself for you to panic or grow weak at the revolting sight. Halsin is no stranger to death and decay, but the gelatinous remains of what once used to be people, draining into the earth, is enough to turn even his stomach. Losing one’s composure in the face of such horror is only natural and you are not made of stone.

But the panic never comes. You gaze upon the mass grave, emotionless and unmoving. Halsin commends your iron will, but still expects to see a steadying breath, stiffening shoulders, a far off look in your eye—some sign to indicate that the horrific sight has affected you at all. But he only sees a dark hunger lurking in the depths of your eyes.

You feel Halsin’s gaze like a brand on your cheek, and you keep your expression carefully schooled to hide the bone-deep satisfaction warming your putrid heart. You don’t know if you’ve been here before, if this pit is even a creation of your own.

Regardless, this is the way it’s supposed to be. A throne of corpses to sit astride and a pool of blood to bathe in. You could stay here for the rest of your life and all you would need is more bodies to ensure the lake never runs dry. For the first time in your memory, you’ve found somewhere you truly belong.

You feel Astarion’s presence at your back, his cold hands cradling your shoulders. Perhaps some company would be nice, too. Your lungs strain against the prison of your skin, seeking more air even as you fight to keep your breaths steady. The blood soaked into your boots is so warm, sticky and wet between your toes. You’ve never f*cked Astarion on a bed before, but what would be better than one fashioned from a hundred corpses? His skin would be cold just like the bodies against your back, and as your limbs tangled together, bits of blood and decaying flesh would stick to your naked skin. You would taste a dozen people’s blood as you ran your tongue over every inch of his body.

You burn so badly for his touch.

First, you’d have to get rid of Halsin, though. Hold Person would have difficulty finding purchase in a mind as well-honed as his. You think he would let you cast Haste on him without question. Then he would be completely helpless when the spell dropped. You could quickly carve out the tendons in his legs, then push him into the lake. Unable to stand, he would drown in a pool of blood. His final desperate death rattle would herald your climax.

You grit your teeth against the arousal stirring in your loins and push those sordid thoughts from yor mind. You can’t allow yourself to entertain any distractions.

You meet Halsin’s eyes once more without a single flicker of emotion. “We’re beneath Moonrise, aren’t we?”

The answer escapes your mouth before it even reaches your brain. You don’t know how you know that, but it drifts off your tongue like autumn leaves floating to the ground. The knowledge settles into the hollow that houses the tadpole wriggling behind your eye. It’s waited there all this time, inaccessible until your surroundings reformed the broken pathways in your mind.

It’s then that you notice the sling around your other arm. “What’s this?” You swing your arm slightly, feeling a dull ache in your shoulder.

“You dislocated your shoulder in the fall,” Halsin explains. “I provided what aid I could, but it will still ache until we get back to camp.” He gestures at his rough handiwork. “I suggest you allow your arm to rest as much as possible until then.”

You grimace down at the arm pinned uselessly against your chest. Now that you’re aware of it, your heartbeat pumps through the strained muscles—feverish and uncomfortable. Even with the weight of your arm supported by the sling, it throbs with a dull pain that spreads up into the back of your neck. You hate to think how much pain you’d be in if you tried to move it. Thankfully, you only need one hand to cast spells.

“The fall…?” you murmur, repeating Halsin’s words.

Slowly, a hazy impression of memory comes back to you. Halsin’s words lay down the first stones of the bridge that collapsed beneath your feet. You can finally walk through the ruins of your memory and find the broken remnants of murals carved in stone. The pieces between entering Moonrise and ending up so far below it begin to connect. You did fall, for a long time. You fell for so long that you began to think the ravine had no bottom, that you would fall for eternity beneath the earth. Strangely, you can’t remember hitting the ground, even though your entire body aches like an open wound.

“Yes, you fell quite far.” Halsin pointedly looks towards the ceiling, looming high overhead. “Your poor memory and disorientation is likely due to a concussion.” Halsin turns his gaze back to you. “What you need most at this moment is rest.”

Astarion scoffs, rubbing his hand between your shoulderblades, unwilling to let go. “Surely you aren’t about to suggest we bed down here for the night.”

Astarion’s glares at Halsin, eye brimming with spiteful defiance. Astarion doesn’t wish to be here a moment longer than he has to, and he’s already lingered here far too long. Any longer and he fears all three of you may start melting into the ground.

“Were that an option, I might. But as things stand, it is best that we proceed with caution.” Halsin levels you with a stern gaze, eyes darkening as his brows furrow. “I ask that you not strain yourself any more than necessary.” His deep voice swells to fill the cavern, falling flat against the dull, pulsating flesh.

But even without the rumble of his voice in your bones, Halsin’s meaning is clear. “I feel fine. I can still fight,” you insist, unaware of how your words slur.

Astarion shoots Halsin a look of frustration. Clearly, you fared perfectly fine in the fall if you still insist on holding onto that pride of yours.

Halsin’s brow narrows further, the crow’s feet around his eyes sharpening into the points of his claws. “Being capable of doing something doesn’t mean you should,” he says tersely. “I am not above throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you back to camp if you won’t take your injuries seriously.” Halsin may be a gentle giant, but beneath the skin of a man lurks an insatiable beast.

Astarion barks out a breath of laughter while you reel back like Halsin’s words are a slap in the face. Your allies have disagreed with you before, particularly in the early days of your adventure. Each one of you has a vibrant, strong personality, and the temperament of a mule. Conflict is inevitable. But Halsin speaks to you like he’s dealing with a petulant child, threatening to pick you up and carry you like one, too.

You return his glare with one of you own, unable to mask the indignation in your eyes. “I’d like to see you try to fight with me on your back.”

Halsin flashes you a cheeky smile, eyes curving into crescents. “Trust me, friend, I’ve fought under far worse conditions.” The severity eases from his brow, hazel eyes returning to the gentle softness of dappled sunlight through the trees.

Very briefly, Halsin’s gaze trails down the length of your exposed arm, then back up to your face. “Your perseverance is admirable. But even the sun must retire at day’s end.” Halsin’s gaze falls, a slow mist rolling through the forest in his eyes. “You cannot take care of the people you love without first taking care of yourself.”

Love? What a strange concept. Can a blade love the hand that wields it? Does love persist for someone who’s been cored out and hollowed?

If you were loved once, it’s gone now.

Astarion flashes you and Halsin a smug grin. “You know, I said something very similar before you went running straight into danger.”

Concern shadows Halsin’s gaze at Astarion’s words. A thread of recklessness runs through so many of your actions, but only when it concerns yourself. A frightening pattern is beginning to form before Halsin’s eye, one that he’s failed to see until now. Briefly, he parts his lips, words of warning hanging on the tip of his tongue. But not long after, his mouth closes and he shakes his head. Now isn’t the time for that conversation.

Instead he looks towards the sole exit. “We have rested long enough. Are the two of you ready to proceed?” Halsin pushes himself off the ground to stand.

Astarion flashes him a fanged smile. “I was waiting on the both of you.” He’s eager to leave this wretched place.

You hold your uninjured hand out to Halsin. “I’m ready, just help me up.”

With a single nod, Halsin wraps his broad hand around your forearm and pulls. You note that he doesn’t just have the physique of a bear, but the strength of one, too. Even without the counterweight of your other arm, Halsin lifts you easily. Behind you, Astarion kneels on the ground, hands braced to catch you if you stumble. When Halsin sets you firmly on your own two feet, you wipe a sheen of sweat from your brow. You’re able to stand, but just barely as the ground wobbles beneath your feet.

Astarion is simply relieved to see you standing and rises himself. He groans as his legs ache, bursting with static as they move for the first time in the better part of an hour. He grimaces, hunching over with hands on his knees. It’s far, far from painful enough to truly affect him, but if he tries to take a step before he can feel his feet, he’s liable to twist an ankle. If that happened, he’d never live it down.

You and Halsin both turn to watch him with alarm. “Is everything alright, friend?” Halsin calls.

“Star?” Your voice follows on Halsin’s heels in a breathless gasp.

Astarion waves off your twin looks of concern with a flash of ire. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he says breezily. “I only had a fully grown adult using my legs as a cushion for the better part of an hour.”

You relax. If he’s back to mocking you already, it can’t be that serious.

With a bemused lilt you ask, “And whose fault is that?”

Astarion shoots you a caustic glare. “Yours for getting us into this mess in the first place.”

You raise an eyebrow. Not ten minutes ago he cradled your body like it was made from crystal and just as precious. You and Halsin both saw his panic and the tender brush of his hand across your cheek. How quickly his affection withers, in the face of reciprocation.

Halsin, choosing to let Astarion save face, abruptly changes the topic. “You suffer from lack of circulation like mortal creatures?” he asks, genuine intrigue in his eyes.

“Hm.” Astarion looks down at his legs with bitter disdain. “So it seems.”

After another long moment, Astarion rises fully, shaking out both his feet. “It’s a new affliction. For the past two hundred years I lived largely without enough blood to fill my thumb, much less my legs.” Astarion shrugs. “Yet I never got that”—he wiggles the fingers on one of his hands—“pins and needles feeling until recently.”

“Fascinating,” Halsin hums. “Your anatomy is truly a thing of wonder.”

Astarion quickly ends the conversation by turning his back on the druid, hopping down the mound of bodies. “If you want to dissect me like that drow in your study, you’re going to have to wait until after this tadpole business is over.” He holds up a finger. “And I expect to be paid handsomely.”

You begin to salivate.

Halsin reels back slightly in genuine offense. “You are not a test subject, Astarion. I would never dream of something so horrific.”

Astarion shrugs flippantly. “Your loss, darling.” He throws a last withering glance over his shoulder. “I’ve been told my iliac crest is a thing of beauty.”

Aren’t they just? You remember the curve of his hip bones beneath his skin fitting perfectly into your palms. What a marvel his pelvis would be in your hands—a perfect cradle for your cheek as you bend his spine to breaking. You quickly wipe off the warm drool spilling down your chin. Gods, that’s all you’re going to think about tonight when you invite yourself into his tent.

You take your first step forward out of the ditch, unsteady like a newborn fawn. The bodies are difficult to navigate, muck sliding against your heel. You only make it a couple steps before the ground seems to fall away beneath your feet. A cut-off gasp draws Astarion’s attention. He whirls around just in time to see Halsin catch you around the waist before you hit the earth.

You pant shallowly and clutch the back of Halsin’s armor. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

You blink, hoping if you close your eyes the room will suddenly resolve into focus. But the walls still wax and wane like the lungs of a great beast and Astarion in the distance is little more than a formless shadow backed by light. If you let go of Halsin, your knees will buckle beneath you.

“I just… I just need a minute,” you insist.

Halsin sighs at your stubbornness. “What you need is rest, and I fear you will only receive it once we escape.”

You close your eyes, a deep furrow set between your brows as you fight the bile climbing in your throat. A wordless grunt escapes your mouth.

“Now, I can carry you or I can help you walk,” Halsin offers, voice brokering no argument. “But you’re not getting out of here by your own means.”

Heaving breaths whistle through your bared teeth. The humiliation burns as you swallow it down. As much as you hate to accept it, you know Halsin is right. You’re nothing more than a liability—unable to even stand on your own, you’re little more than dead weight. If Astarion or Halsin get injured protecting you, you’ll never forgive yourself. If you fail to break the refugees out because of this distraction, you’ll have failed.

“You both should just leave me here,” you hiss, eyes still closed. “Once I’ve recovered I’ll find my own way out.”

“Do you think we jumped down into this hellhole because we thought it looked fun, you dense bastard?” Astarion growls, blood-red eyes branding your flesh with a glare you can’t see. “We wouldn’t be here if we just intended to leave you!”

Halsin levels Astarion with a stern glare.

Your eyes flash open, burning with hellfire. “I never asked you to follow me!” The room spins faster as your anger rises.

“You can’t honestly tell me you thought we’d just leave you here!” Astarion shouts hands balled into tight fists at his side.

Were you within arms’ reach, he’d be tempted to strangle you until you saw sense.

You hesitate, suddenly struck by the absurdity of your own actions. “I…”

You don’t remember what you thought. You don’t remember thinking about your allies at all. You only remember a voice—a siren song, calling to you from the depths from which you rose defiled and incomplete. Perhaps a distant part of you had hoped to find your missing pieces on the sea floor. Perhaps a closer part of you had hoped to find a grave.

“This is no time to argue,” Halsin cuts in, looking pointedly between you and Astarion both.

Astarion folds his arms across his chest and pointedly looks away with a huff.

Halsin shakes his head with a sigh and turns back to you. When he speaks, every word rumbles through your marrow. “I can carry you or I can help you walk,” he repeats, measured and slow. “Choose.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, humiliation burning high on your cheeks.. “You’re not carrying me,” you hiss.

Halsin nods without judgment. “Then lean on me.”

He wraps a thick arm tight around you, strong and warm. He fists the leather belt around your waist in his hand, and uses it to stabilize your center of gravity. He ducks his head slightly so that you can comfortably throw your one good arm over his shoulder. You curl your hand around the edge of his leathers, fingers pinned against Halsin’s bare shoulder. As he straightens, you feel the tension and release of the thick muscle in his arm. The tips of your fingernails itch, pressed gently into his skin and yearning to carve through his flesh.

Ignorant to the bloodlust building in your fingertips, Halsin guides you forward, one slow step at a time. Your legs move in tandem with his as he walks, finding footing on the slope of bodies into the pool. Your ankle catches once, slipping as a skull caves in beneath your weight. When you stumble, Halsin’s arm keeps you upright, holding you steady as your foot finds another purchase.

He grimaces unpleasantly when he has to step into the lake of blood. The rotting shoreline mouths at his ankles, staining the lovingly tended leather of his boots. It doesn’t matter to you when blood trickles past your undone laces and seeps into the fabric of your socks. You only note with disinterest that the blood has long gone cold. The pool stops just below your ankles—midway up Halsin’s shins. It’s shallow enough that it only takes a few steps to cross. This lake doesn’t even amount to a drop in the ocean of all the blood your cursed hands have spilled. But even so, a violent shudder ripples through Halsin’s spine, like tree leaves shuddering against the frigid wind.

Oh, he would hate to be struck down here, wouldn’t he? The unnatural lap of scarlet waves closing above his eyes instead of the river’s clear current. Left here in the bowels of some great, aberrant beast to melt into liquid offal, removed from the Oak Father’s embrace that he reveres so highly. What agony it would be for him to drown in tainted blood, knowing his corpse would melt into its body, never to rejoin with his precious earth. His body would nourish the Absolute and not the soil. Nothing would spring from his corpse save for the world’s subjugation.

Your nails bite into his skin, yearning to carve through his flesh.

Halsin only glances at you with a steady smile of reassurance. “Hold on as tight as you need. Bears have thick skin.”

Your teeth grind within your skull. He thinks you weak, clawing out of panic the way a drowning man does. He doesn’t realize your nails are a divining rod in search of blood. You need only scoop out his meat like mounds of earth and like groundwater rising to the surface his blood would flood the wound. Halsin has lived too long in his tiny forest glade as the apex predator—he’s forgotten that even bears fear a wildfire.

Astarion meets you at the edge of the pool. “I’ll take it from here.” He reaches out with both arms to transfer you from Halsin’s embrace. “You should take point.”

Halsin raises an eyebrow but dutifully helps slide your arm off his shoulders and onto Astarion’s. Astarion replaces Halsin’s hand on your waist with his own and gives your hand a quick squeeze as it finds purchase in his leathers. Astarion is far less solid than Halsin, but he’s proven himself perfectly capable of holding your weight before. He’s using far less effort supporting you now than he did that first night in the wilderness.

Once Halsin is confident that you’ve settled into Astarion’s hold, he takes a few steps towards the stone steps leading around the corner. They’re tall, with smooth faces, the first step reaching nearly to his chin, and the latter two taller than that. It’s no trouble for him and Astarion to climb up. You on the other hand…

With a whisper under his breath, Halsin bends to touch his palm to the stone. His eyes glow gold for a single breath, then energy pulses down the length of his arm, through the flat of his palm, and spreads through the ground. Different as it is from the Grove, cutoff from Thaniel’s spirit, it still responds to his call. A series of small footholds appears on the faces of each of the stones.

Astarion watches, lips pursed. “Neat trick,” he hums as the both of you approach the newly formed steps.

Halsin turns with an easy smile, standing at the top of the stair, ready to catch you should you stumble. “It certainly has its uses.”

Astarion guides you up the steps, sticking close by your side. It takes all of your focus to find each of the footholds Halsin has carved for you, then to push through as the world continues to spin beneath your feet. At the top of the first step you have to pause, wheezing through your teeth as your stomach churns.

Astarion swallows past his own nerves, desperately trying to affect confidence—to be the rock you can hold onto as the world falls away. “So, do you have some sort of plan, druid?” His voice cracks midway through his sentence, so Astarion clears his throat before speaking again. “Going to summon some vines to carry us out of this pit?”

Halsin ignores the almost mocking air to Astarion’s words, rising up the next step as you move forward. “I will be the first to admit, I’ve had better plans—”

“Lovely,” Astarion drawls.

“—but I believe this ‘pit’ as you call it lies below the prison.” Halsin gestures at their surroundings. “I suspect there might be some form of passage between the two.”

Astarion’s eyebrows lift incredulously. “You suspect?” he exclaims. “You mean you don’t know?”

Halsin shrugs as you reach the topmost stair. “As I said: I’ve had better plans.”

Astarion scoffs. “And if you’re wrong? What exactly do you plan to do then?”

Halsin hums, not even bothering to spare Astarion a glance. “Then we’ll need to reevaluate our options. I can fly up easily enough, if we can find a method for both of you to do the same, then escape should be simple.”

“What a truly genius plan,” Astarion mocks bitterly. “Just sprout wings and—”

An ear-piercing shriek cleaves through the air.

All three of you freeze in place, you bracing yourself against Astarion as your knees buckle. A look of sheer panic, cuts through Halsin’s expression, the mountain of a man looking horrifically small for the first time in Astarion’s memory. Astarion doesn’t feel the same level of terror, but crystals of ice calcify within his heart, blood turning frigid with every pass through its chambers.

“I recognize that noise from the Underdark,” Astarion hisses, staring desperately around the bend. “Another bloody hook horror.”

A second, deeper wail—like metal gouging through glass—echoes through the cavern. The acoustics of the space make it impossible to tell how close the beast is, nor where it’s coming from. Despite knowing better, Astarion glances over his shoulder, for a moment convinced that the creature is at your backs.

“Two of them by the sound of it,” Halsin says below his breath, an almost imperceptible tremor in his voice.

“Hells—!”

Of all the creatures they could have faced down here, hook horrors were one of the worst options. Astarion vividly remembers fighting them in the Underdark, being caught unaware by the second hook horror perched high on the limbs of the sussur tree. The oversized chicken had pounced on him, knocking him on his back.

In the space of a breath he went from grinning in victory as his arrow struck true, to crying out pathetically as the weight of the damned thing crushed every single bone in his left leg. He didn’t even have a moment to breathe before the rotten beast began digging into his torso with its hook-like limbs. The familiar smell of his own dead flesh mixed with the thing’s putrid breath as his vision began to waver.

The beast dug into his chest with its second claw, and Astarion’s last fleeting thought was that at least Cazador wouldn’t be the last thing he saw. The smell of orchids filled his nose as Shadowheart’s familiar healing magic surged through his veins. He came to with a gasp, buried under the bird’s dead weight. He had to pull himself out from beneath the damned thing’s molting flesh, ending up with bits of leathery skin stuck between his hair.

It certainly wasn’t an experience he looked forward to repeating. More importantly—

“Hook horrors hunt by getting their prey on their backs, then carving them up while prone.” Halsin’s glowing yellow eyes pin you in place. “You need to hide.”

“I am not—” You pause, tension causing bile to rise in your throat. You gasp after you manage to push it down. “I am not hiding while the two of you fight!”

“The druid is right.” Without waiting for a response, Astarion physically hauls you towards the wall, hidden from view of anything on the other side of the opening. “You can barely stand and you’re already hurt. If one of those things gets you on your back, you’re dead.”

“Then that should provide you a decent opening to attack, shouldn’t it?” you shoot back petulantly.

Astarion ducks out from under your arm and seizes both of your shoulders. “If any of us talked like that, you’d have our heads!”

Astarion pins you up against the stone wall, your legs too weak to resist his movements effectively. Every muscle you tense in opposition fires a moment too late, your mind too sluggish to process what’s happening until Astarion already has you exactly where he wants you. The full weight of his body pushes your shoulders into the cold stone. You blink up at him through fluttering lashes, the fury in his gaze falling in and out of focus.

You can’t help but think of that first night, when he pinned your naked body against a tree and gazed up at you with that devious smile. He pursued you like a prize to be won, so you let him win it. You could be his prize if it would keep the light in his eyes. You preferred it to the panicked desperation the night he bit you, or the anger whenever he mentioned his former master.

You’re closer now than you were then, and yet he never before looked at you with such fury. Everything was so much easier before, when all you had to do was listen to your allies. Save the Grove, find the crèche, fix Karlach’s heart. They all knew what they wanted, and all you had to do was follow their lead. But seemingly ever since Crèche Y’llek, everything’s begun to fall apart. Lae’zel has been abandoned, Gale and Karlach are preparing themselves to die, Shadowheart keeps chasing the love of a goddess incapable of it, and Astarion is so… angry.

You’ve always done your best to keep your friends safe. You’ve always been the one taking point, prepared to suffer the consequences at a misspoken word or misaimed spell. Astarion made full use of the support. He drank your blood regardless of the drain on you, he ducked behind you when you put yourself in the line of fire. You haven’t changed sinced coming to the Shadowlands. The only thing about you that’s different now is you and your friends suddenly know that there’s more to your past than any of you realized.

You close your eyes against the warm bile rising in your throat and to escape Astarion’s frigid glare. “Any of us could die at any point,” you say evenly. “I’ve never forced anyone to stay out of battle because they’re injured.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “No, you only allow Shadowheart to return to camp after her wound flares, and put Gale on laundry duty if the orb is giving him trouble, and allowed me to stay at camp with Karlach after we ran into that Gur hunter.” Astarion shakes his head ruefully. “You’ve allowed every one of us a day off except yourself.”

A frustrated breath blows throw your teeth. “We’re stuck here. I can’t just go back to camp!”

“No, but you can sit here and hide,” Astarion pleads for the second time that day. “Because if you die there’s no guarantee we can bring you back!” He ducks his head, unable to meet your eyes as he continues to hold you against the stone.

Biting the inside of your cheek you murmur, “You were dead for three days and we brought you back just fine.”

“Every resurrection is a gamble,” Halsin sighs, his eyes continuing to search around the corner, shoulders tense and prepared to charge. “No soul can be returned to life an infinite number of times.” A familiar regret echoes through his eyes. “Some have more chances than—”

The ground shudders with a heavy, suckling squelch. Something massive lands just on the other side of the wall. Mid-sentence, the forest in Halsin’s gaze shifts gold. His pupils turn to slits—dark bands of onyx within a tiger’s eye gemstone. He looks past you and Astarion, honed in on a predator that neither of you can see, but instead feel approaching like an oncoming storm.

The inhuman click-click-click of avian laughter rasps through flaking vocal chords, flaps of molting, leathery skin fluttering with every breath. That predatory cackle oozes along the wet ground, winds up the length of Astarion’s spine, tickles the back of his neck. Astarion’s eyes blow wide as he watches Halsin, waiting for some genius bit of advice. A hook horror is just another of his precious Oak Father’s creations, certainly? Halsin must know some method of taming the savage beast—isn’t that what druids train for?

But the grave expression on Halsin’s face tells Astarion that the situation is just as dire as it feels.

So distracted by the heavy footfalls around the corner, you forget to pay attention to your body. Your body tries to maintain balance on its own—it tries to emulate the instinctive tightening of your legs and core muscles that lift your head high. But there’s a veil of fog between your mind and body, then another between your body and the world. The elastic give of the ground beneath your feet and the cold stone at your back warp and bend twice over before your brain finally registers it. Your brain insists the ground is pillowy soft, and that the stone swells and shrinks in time with your lungs. You know it’s not true, but your body instinctively tries to compensate for it anyway, drifting further and further off-course until your knees finally buckle and you slump against the wall at your back.

You curse under your breath, hands grasping desperately at Astarion’s leathers. For all your protests, he and Halsin are right. Unable to even stand, you’re little more than dead weight. The hook horror would need only breathe in your direction to knock you on your back—if you didn’t fall over on your own first. How can you even cast a spell when the world swims in front of your eyes? You’re drowning on dry land, unable to break through the surface and find the clear, open sky. The heaviness in your legs only drag you down.

It shames you to just sit here and let them fight in your stead. But what else can you do? You close your eyes with a bitter scowl and pull on the last vestiges of energy within your veins. If you’re going to hide like a coward, then what little strength you have left is better placed in your allies’ hands. The silkspun threads of energy connecting Astarion’s soul to yours are stronger than steel—forged by fire. Pushing the raw power in your blood through that ripened vein into Astarion is second nature.

The threads between you and Halsin are weaker—magic is a muscle that needs use in order to grow. But every spell crafted carefully around his heart strengthens the bond between you. It swells with your energy now as you quicken the blood in Halsin’s veins, will his steps to tread lighter.

“Propera,” you hiss through your teeth, dark spots dancing on the edge of your vision as you pump the last vestiges of your energy into a twinned Haste spell.

Just as the spell takes hold, another shriek rattles the air. Halsin sinks from a low crouch to all fours. In the blink of an eye, mud and spectral vines rise from the ground to swallow his form. He surges forward mid-shift, his claws still extending, teeth still sharpening as he charges into the fray. Spectral mud sprays across your line of sight as it disappears and vines made of golden light snap and disappear in a shower of sparks.

Halsin disappears beyond the wall. You and Astarion both tune your ears to his heavy strides, counting their number before an ursine bellow fills the air, followed shortly by squawk of pain. They’re far, far too close, and Astarion knows he has to leave you. Halsin doesn’t stand a chance on his own, and firing from a distance using the wall as cover would defeat the purpose of making you hide in the first place. No, Astarion has to leave and keep both birds from turning the corner to find you.

You and Astarion share one last, regretful look as understanding passes between you. Neither of you want him to leave, but he has to go even still. Astarion moves a hand from your shoulder to your cheek, and leans in to leave a tender, heartachingly brief kiss on your forehead. A soft gasp escapes your lips at the touch.

He holds there for a moment, lips against your skin. “If you move from this spot, I’ll kill you myself.” He threatens.

Then he’s gone.

He slips away before you can even register what’s happening, the weight of his hands suddenly gone from your skin. As he darts away, he descends into the murky depths of your vision, little more than a shadow against the light. He unsheathes his shortswords from his belt and then dashes through the opening, into the fray alongside Halsin.

You can only slump there, panting at the strain of maintaining concentration on your spell. You keep a tight fist around the threads of the Weave connecting you to Halsin and Astarion, knowing that letting go would mean disaster for all three of you. Every instinct in you urges you to move, to duck your head around the corner and help. Even if it’s just to lob Firebolts from the safety of cover, surely that wouldn’t hurt? But you know even that is too great a risk. You can’t chance falling to your knees and being unable to move, and you can’t chance drawing unwanted attention. The best thing you can do for your allies is keep focusing so that they can feed from your strength.

You bow your head, eyes closed, struggling to make out the sounds—both distant and tickling the space behind your ear. The incessant echo makes it impossible to tell where exactly the battle is taking place. It could be within arms’ reach or it could be on the other side of the room. All you know is that bestial growls and Astarion’s grunts of effort are interspersed with furious shrieks so ear-splitting that your bones threaten to break apart like glass.

You lean against the wall in maddening stillness, desperately trying to make sense of the sounds echoing though your empty mind. The wet ground gurgles and suckles at every movement, loudly signalling every footfall. But it’s impossible to tell which footsteps are whose, each one drowned out by the step that follows. Halsin growls, Astarion cries out, a bird screeches.

Are they cries of effort or pain?

Every sound reaches your ears through a veil of fog. They’re within arms’ reach, yet simultaneously so, so far away. The sounds of struggle become a distant rumble of thunder in the distance, and the feel of the cold stone against your back becomes an extension of your body. The headache behind your eye dulls—a gentle throb of distant pain, barely worth noting. Your body is so heavy, the world so dark. If you let go of all the tension in your bones, you could float away, bobbing gently on the Chionthar’s current. Your mind could just bleed out through your fingertips—leave your body and become part of the earth. What a gift the darkness would be—that hazy, quiet place you go when Astarion drains your blood. The heaviness would be gone, the fear and uncertainty, the looming threat of your past life. The whole of yourself would unravel and none of it would matter anymore.

You’re so tired. The brief period of darkness before you woke up in Astarion’s arms was the first true rest you’ve had in days. Your legs slide out from beneath you, slowly sliding down the wall until you’re sitting fully on the ground, one leg pinned uncomfortably beneath you, the other stretched out ahead. You head lolls to the side, onto your shoulder. Even if it’s not forever, a brief rest wouldn’t hurt, surely?

Without your supervision, the Weave binding you to Halsin and Astarion begins to unravel at the seams. Bits of your raw, untamed magic begin to flake off the carefully crafted spell. Halsin and Astarion both feel the Weave shudder, the Haste spell over both of them faltering. Astarion’s left foot drags across the ground, while his right hand moves faster. Halsin dodges a hook horror’s searching beak, only for his body to seize in place, following his command just a moment too late. The spell hasn’t dropped, but it’s a near thing and sparks of magic begin to flake off Astarion’s skin.

It’s not just the Weave unraveling, but your entire being—the wild magic trapped in your veins beginning to disperse back into the Weave as your body dissolves. Fire licks painfully between your fingers against the stone, discordant notes of music ringing in the air. The shock of the sudden surge of power in the air yanks you back into your body, fully present as you taste the burgeoning surge in the air. Panic lights up your veins as you feel the Haste spell at the center of your breast, a thick cord suddenly reduced to a silken spiderweb, barely corporeal. You rush to grab the cast off bits of magic in the air and braid them together to fortify the spell you nearly lost control of.

If you lose control of Haste and your allies fall to exhaustion, they’ll be struck down. In your delirium, you nearly forgot the one thing you needed to remember. Slowly, the Weave comes back under control of your steady hands, the threads between you, Halsin, and Astarion fortified with corded silk. You hold those threads tight within your grasp, focusing on that and nothing else. The whole of the world could fall to ruin and you would still be here, two threads of Haste knotted around your knuckles.

A shrieking death rattle sounds from beyond the wall, followed by a heavy thud. A moment later, a wet slorp, this time accompanied with a mournful, warbling cry. The sound of a blade cutting through thick hide is the last sound to fill the cavern before it falls into heavy silence. Astarion pants heavily despite not needing to breathe. Heavy exertion makes him as lightheaded as any mortal, and his body tries to compensate, useless as the motion is. He pulls his shortsword from the hook horror’s neck, scowling at the blood left on his blade. He has no idea where that ugly beast has been.

When he casts a glance around the chamber and sees Halsin, still in bear form, continuing to rip into the other hook horror’s corpse, it finally registers to Astarion that the battle is well and truly over. Without a word, he dashes around the corner. He’s still Hasted, so he already knows you must be unharmed. If anything had hurt you, he would have felt it—first through the ring and then exhaustion as Haste dropped. But he still needs to see it with his own eyes.

He nearly runs off the platform in his speed, skidding to a halt at the stair’s edge. He turns sharply to the place on the wall where he’d left you. There you are—sitting against the stone, head bowed and hands clasped tightly against your chest, as if in prayer. All the breath leaves Astarion’s lungs. The weight of his relief brings him to his knees beside you. He touches his hand to your cheek, just as he had before he’d run into the fray.

Astarion’s touch is what finally draws your focus away from the threads of magic in your hands. Your eyes flash open, immediately finding Astarion’s familiar face hovering just above yours. Your vision still swims unfocused before your eyes, the finer details of his face lost in your confusion. But you know the chill of his skin. You release the threads of Haste clutched in your hands and throw your arms around his shoulders.

Astarion slumps forward into your embrace as exhaustion takes over, all his limbs suddenly pinned down by gravity. You catch him as he falls, hands grasping desperately at the back of his armor, pulling him as close to you as you possibly can—then trying to pull him closer even still. Your lip trembles with the fear and worry that you’d forced down during the time he was out of your sight. Haste only lasts a minute, so Astarion and Halsin couldn’t have been gone for more than a handful of seconds. But the stretch of time where you feared for Astarion and Halsin’s safety felt impossibly longer, knowing that if they fell it would be entirely your fault.

Astarion’s lungs deflate in a long exhale as he tucks his face into the crook of your shoulder. He doesn’t know what to say—doesn’t have words to describe the worry he’d felt when he realized how vulnerable you were, how it was up to him of all people to keep you safe. Fearing for other people is a completely novel idea, one he would have scoffed at a month ago. But here he is, so worried for your safety and well-being that he’s physically ill with it.

Safety is Astarion’s most precious possession—something he’s never truly had but is starting to understand. There isn’t a single thing he wouldn’t do for a moment of reprieve, he’s killed people—children, even—for the promise of a single night of peace. For the first time in his life, Astarion can rest with relative ease, relax in the company of others, bask in attention and laughter like a spoiled cat. That safety, fragile as it is, was his greatest desire.

How does he tell you that he’s willing to risk the thing he treasures most on your behalf?

But from the desperate clutch of your hands and the way you press his chest to yours, like you might join together if you hold him tightly enough, Astarion thinks perhaps he doesn’t have to say a word. Perhaps you already know.

Astarion pulls back, just enough so that he can touch his forehead to yours. “Let’s get out of here,” he breathes against your lips. “We’ve spent enough time in this pit.”

“Hey, what do I have to do to get one of them funny hats?” Karlach asks one of the prison guards.

The guard—Zealot Nadi—having been on the receiving end of Karlach’s questions for the better part of an hour now, watches her with a completely blank expression. “Dedicate yourself fully to the Absolute, and you may one day earn the privilege of wearing Her vestments,” Zealot Nadi answers, voice carefully flat.

“Oh, okay.” Karlach purses her lips, arms folded across her chest. “So, like, how long does that usually take?”

Both Zealot Nadi, and Rolan standing near a series of stacked crates, exhale heavy sighs. A disembodied chuckle floats through the air beside Rolan’s ear. Rolan frowns, reaching into the pack on his hip and retrieving an hourglass. He holds it up to his eyes and notes that the sand is almost fully drained.

Rolan glances in the direction of Gale’s laughter. “What exactly is the plan if the other three don’t return before Invisibility wears off?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

Karlach, Gale, and Rolan have set themselves up at the far end of the prison, near the wall that, according to Halsin, leads to the area behind the jail cells and the hidden dock. Karlach has, essentially, done her best at stalling for time, pestering the nearest guard for information about the cult, the prison, their superiors, and when those topics ran dry, Karlach turned to asking about the guard themselves. She certainly served as a decent distraction, though it quickly became painfully obvious why Karlach was not the face of the party.

Gale hums, and despite his invisibility, Rolan can picture him tapping a finger to his lips in quiet contemplation. “I suppose then we may need to reconsider our options. If we make a trip back to camp, we may be able to find or brew some Potions of Flying that will allow us to travel after the others.”

Rolan raises an eyebrow. “That’s your brilliant plan?” he asks in mocking disbelief. “Send more people into the pit?”

“Halsin was able to travel back up the shaft easily enough. I don’t see why the others wouldn’t be able to do the same,” Gale reasons. “It’s a simple matter of providing the means.”

The logic is sound, but Rolan can’t help but shake his head. “The druid I understand, I suppose. He’s powerful and an accomplished healer,” he grumbles. “But I don’t see why you’d waste all this effort on the other two. Neither of them seems the type to return the favor.”

Beneath the cloak of invisibility, Gale smiles gently to himself. “Are we not here in the first place on my friend’s orders?”

Rolan sighs, unable to argue with that truth. “I suppose.” The corners of his mouth pull downward in a razor-sharp scowl. “Though I hardly understand why.”

Gale hums thoughtfully at Rolan’s admission. Truth be told, he himself hardly understands why many of your party members do much of what they do. Or perhaps, even if he understands why he fails to understand why they hold onto paradigms tham have long proven ineffective. Why does Shadowheart cling to her faith in spite of the overwhelming evidence of Shar’s cruelty laid in front of her? Why does Wyll sing the praises of a man that views the people of Baldur’s Gate as acceptable casualties in his quest for order? Why does Astarion fish for sympathy only to bite the hand that offers it?

Everyone in your group is a host of contradictions and you are no different. “I admit, I’m not entirely sure myself,” Gale says. “But I’ve gathered that some people show their care in ways that are difficult to understand.”

It took some time for Gale to understand—Karlach and Wyll have been easy to read from day one, open in their affections and never pretending to feel something they didn’t. But the rest of your group is much harder to read. Astarion, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel would never openly admit to the care they hold for the rest of the group, but it shines through in their actions.

Lae’zel eviscerates Gale’s combat tactics and all but forces him to run drills with her every tenday. The first time she approached him in camp with that severe look of hers, Gale thought she was about to gut him for his sloppy footwork. He realizes now that if she didn’t care for him, she would write him off as an acceptable loss and spend her time on easier pursuits.

Shadowheart is similar, she plays her cards close to her chest as Shar taught her. Admitting to any affection for the group would be all but a betrayal of Shar’s doctrine. In spite of that, she’s carefully opened up over the course of your journey, her secrets and doubts blooming from the center of her chest the moment they were given space to grow.

Astarion is much the same in that his secrets seemed to spill out of his mouth unbidden the moment you loosed the first one from his lips. He wore a mask of the hedonistic debonair at the onset of your journey—the type of person Gale had run across all too frequently in Waterdeep. But with each tidbit of his past that Astarion willingly shares, every battle fought, the mask slowly started to fade into something new—a side of the vampire that Astarion himself hadn’t even realized was there. He still keeps the mask firmly fixed over his face around strangers, continuing to poke and prod at your group’s buttons. But in private there are moments of genuine connection—entreating Gale for help with his scars, holding Shadowheart through her pain, throwing himself into the fire for a chance at getting you back.

You’ve all come a long way in such a short time, you included. “Even if we don’t understand—” Your care is most evident in your fury, a concept that Gale still struggles with. But your affection has never been more evident than when you threatened Elminster, then Dammon before berating Gale for his willingness to obey Mystra’s orders. Your anger comes from a place of love—when the world threatens to take away something you hold dear. “—the affection is still there.”

Rolan furrows his brow, a mixture of confusion and disgust twisting on his lips. “Surely you’re not trying to claim your friend cares about me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” Gale thinks back to your first few conversations, the way you mocked him ruthlessly for his studies. He still isn’t quite sure if your jabs were genuine or particularly caustic jokes, but either way, he thinks he managed to win you over with his quick wit. But it’s a pattern you’ve continued with every wizard you’ve met to date. “Perhaps it’s Cal and Lia. Or I won’t deny our group is easily motivated by spite, we’ve done a fair few things simply to prove it’s possible.”

But Gale suspects there’s something important there. Rolan’s reckless disregard for his own life made you nearly as angry as you were when Dammon shared the news about Karlach’s engine. You’ve made your disdain for Rolan evident, so it must be something else. There’s a missing piece to the puzzle, Gale knows. If only he could discover what it is.

“But regardless of the exact reason,” Gale continues through his own thoughts. “The devotion is still there.”

Rolan purses his lips and says nothing, his gaze fixed firmly straight ahead. Devotion is a strange concept. The only thing devotion has ever done for him is force him and his loved ones from the city they called home, as the theocracy in charge shifted the blame for Elturel’s descent onto its tieflings. Blinded by faith, the people listened. Devotion was a pretty veil meant for people too dull to think for themselves.

But if your devotion can save Cal and Lia, perhaps he’ll reconsider.

“So…” Karlach asks, still set on bothering the poor guard. “When’s your shift end?”

Zealot Nadi watches her silently, unblinking.

Karlach twirls a lock of hair around her finger, flashing the half-orc a charming smile. “I was thinking when you’re free we could go grab a drink?”

Rolan buries his face in his hands, face suddenly burning a bright crimson. If the wardens didn’t kill him, then surely he would succumb to pure humiliation. He’s saved from a slow death of secondhand embarrassment by a pebble striking against the back of his head.

“Ah!” Rolan hisses, hand flying up to cover the blooming bruise.

“Rolan?” Gale murmurs quietly. “Are you alright?”

Rolan ignores the other man and whips around to look for the source of the strike. There’s nothing beyond this point of the prison save for a series of empty bins and discarded crates. Rolan casts a glance towards Karlach and the guard she’s been harassing. Neither of them are paying Rolan any attention, and thankfully the outburst seemingly wasn’t loud enough to earn it.

Rolan narrows his eyes, scanning up the prison walls to the walkway overhead. “Yes…” he finally answers Gale. “I just got hit with—”

Another rock strikes him, this one catching him in the shoulder. “Bloody hells!” Rolan hisses, fighting to keep his voice down through the sudden sting.

“Hey, wizard!” an irritatingly familiar voice hisses. “Up here!”

Rolan scowls, turning towards the wall leading to the docks and craning his neck upwards. At the very top of the wall, crawling low on his belly, Rolan meets a familiar pair of red eyes, gleaming with mirth. As soon as Rolan’s made eye contact, Astarion scoots backward and out of sight from anyone on the ground. Rolan scowls, throwing a glance over his shoulder to ensure the guard is properly distracted. The guard now stares straight ahead, stalwartly ignoring Karlach’s poor attempts to flirt. Karlach stands carefully between the guard and the wizards, effectively shielding them from sight unless the guard were to crane their neck around the mass of her body.

A warm hand taps Rolan twice on the shoulder. “Not to fear, my friend, I’ll handle this,” Gale says. “You keep watch for any of those floating eyes.”

Rolan’s tail lashes back and forth once. “Gladly.” The less he has to deal with the moody vampire, the better.

Rolan hears the soft scuff of leather boot soles against stone, then the creak of wood as Gale carefully climbs the tower of boxes nearest the wall. When Rolan casts a glance to the topmost crate, he finds the space empty. There’s no sign of the vampire either from this angle. It’s best to let your group handle the finer details, he knows. You all are the seasoned adventurers, Rolan is just one more refugee who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He thought it would be more empowering to come rescue Cal and Lia, that his inner strength would rise up during his time of need and in the moment he’d know exactly what to do. That was how it always worked for heroes, wasn’t it? Show up and let the pieces fall where they may? Yet nothing of his experience so far feels heroic, nor does he feel strong.

Nervous energy crackles beneath his skin. Even within Moonrise, safe from the harsh effects of the Shadow Curse, Rolan finds himself startling at every sudden noise, drawing away from every wayward glance. He isn’t suited for the art of subterfuge. All he can think of is the fact that if anyone uses Detect Thoughts on him, the whole plan will fall apart.

Rolan should be strong enough to at least keep his head held high. He’s no archmage, but he knows his power is nothing to scoff at. But even a bear can be taken down by a pack of wolves, and he’s followed you and your companions directly into their midst. Everything that’s happened in the few hours since you bade he join your mission has been completely out of his control. Ever since Elturel, he, Cal, and Lia have been little more than driftwood, following the Chionthar’s path to the sea.

If the vampire has made his way up from underground, then the time to set their escape plan into motion is drawing nearer. Rolan’s heart thunders in his chest, a cold sweat breaking across his brow. Is there something he should be doing now? Some preparation he should make that will increase everyone’s chances of survival? He racks his brain for solutions, but all his mind conjures are a thousand ways that everything could go wrong.

Lia, struck down with an arrow in her back when the guards notice her trying to escape. Cal, dragged by the collar and thrown over the side of the walkway into the pit. Both of them, brought back to the prison in chains, handed over to the man the Warden named, Balthazar, for his horrid experiments. A distant part of Rolan suddenly wishes he’d chosen to return to Last Light and let you rescue the prisoners yourselves.

He wants to help rescue Cal and Lia in whatever way he can, certainly. But the sudden, very real possibility that he could just as easily be responsible for their deaths takes residence in a dusty corner of his mind and refuses to leave. He already had to listen to their screams as he failed them once—he’ll never forget that sound for as long as he lives. Even if this plan succeeds, and they’ll be together again, he’ll never forget how all the color faded from his world as the shadows swallowed Cal and Lia whole. Their screams pierced his heart through, and even now, half a month later that wound still bleeds. Even if he rights his past wrongs, the scar will never fully heal.

If he fails a second time and listens to Cal and Lia’s death rattles, he doesn’t think his heart will survive.

Rolan drums his fingers on his arms, the static in his veins needing somewhere to escape. He glances down, cupping his palm against his robe and summoning a tiny shower of sparks within the shadow of his hand. It’s a familiar comfort to pluck at the Weave just to ensure that it’s still there, waiting at the end of his fingertips to be summoned. Some of his nerves dissipate with the sparks as a long sigh escapes his nose.

“This might be a bit weird, but I fell into this real nasty bush out in the Shadowlands.” Karlach’s raucous voice cuts through the mire of Rolan’s thoughts. “Thorns, brambles, the works. And ever since I’ve had this rash.” Rolan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you think you’d be able to take a look?” Karlach’s voice turns up at the end, in eager anticipation, bent low so that she can meet the guard’s eye.

Zealot Nadi stares through her, only a near imperceptible twitch of their eyebrow signalling their annoyance. “If you need medical attention, you should be in the healer’s chambers, not the prison,” they deadpan.

“Oh, nah, I don’t need a healer. Magic like that completely throws off my humours,” Karlach laughs.

The guard’s jaw flexes as they grind their teeth, glancing over the side of the walkway, likely debating whether they can shove the tiefling off. Rolan would certainly be interested to see them try, considering Karlach towers over them. In the end they shake their head and return to attention. Karlach’s breath hitches in the middle of her laughter, her eyes darting briefly down to her elbow, where a familiar, weathered hand taps twice.

“But I guess you have a point. Maybe they’ll have a jar of leeches I can borrow.” Karlach finally backs away, giving the guard space. “In Her name and all that.”

Karlach gives Zealot Nadi a final two-fingered salute before turn on her heel, the point of her tail wagging lazily behind her. Rolan hurries to follow as she begins her walk down the path. Once they’ve escaped the earshot of the guard, she subtly ducks her head.

“Magic man?” she calls, eyes scanning the empty air around her.

“Right here, Karlach,” Gale whispers back.

The tension in Karlach’s shoulders eases slightly at the assurance that Gale is still with the group. “So, what’s the plan?”

Rolan can clearly hear Gale’s smug grin in his words. “We get everyone out of here,” he says simply.

Karlach starts, caught off guard. “Wh—now?” she asks incredulously.

“According to Astarion, they have everything in place on their side. We just need to stall the guards and then follow the prisoners to the dock.”

Rolan narrows his eyes. “How exceedingly vague,” he says warily.

Gale hums in agreement. “Astarion did appear far too pleased for my liking. Reminds me of Tara when she’s been leaving mice on Miss Safahr’s doorstep.”

Karlach huffs out a laugh. “Think we’ll get back there and find Fangs has left a couple dead guys in the boat for us?”

“No, I think if he was going to leave us presents, he’d tuck a severed hand or two into our bedrolls,” Gale says.

Rolan narrows his eyes at Karlach. For someone so cheerful, she certainly had a morbid sense of humor. All of you do.

Gale glances along the narrow path between the cells, as the group approaches Wulbren’s cell. He plots the locations of all the guards in his head, envisions the sequence of events that’s about to unfold. The Warden is, by far, the biggest threat, followed closely by the two guards stationed along the walkway—Zealot Nadi and Adept Keris. There are five more around the corner, but as long as they can keep the Scrying Eye from sounding the alarm, your group will be long gone by the time they reach the cell block. Which means if they can either stall or eliminate the guards and the Scrying Eye, the path out of the prison will be clear.

Gale stops in his tracks. “Karlach, wait,” he hisses.

Karlach halts immediately, turning her head slightly so the her ear faces Gale. “I have an idea that should make this escape go much more smoothly, but I’ll need to stay back.”

Karlach furrows her brow. “What? Why?”

She can still hear the pleased smile in his voice, relishing in a brilliantly devised plan. “I have a spell that will help us, but the range is very limited. I’ll catch up easily, don’t worry.”

Karlach’s mouth pulls into a thin line, clearly unhappy at the prospect of leaving Gale behind. “Alright, if you’re sure…”

“Trust me, this will be to all our benefit.”

Karlach’s lips curl once more into her usual sunny smile. “Oh, I do. You haven’t led us wrong before!”

“Always a first time for everything,” Rolan grumbles under his breath.

“Give Wulbren the hammer, but tell him to wait until you make the first move. When the Scrying Eye is in range, take it out before it can alert the guards,” Gale begins, Karlach’s ear tilted carefully in his direction. “That should give Wulbren more time. Once the guards notice, it’s our job to hold them off.”

Rolan’s hands shake, his mouth completely dry as he realizes the time for action is quick approaching. “You say that like it’s easy,” he grumbles.

“The difficulty is of no consequence.” Even though neither tiefling can see him, Gale steels himself, standing tall as he channels your iron will once more. “We’ll succeed because we must. There is no other option.”

Your silver tongue commands the world to bend around you, the threads of every possible future woven into the one chosen by your careful hand. Gale only needs you to lend him your resolve for this one moment before he’ll return it to its rightful place. But in this moment, his voice demands that both heaven and hell take note. This won’t be the tale of Rolan’s Folly.

Gale casts one last glance over his allies—Karlach who he trusts with his life, and Rolan who has trusted him with his future. “Then this is where we part ways for now.” Gale claps a hand to Karlach’s shoulder even though she can’t see it. “Good luck, my friends.”

Karlach laughs deep in her belly. “Oh, don’t act like this is the last battle we’ll ever have! We still have a ton of arseholes to take care of!” She pats the hand on her shoulder with a great deal of humor. “Nobody’s dying today—or any other day for that matter.”

Karlach cannot truly see him, but Gale feels the weight of her amber gaze just the same. Her burning stare cuts him through with a gilded blade, so hot that its sears the flesh it parts. Somewhere in the pit far below lurks the heart of the Absolute. Eliminating it at all costs was the mission given to him by Mystra—his sole way to earn her forgiveness. Without her forgiveness, Gale may wander the City of the Dead for all eternity, never allowed to pass on.

But is he ready to see that city with his own eyes just yet? “We rarely get a choice in the matter,” Gale says grimly.

His hand slips from her shoulder as Karlach’s expression falls, unmistakable grief flickering across her eyes. “I know, Gale, I know.”

She has no way of knowing if Gale is still close enough to hear.

Karlach steels herself, fits her sunny smile back on her face and heads to the cell containing the captive Ironhands. After a quick check over her shoulder to make sure the coast is clear, she nonchalantly tosses Wulbren’s hammer through the bars. It hits the stone floor with a heavy thud. Wulbren quickly grabs the hammer off the floor and stows it conspicuously behind his back.

He eyes Karlach with a bitter scowl. “Are you finally ready?” he hisses.

Karlach doesn’t meet his eye directly, instead looking further down the path, where the Scrying Eye has reached the end of its route. “Soon,” she replies out the side of her mouth. “I’m gonna take out this purple f*cker the next time it comes around—then it’ll be showtime.” She dips her chin quickly as Rolan brushes past her, taking his position just outside the first cell.

Rolan leans faux casually against the cell bars, arms crossed as he watches the Scrying Eye approach—somehow at both a breakneck pace and an agonizing crawl. Rolan eyes the other tieflings in the cell carefully. Danis curls up forlornly against the wall, while Lakrissa sits in front of him, trying to pull him into the world’s saddest game of “I, Spy.” Cal sits hunched over on the bed, while Lia paces anxiously across the length of the cell.

Lia sees him first—his hood still shadows his face, but she recognizes him as the person who walked by with Karlach nearly an hour ago. Lia approaches the front of the cell and cranes her neck to see the cell containing the other prisoners. When she sees Karlach bouncing on the balls of her feet, feigning her own version of nonchalance, all of Lia’s hair stands on end.

Lia levels Rolan with her burning orange eyes. “Is is time?” she whispers.

Rolan couldn’t speak around the stone in his throat even if he wanted to. His hood still shadows his face so that Lia doesn’t recognize him. More than anything, he wants to reach through the bars and hold her—just in case he never has another chance. But the Scrying Eye moves past his shoulder, heading in Karlach’s direction. There’s no time to say everything he wants to say. He can’t risk anything distracting Cal and Lia from escaping when the time comes.

The world freezes along with the breath in his lungs—a thousand childhood memories tumble through his mind like rolling thunder, shaking him down to his bones. Peals of bright laughter echoing across Maiden’s Bridge, furiously drying each other off with Prestidigitation-warmed linens after swimming through the frigid canal on a dare.

Cal and Lia have always looked to him for help nearly the whole of their lives. Cal used to come to him for help with his maths, pleading with those round, wet eyes of his.

Rolan groaned, his first attempt at Magic Missile fizzling out in his hands. “I’m busy, go ask dad.” He physically shooed Cal off with his hand.

“Please,” Cal whined, sticking out his lower lip. “Dad takes forever to remember his multiplication tables and you’re so much better at explaining!”

Rolan tipped his head back with an annoyed sigh. All the grannies at the market thought Cal was the sweetest little angel, with his toothy grin and his shy demeanor. But Cal could be just as devious as any devil—he knew that Rolan’s ego was the quickest way to get what he wanted.

“Fine,” Rolan sighed, holding out a hand for Cal’s textbook. “Bring it here.”

Cal’s face immediately split into a triumphant grin as he passed the book over.

“Ow,” a teenaged Lia grumbled within another memory. “You’re pulling too hard!”

Rolan rolled his eyes, Lia’s dark hair spilling over his hands as he tried to wrangle it into a proper fishtail braid. “I’m not pulling, you’re moving too much,” he shot back.

Lia kicked her feet in the air. “Well, how am I supposed to hold still this long?” she whined. “You’re taking forever!”

Rolan glared at the back of her head, tempted to circle around to face her, but not willing to let the past ten minutes of work go to waste. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you want to try and braid your bloody hair yourself? Because I certainly don’t care whether your date likes your hair.”

Lia’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

Despite his grumbling and their petty arguments, Rolan has always been the person Cal and Lia seek out. Every day during the Descent was a fresh hell. Rolan boarded up the doors and windows of their safe haven, desperate to keep the horrors roaming the street out of their home. During the day, the three of them huddled in the basem*nt, praying that the monsters stalking the city streets would leave them be. Cal and Lia would duck into his arms then, breaths held as the rattle of a chain devil passed slowly overhead. When they needed to run for supplies, Rolan was the one to volunteer—slipping unseen through the streets. Someone had to stay strong when their world was falling apart.

What a joke it was to survive the Hells only to be driven from the damned city—only to die here. The past six months of their lives have been nothing but one world-ending crisis after another. He’s tried his best to do right by Cal and Lia—to keep them safe in the face of a world that spits in their faces at every turn. All of his training and study has amounted to nothing in the face of devils and monsters. What hope do any of them have in the face of an Archdevil? Mindflayers?

Often on the road, Rolan’s thoughts turn to their mother, gone for years, now. He’s never felt her absence more keenly than he has since Cal and Lia’s capture. If she were here now, everything would be better. She would know what to do—somehow she always did. And unlike Rolan, Lia actually listened to her. In his dreams he’s small again, his head resting in her lap, while her gentle fingers card through his hair, and for those scant, few hours he’s back in the safety of his childhood, where his biggest worries were mastering his spellcraft.

But inevitably he wakes every morning to the cold, bitter darkness—alone. Their mother isn’t here, and the responsibility of keeping Cal and Lia safe falls on Rolan’s head.

Mother, have I done enough, he wonders beneath the weight of Lia’s searching gaze. Am I strong enough to protect what you left to me? Everything he’s worked for—the life he’s longed for—hinges on the next few minutes.

Wordlessly, Rolan nods. “Mhm,” he hums in assent.

Lia nods, backing away from the bars. An intense urge to grasp her hand shudders through Rolan’s bones. He crosses his arms tight over his chest and forces it down.

Behind him, Karlach dances on the balls of her feet, humming to herself as the Scrying Eye draws near. Wulbren and Gale both watch her with burning intensity—but her already flaming skin doesn’t feel a thing. Closer, closer. Wulbren stands at the back of the cell, hammer in hand. Gale touches his palm to the office door, the Weave already gathering at his fingertips. Then, almost faster than the naked eye can see, Karlach’s hands dart out and snatch the Scrying Eye.

“Yoink!” she says cheerfully.

She clutches the purple orb to her chest and spins a full circle before letting go. The Scrying Eye’s “pupil” comically widens as it streaks through the air towards the central tower. Whoever’s controlling the damned thing doesn’t have time to react before the orb smashes against the stone with the force of a cannonball. The Scrying Eye shatters in a spray of purple sparks.

Immediately, Wulbren turns to the cell wall. With expert precision he targets the weakest stones. A lifetime of fine engineering has built up to this moment. His hammer cleaves the stone away like softened meat off bone—it melts and crumbles away. With every strike, more and more stone falls, until, after only a handful of seconds, the whole wall gives way and collapses under its own weight.

Several things happen in quick succession.

On the other side of the wall, Astarion fires his longbow. A smokepowder arrow hits the other cell wall with concussive force. All the tieflings in that cell jolt as the stone wall blows inward with a sudden blast. Cal startles so badly that he trips over a loose stone and falls to the ground. Astarion bursts into giddy laughter at the successful hit, fangs on full display.

As soon as the second wall collapses, Gale pushes the arcane energy at his fingertips into the door at his back. “Clausus,” he whispers under his breath. The Warden’s office door shimmers as Arcane Lock suspends the portal in a brief stasis. Arcane energy anchors the door in place—frozen in time so that not even a charging bulette could break it down. Once the spell leaves Gale’s fingers, he dashes across the bridge toward the Ironhands’ cell. His knees audibly crack beneath the sudden force of his footfalls. He appears out of the ether as his invisibility sloughs off like snakeskin.

Inside her office, the Warden shoots up from her desk at the sudden explosion. The luster of magic enshrouding her door shudders beneath her burning gaze, but holds firm. She knew the prisoners had been planning escape—she thought it best to let the fools entertain themselves with a plan destined to fail. The longer they held out hope of escape, the longer they would remain predictable. She had been waiting for this moment, where the prisoners would run and she would show them the true meaning of fear.

“What’s happening out there?” she barks out sharply.

Without waiting for an answer, she reaches to the wall behind her and pulls the middle lever. The inhuman shriek of metal grinding against metal screeches off the stone walls, All the cell doors suddenly raise up. Zealot Nadi and Adept Keris start rushing to the cells from opposite directions, knowing the protocol for a suspected escape attempt is immediate neutralization of all prisoners. The Warden rushes across her office, greaves thudding on the hardwood floors. Wulbren wastes no time making a break for it through the wall, followed closely by Nimble, then Nickels.

“Go, go, go!” Karlach cheers, looking over her shoulder for the guards.

Her eyes land on Zealot Nadi, charging down the path, sword drawn. Karlach waves cheerfully at her erstwhile friend before hefting her own greataxe into her hand. A cloud of steam billows out of the vents in her shoulders, tousling her hair as her grin turns wicked.

“Oh, hey!” she greets as the paladin approaches. “You come to take me up on that date?”

Zealot Nadi’s only response is a strike with their broadsword—it catches Karlach in the side, bruising but not cutting any skin. “Ugh, so that’s a no, then?”

Gale weaves carefully around Karlach into the jailcell, another cast already woven between his fingertips. “Karlach, just run!” he instructs, waving her to follow him. “I’ll slow down their pursuit!”

Karlach frowns, all but pouting at the prospect of leaving a fight unfinished. But she knows that there’s only more guards around the corner, no doubt on their way to investigate the sudden commotion. If they linger, they risk being overwhelmed. With a reluctant sigh, Karlach dodges backward into the cell alongside Gale, just barely escaping another blow.

As soon as she’s out of range, Gale drops and touches his palm to the ground. “Ira et dolor.”

Arcane energy ripples through the ground in miniature earthquakes, seeking out the threads of the Weave embedded deep in the bones of the tower. He finds the lingering touch of the illithid flesh hidden in the walls and draws on it, reeling it up to the surface. Inky black tentacles burst out of the ground, twisting and writhing as they spill over the crumbling stone like an oil slick. Evard’s Black Tentacles cover the whole of the junction between the wooden bridge of the cell block. A mass of black coils climb up Zealot Nadi’s ankles, winding up to their mid-thigh.

A giddy laugh bursts out of Karlach’s mouth before she darts into the tunnel. The Ironhands have already made it halfway down the path, scrambling over loose rubble and dirt with artful dexterity. Karlach follows suit, with none of the grace but compensating with sheer strength. Her bulk fills the tunnel and blocks any line of sight to the escaping prisoners.

Zealot Nadi tries to take a step back to adjust their line of sight, only to nearly topple over when the tentacles around their leg tighten. The wriggling black tendrils squeeze, tighter and tighter until Zealot Nadi’s plate armor begins to crumple beneath the force. Jagged bits of metal scrape the skin beneath their greaves. Their bones strain, nearly feeling like they might crumble beneath the weight.

Zealot Nadi’s eyes dart between their feet to Gale, gaze burning with malice. With Karlach already out of sight, Gale is the only viable target in the guard’s line of sight. Zealot Nadi levels their crossbow at the wizard, notching a bolt into place with shaking hands. Gale doesn’t wait for them to fire, instead turning on his heel and running after Karlach and the Ironhands.

In the other cell, Danis and Lakrissa wait for no instruction, Lakrissa taking the lead. Her hair streams behind her in a violet-red banner as she leaps and bounds across the uneven terrain. Danis follows close behind, stumbling with his hands braced against the wall for balance. As they both round the bend, they see moonlight shimmering off the surface of the water—the promise of freedom just at the end of the docks. They see the Ironhands clearly for the first time, across the path, making their own dash for the boat.

Lia hangs back, rushing to her brother’s side “Cal, are you alright?” she asks in one hurried breath.

Without waiting for an answer, Lia stoops down to pull him up.

Cal gazes up at her, bright stars blinking in and out of his vision. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he insists, but grabs her hand with both of his.

With considerable effort, Lia pulls Cal to his feet with a minor stumble. Cal sways unsteadily, clearly disoriented by the sudden blast. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear the dizziness, but only succeeds in wobbling further. Rolan casts a fearful glance over his shoulder. Just as he looks, the Warden emerges from the second floor of the central tower.

The Warden’s eyes burn with fury as she looks upon her prison. Zealot Nadi is being crushed by tentacles, unable to get a clear shot at any of the prisoners on the ground. The second guard, Adept Keris, is only just rounding the corner, too far to be of any real use. Somehow, the Warden’s been outmatched by a group of filthy nonbelievers. Incensed with hellish fury, she tears the crossbow from her back and levels it at one of the only prisoners still in her line of sight.

Rolan’s eyes widen and his heart skips a beat. “Cal, look out!” he shouts.

Both Lia and Cal whip their heads around at the familiar voice. “What?” Lia hisses, sudden anger igniting in her eyes.

Rolan doesn’t pay her any mind, physically pushing Cal out of the way. Cal and Lia both stumble backward. An arrow streaks through the air and into the space Cal occupied moments before—a space now taken up by Rolan. Cal and Lia can only watch as a barbed arrow pierces Rolan’s shoulder. A guttural cry wheezes through bared teeth as the arrow’s spines catch on his flesh. The blinding pain nearly brings Rolan to his knees, his legs briefly buckling.

It’s Cal that steadies him, catching him by the arm. For a moment he just stares at his brother, eyes wide, searching the other man’s face with voiceless awe.. “Rolan!” he exclaims in an even mix of shock and delight.

Lia’s brows raise, he shock tainted with anger. “What are you doing here?” Lia spits.

Rolan whips his head up to look at her, his hood finally falling back to fully reveal his face. “What do you think?” he pants, bright red blood gushing down the front of his robes from where the arrowhead carves out his skin.

“You insufferable idiot,” Lia hisses. “Nobody asked you to—”

“You’re really going to do this now?” Rolan exclaims. “Just run, damn you!”

A loud thud echoes throughout the prison as the Warden drops down from the tower. She lands just on the edge of Gale’s summoned tentacles. One long coil of black tentacles licks at her ankle, but she only crushes the tendril with her boot sole and stalks forward. Adept Keris rounds the corner, mace at the ready. The Warden’s eyes scan the group of gathered tieflings with cold disdain.

“Ah. Is this the brother I heard you whimpering for?” she asks, voice flat.

Cal quakes beneath the weight of her gaze while Lia’s glare holds more hatred than Rolan’s ever seen in all their years together. Lia lifts her chin and stares the Warden down with a malice darker than the shadows Rolan crossed to get here. Her eyes burn, as bright and vivid as the flames of Avernus. Rolan’s hair comes undone as he turns to face the enemy, the muscles in his shoulder tearing. He pushes through the pain, standing fully to shield Cal and Lia with his body, his uninjured arm outstretched.

The Warden remains unmoved. “It matters not—all of you die here.” She raises her crossbow for the second time.

“Rolan,” Cal begins, pleading.

“I said go!” Rolan hisses over his shoulder.

Lia hesitates, hand on Cal’s arm, eyes flickering between Rolan and the Warden. She wants nothing more than to slit the Warden’s throat—subject the vile woman to all the tortures she’d promised her prisoners. Every night in this wretched cell she’d dreamt of it, wrapping her hands around the Warden’s throat and squeezing until the light leaves her eyes.

But Lia can hear the rush of the River Chionthar at her back, and the clamor of Lakrissa and Danis jumping into the boat. Two tendays of malnutrition has left them all weak, and the only weapon in Lia’s hands are her bruised fists. There’s precious little she can do to take down the Warden, save for throwing herself at the enemy—again. She and Cal are easy targets—one good blow is all it would take to knock them down. And if either of them fall here, she knows Rolan won’t escape without them.

Her lip quivers, eyes steeling as she clasps her hand around Cal’s arm. “If you die, I’ll bring you back just so I can wring your neck.”

Finally, she turns and runs, Cal’s wrist held tightly in hand. The Warden eyes the movement and swiftly changes her target, firing the arrow at Cal’s retreating back. She fires just as he and Lia disappear from view. The crossbow bolt cracks uselessly against the stone. Cal glances one last time over his shoulder before the darkness inside the tunnel swallows them.

Rolan turns back to face the oncoming storm, the clank clank of the guard’s heavy greaves on stone thunders through his bones. If the Warden and Adept Keris follow them down the tunnels, then the prisoners will be sitting ducks. The Warden will have plenty of opportunity to fire as they climb into the boat, then again as they sail onto the water. Rolan needs to pin them down long enough for the boat to sail into the shadows.

He just doesn’t know how.

Rolan waits, watches as the Warden knocks another arrow. Rolan sways on his feet. Cold soil still cakes between his nails from his desperate run across the Shadowlands. Oozing claw marks sting beneath his ribs, festering with dark, necrotic energy. The day’s trials have worn Rolan down to the quick. He can withstand a few more hits, but not much more than that. Blood wets the front of his robes, warm and sticky as it smears across his fingers. What spell is best? What spell will give him the opening he needs to run?

Adept Keris charges him with mace held high, he braces himself for the blow.

“Impero tibi!” a warm voice says in his ear, a calloused hand landing on his uninjured shoulder. “Grovel!”

Adept Keris drops like a bird out of the sky, her knees cracking as they hit the ground. Her mace arcs uselessly through the air, missing Rolan entirely. Rolan turns with eyes wide to see Gale appearing out of the tunnel. Gale thrusts one hand forward, pushing down against the air as if physically pushing down on his target’s back. Gale meets Rolan’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. Gale offers him a weary smile, his crow’s feet darkened by a fine layer of dirt across his face.

Gale squeezes his shoulder once. “Finish this,” he says—confident, trusting.

This man, this near stranger, holds full faith in Rolan’s abilities. Rolan hasn’t known the man very long, but if half of what Gale says is true, the man is nearly as powerful as Lorroakan. He walks alongside the Sage of Shadowdale and the Blackstaff herself. Rolan is little more than a fledgling wizard in comparison to someone that the Lady of Mysteries trusts with her charm.

And he trusts Rolan with his life.

Rolan turns forward with a curt nod, the Warden midway through loading another crossbow bolt. Rolan closes his eyes, and shuts out the noise of the battlefield, the pain in his shoulder, the taste of dirt on his tongue. He shuts out everything save for the tether in the center of his chest where the Weave enters his bloodstream. He pulls on that cord, drawing as much energy into his aching blood as he can, then asking for more even still. He siphons energy from the Weave until his body bursts with it, static crackling between his fingertips. Arcane energy builds and builds against the skin of his palms, the pressure rising higher and higher until his fingerbones threaten to crumble beneath the strain. He grits his teeth and holds on even longer, until the whole of his arm pulses in time with his racing heart.

He crashes his palms together with an earth-shattering crack. “Detono!” he roars.

All the energy he siphoned from the Weave rushes out of him at once. Thunder billows out of his mouth and forces itself into the emptiness left in lightning’s wake. The most powerful Thunderwave of Rolan’s life shakes the foundation of Moonrise. Every stone trembles as a wall of force carves out the top layer of rock to reveal unblemished stone beneath.

Adept Keris has no chance to find a handhold when it slams into her body. On her knees, she’s completely defenseless when the Thunderwave smacks into the center of her chest. The wall of thunder carries her along the river rapids—five, ten, a dozen meters—only breaking against the Warden’s knees. The force of her comrade barreling into her knocks her off-balance. The Warden instinctively takes a step back to steady herself. But instead of solid ground her foot finds only empty air.

She slips, her legs immediately sliding off the side of the narrow walkway. The edge of the stones smash painfully into her ribs, knocking the air from her lungs. The Warden drops her crossbow and accidentally knocks it into the chasm below as she scrabbles for anything to hold onto. Panic fills her eyes as her feet fail to find purchase on smooth stone, her body slowly slipping further and further off the path.

“No, no,” she cries, clawing at Adept Keris’s foot. “Take my hand, damn you!” Her cries fall on deaf ears as Adept Keris still reels from the shock of Rolan’s Thunderwave, limbs shaking and unable to lift herself from the ground.

Gale fists his hand in the sleeve of Rolan’s robe. “Our work here is done. It’s time to fall back.”

Rolan nods vacantly, his body drained from the sudden blast of energy. Gale smiles knowingly. He doesn’t waste another second before racing back down the path, still leading Rolan by the sleeve. Rolan does the only thing he can and follows the path laid out for him by Gale. Thankfully for him, Gale is no athlete. Gale’s own weakened knees force him to move at a much slower pace than his much younger companions.

Rolan winces as every step forces the barbed arrow deeper into his shoulder, gouts of blood escaping with every beat of his heart. But he forces himself through the pain, finally seeing the silver shimmer of moonlight on the Chionthar. The promise of freedom grants him a second wind. The pain in his shoulder and the fog in his head suddenly fade into the background. His steps become surer, his stride firmer as the high of victory begins to dawn.

A long rowboat bobs on the water, situated between two long wooden piers. Karlach and the gnomes sit near the stern, while you, the vampire, Cal and Lia, wait at the bow. Karlach cups her hands around her mouth and cheers loudly as she sees Gale and Rolan emerge from the passage.

“Woo!” she shouts. “Pick it up wizards!”

Cal nearly stands from his seat. “Rolan!” he cries desperately. Lia grips the edge of the boat, leaning over the side as she watches him.

Gale releases Rolan’s sleeve once their feet touch the first wooden planks on the dock. With a hand on Rolan’s back, Gale gently pushes him towards Cal and Lia. Rolan stumbles forward the last few steps. As soon as he’s close enough to touch, Cal and Lia both reach for him. At their familiar embrace, he all but falls into the boat, slumping into their hold as they guide him in.

“Careful!” Lia scolds. “He’s injured!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Cal murmurs, raising both hands up in surrender as soon as Rolan is sat safely within the boat’s frame.

Gale casts one last look back towards the path they came down. For now, there’s no sign of any guards in pursuit and the coast is clear. With one last burst of arcane energy, Gale smooths his hand through the air, palm up, moving across both passageways in a line. A Wall of Fire rises from the earth, cutting off the mouth of both tunnels.

Karlach laughs. “Showoff,” she teases, offering a hand to help him into the boat.

Gale turns on his heel and bows with a flourish. “Exeunt stage left.” As he rises, he takes Karlach’s hand and hops carefully into the boat.

Almost before Gale has settled in place, Karlach puts two fingers in her mouth and blows an ear piercing whistle. Suddenly, a massive black and white beast rises from the depths of the river. Rolan scrambles back in panic, his first thought being that Moonrise has some sort of underwater defenses.

“What the hells is that?” he exclaims.

Karlach shrugs. “Druid.”

It’s then that Rolan finally notices a rope tied around the ship’s bow leading into the water. With the massive beast’s head above water, Rolan can clearly spy the other end of the rope looped around the creature’s neck. He’s never seen a creature like it—far larger than any fish he’s ever seen, with razor sharp teeth and a dark fin that pierces the water’s surface. A spout of water rises from a hole in the beast’s back. Afterwards, it opens it’s mouth and laughs a sharp, cackling cry.

That’s the first sound that rouses you from your near slumber on Astarion’s shoulder where he’s leaned against the bow of your rowboat. You blink blearily, the world swimming in front of your eyes.

“Hmm… wha—?” you mumble.

Astarion wraps his arm tighter around your shoulder, carefully smoothing down your matted hair in a soothing gesture. “Shh, shh,” he murmurs, all but ignoring the other people present. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, dear. Just rest.”

He slowly guides your head back onto his shoulder. With a half-whispered sigh, you slump back into his arms. Then, the beast in the water surges forward, the length of its long dark body peeking above the water. The rope around its neck snaps taut, and as its strong tail beats against the water. The boat lurches and then begins to glide smoothly, bobbing gently on the river’s surface. The path through the water is nearly silent, as if everyone is still waiting for the illusion to break and to reawaken in their damp, dark prison cells.

But the only thing that fades is the dull glow of the prison’s lights, followed by the dark spire of Moonrise itself as the shadows close behind you.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

The dim glow of Last Light Inn on the horizon steadily grows brighter as the rowboat sails upriver. Halsin pulls the boat along at a swift but smooth pace as he swims against the current. The swell and dip of the water’s flow rocks the boat against the tide. Through it all, everyone on the boat waits in tense silence. A pall of cautious unease still hangs over everyone’s heads.

You’ve all escaped the prison, but you’re not out of danger just yet. The chances are slim, but a Winged Horror could still give chase even on the water. The group remains carefully quiet, the only sounds are nine sets of lungs breathing and the gentle lap of dark water against the boat’s hull.

As you get closer, the silver glow of Last Light’s moon barrier shines bright against the shadows. Moonlight shimmers across its smooth surface, glowing like the face of a mirror. The gentle light grows brighter and brighter, until the frigid autumn breeze carries the murmur of the small outpost to your ears, along with the familiar scent of warm mead and spices.

Even through the silence, a giddy energy begins to ripple across everyone in the boat. Danis braces himself on the boat frame, craning his neck and searching the shoreline. Lakrissa bounces her foot in the air. Nickels climbs onto one of the seats for a better view of the encroaching dock. Even Karlach’s face breaks into a relieved grin, hanging her arm over the side of the ship and letting the frigid water run through her fingers.

When the boat finally emerges from the veil of shadows, the Harpers stationed at the dock take notice of the long, dark shapes floating on the water’s surface. As you near, their voices ring out more clearly.

“What the hells is that?” someone exclaims.

“Are we under attack?”

The sound of someone being smacked lightly. “No, you dolt, don’t you recognize Karlach? They’re with us.”

“Then where in Selûne’s name did they get a damn boat?”

As soon as you cross the moon barrier, the air immediately grows warmer. The frigid breeze over the Chionthar suddenly stops, reflected off the dome’s silvered surface. Everyone in the boat breathes a collective sigh of relief, limbs unfurling like flower petals beneath the sun. Without the howling wind and the icy grasp of living shadow, the world falls quiet.

Halsin guides the boat slowly in between the two docks in Last Light Inn’s basem*nt. When he reaches the platform, the water swirls around him, cocooning his massive form. He shifts slowly, the orca’s bulk falling away to reveal his human skin underneath. The current surges around him briefly, rushing to suddenly fill the empty space his transformation left behind. As a man once more, Halsin easily slips the rope tied around his torso and swims the last few feet to the dock. He hauls himself up onto solid ground with a grunt. The group of Harpers that have gathered since the boat was first spotted watch on in an even mix of intrigue and confusion.

Momentum slowly carries the boat the rest of the way into the dock. Karlach stands and grabs the rope Halsin had used to pull them through the water. “Hey, Harpers!” she calls with an easy wave. She tosses them the loose end of the rope. “Long time, no see!”

That seems to break the Harpers out of their stupor. One sets to securing the boat to the dock, two others start helping the rescued prisoners up onto dry land. Quietly, Halsin slips through the throng of people and into Last Light proper. A more seasoned Harper stalks towards the group, scowling at the gathered strangers.

“Hold there!” Harper Arthus barks at his comrades. The Harpers reaching to help the Ironhands out of the boat immediately stop and straighten their spines. “You can’t just land and start unloading strangers—there are procedures, damn it!”

Astarion rolls his eyes, carefully helping you stand on the boat’s unsteady surface. “That’s your own fault for not setting up a water checkpoint, then.”

Harper Arthus ignores him. “No one gets in without being tested—Commander Jaheira’s orders.”

Karlach bends down and easily lifts you onto the dock—at this point, you’re so out of it that it’s easiest for Karlach to simply hold you in a bridal carry. Your only response is an unintelligible murmur as your head lolls back.

Karlach purses her lips and considers Harper Arthus. “Well, if it’s Jaheira’s orders then I can’t argue against that.” Her eyes pass carefully over the bruised and battered faces of the prisoners. “Just make it quick, yeah? We’ve had a day like you wouldn’t believe.”

Harper Arthus follows her gaze, additionally eyeing the arrow sticking out of Rolan’s shoulder and the dried blood covering every inch of you and Astarion. “I can certainly see that. Anyone who hasn’t been inspected previously, against the wall,” he orders. “If you’re not infected you have nothing to fear.”

The tieflings and Ironhands look to Karlach. When she nods, they breathe out a collective groan and follow Harper Arthus’s orders. The tieflings line up first, followed by the Ironhands. Harper Arthus pulls a familiar round flask from his pocket, containing a tadpole much like the one Jaheira used to inspect you. He pointedly eyes you and your allies as the tadpole chitters and curls in on itself. Taking the hint, you and your friends step back until the tadpole no longer reacts to the presence of the artefact.

One by one, Harper Arthus moves down the line, asking each person a few questions, then checking the tadpole in his hand. Just after the tieflings have all been deemed tadpole free, Halsin returns, jogging down the steps leading to the docks with Shadowheart close on his heels.

When Shadowheart sees the scene before her eyes—the tieflings she’d written off as a lost cause, a group of unfamiliar deep gnomes, Rolan with an arrow in his shoulder, you unconscious, and Astarion bathed in blood—she struggles to understand what she’s seeing. “What in Lady—” She cuts herself off, remembering the heavy Selûnite presence. “I thought you all were investigating Reithwin.”

Gale turns back to survey the scene and acknowledges that, yes, they all must make a sorry sight. “I suppose, simply put, there was a change of plans.”

Karlach shrugs and beams at Shadowheart with a sharp-toothed smile. “Reithwin got real boring.”

Shadowheart shakes her head, brushing past the others to reach your side. “What in the hells possessed you to rescue the prisoners at Moonrise?”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “Spite, obviously.”

Shadowheart nods, finally accepting that explanation. She carefully looks over you, searching for obvious injuries and finding none. She furrows her brow in confusion. “Astarion, you’re both covered in blood but I don’t see a single scratch on either of you.”

Astarion waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s not our blood, dear.”

Halsin stands back a few paces, giving both you and Shadowheart space. “I can confirm that. From my examination in the field, I believe the problem is a dislocated shoulder and a moderate concussion.”

Shadowheart purses her lips, carefully eyeing the makeshift sling fashioned around your arm. “I see,” she hums.

“I was able to guide joint back into place, but I expect some lingering fatigue,” Halsin continues. “There was little I could do for the concussion.”

Shadowheart moves to pull you out of Karlach’s arms. Karlach shifts you easily, allowing Shadowheart to scoop you up with one arm beneath your back and the other in the crook of your knees. She doesn’t keep you there, though, instead shifting your upper body over one shoulder and wrapping both arms around your thighs.

Astarion frowns sharply, his hands twitching at his sides. He wants to be the one carrying you—but between his middling strength and exhaustion, he’s in no position to do so. He’s aware that Shadowheart will take care of you—that in fact, you’re likely in better hands with her than you are with him. But the indignity of the way she hauls you over her shoulder rubs salt in his wounded pride.

“Must you carry everyone over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes?” Astarion snaps grumpily.

Shadowheart gives him a withering look. “I’ll take your suggestions when you can lift a fully grown adult.” She turns on her heel back towards the inn.

“Excuse me! Um, Shadowheart, was it?” Lia calls, jogging the short distance across the dock to where your party has gathered by the door. Cal and Rolan follow her at a slower pace, Rolan carefully gripping his injured shoulder.

Shadowheart pauses in her stride, blinking. She certainly hadn’t expected any of the tieflings to remember her name, much less address her directly.

She glances back over her shoulder to meet Lia’s eyes, eyebrow raised sharply. “Do you need something?” she asks sharply, the edge of her words razor-sharp.

Lia hesitates, drawing backwards at Shadowheart’s cold regard. “Well… Rolan was injured pretty badly during the escape,” she says lamely, gesturing back at her brother.

Shadowheart glances at Rolan, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder and still-wet blood covering the front of his robes. “I hadn’t noticed,” she says dryly.

Lia’s mouth presses together in a thin line, the fire in her eyes flaring for just a moment. She clearly doesn’t find Shadowheart’s comment funny, but thinks better of snapping at someone she’s about to ask a favor of. “Do you think… perhaps you could tend to him? If it’s not too much trouble?”

Shadowheart knew the request was coming, but even still her nose wrinkles in bitter disdain. “Haven’t we already helped you enough?” she snaps.

Karlach’s brow furrows darkly. “Fringe…” she murmurs sadly.

Lia reels back as if Shadowheart’s words were a physical blow, the breath escaping her lungs. The shock only lasts a moment before anger surges forward to supplant in, Lia’s hands curling into fists at her sides. “We didn’t ask for your help!” she growls. “Your friends showed up and offered it willingly!”

Shadowheart watches her, unmoved. “And I’ll be sure to remind them of that the next time you get yourselves into mortal peril and need someone to save you.”

Lia opens her mouth to snap back at Shadowheart, but at the last second thinks better of it and just shakes her head. “Fine. I thought you were decent folk, but I guess I was wrong.”

A spark of regret ripples across Shadowheart’s face—so subtle that most of her allies miss it. Its flame burns for less than a heartbeat before she smothers it with cold resolve. She turns away from Lia and the other tieflings. She has her scripture and her oath to Lady Shar. The bonds of “family” are a crutch that allow the weak to shield themselves from the world’s cruelty. The tiefling girl would do well to forsake the idea of familial love and accept that survival necessitates loss. There isn’t always going to be a cleric nearby to patch her poor elder brother’s wounds.

Rolan huffs, his breath devolving into a pained groan. “I told you, Lia, I’m fine,” he insists.

Lia whirls around on him. “You have an arrow sticking out of you! You are not fine!” she hisses.

Halsin steps forward and clears his throat. “Lia, was it?” All three siblings turn to face him, quiet when they recognize the leader of the Grove. “My friend may not be willing to provide aid, but I’d be more than happy to.” His gaze briefly lingers on Shadowheart—hazel eyes churning with concern and disappointment.

Shame flushes high on Shadowheart’s cheeks as she refuses to meet Halsin’s gaze.

All the tension seems to leave Lia’s body. “You will?” she asks, voice cracking with barely restrained tears. “Thank you, sir, we’re forever in your debt for all you’ve done for us.”

Halsin laughs, the sound warm and rich like dappled sun over a bed of fallen leaves. “It’s no trouble at all. The only payment I could ever require is your continued health.” He climbs the steps back up to the inn. “Now come, I’ll treat you inside.”

All three tieflings hurry after him, Cal and Lia supporting Rolan on both sides despite the wizard’s protests. Shadowheart shakes her head and follows. She moves slowly up the path step by step by step. Her strength is above average, but even she struggles to carry your dead weight farther than a few meters. Astarion follows behind, watching with an eagle eye for any sign of distress.

Gale and Karlach watch the slow procession for a moment from a distance. After a few seconds Karlach shakes her head and turns to Gale. “I’m gonna go check in with Jaheira. Let her know what’s up,” she says with barely restrained excitement.

Gale laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “A fine idea.” He watches after you, Shadowheart, and Astarion for another moment. “I suppose I’ll try and keep Astarion out of Shadowheart’s way.”

Karlach’s answering laugh rumbles through her chest. “Good luck with that one—don’t let him turn you into a pincushion.”

Gale smiles to himself. “I will certainly try.” A long forgotten yearning aches behind his breastbone as he watches Astarion crowd you and Shadowheart like circling vulture. “I can’t help but think of the days of my youth when I look at him—completely besotted and blind to all reason.”

Karlach’s smile turns gentle as she watches Astarion in the distance. “Yeah, I have to say; I like this version of Fangs a lot better than the guy who would bite you for daring to feel bad for him.”

Gale nods. “It’s a beautiful thing, how someone can blossom as they learn to be loved.” His smile turns painful and hollow near the end, his words as empty as the hole inside him where the orb eats away at his being.

He speaks to Karlach as if his words come from experience—but do they? Has he ever learned how to love someone properly? All his life, he’s been selfish in love, only able to take from others and never able to care for them in turn. His mother gave him everything—an idyllic childhood, an education, a soft place to fall—and in turn he brought her shame. Tara has been his companion nearly the whole of her life. She was a kitten just flown from her nest when he first summoned her, and now over twenty years later in the twilight of her life, by his side she’s remained. He was supposed to outlive her by decades, if not centuries, become a wizard of legend and tell the tale of the tressym he belonged to in his youth. He was supposed to write Tara’s name in the history books—to be remembered long after both of them were gone. But it seems now she’ll be the one left behind, and in a few decades, she’ll be little more than a footnote in the tale of “Gale’s Folly.”

And of course, there was Mystra.

Did Mystra ever love him? Yes, and no. Mystra loved him in the way of the gods—as something to covet and own, a beautiful trinket to hold in her hand and admire, then set aside when more pressing matters needed her attention. But she could never love him as a mortal would. She would never brush his hair in the morning, or rest her head on his shoulder while he read the latest publication from Blackstaff, nor would she smile at him in gratitude when he brought a warm meal to her study. She would never love his scars, nor his liver spots, nor the gray hair at his temples. She would always love the young Gale she had met that first night in the Blackstaff Academy observatory, and she would always look at Gale in the present and wonder where that young man had gone.

It’s his own fault, Gale supposes, for loving a goddess and wanting her to love him the way a mortal would. It was selfish and arrogant to expect that kind of affection from someone bound to a higher purpose. It took him many years to understand that—that his dissatisfaction with Mystra’s affection was a problem with him and not her. She would never, could never, love him the way he wanted. He convinced himself that he knew what that meant, that he could accept the sacrifice of a normal life if it meant keeping Mystra’s love. He told himself he was content—grateful—for what he’d been given.

Perhaps if he’d been correct, he would still have the love she’d offered him.

He had known his place at Mystra’s side—inconsequential, beautiful, unchanging—and coveted more, thought himself deserving of more. Mystra had given him everything he had and he’d only ever been able to take from her. There was nothing he, a mortal man, could give her in return. He’d dared to think himself capable of giving a gift to a goddess as an equal. He’d been wrong, and because of his selfishness she cast him out.

Mystra had never asked anything of him save for his worship. There was nothing he could give her. But now, for the first time in all their years together, she finally asked something of him—something he could give her than no other could.

If he fulfilled this last request of hers—perhaps he would finally be a man worthy of the love she’d given him.

“Hey.” Karlach gently elbows Gale’s side.

Gale blinks out of his thoughts, turning to look at Karlach, eyes dark and sorrowful as the shadows over the Chionthar.

When their eyes meet Karlach flashes him a wide, radiant smile. “You know I love you, right?”

Oh.

Gale blinks against the burn at the back of his eyes, faster and faster, until he finally has to squeeze his eyes shut to fight back the flood of tears. It’s been so long since he heard someone say that—longer still since he believed it. Despite his own musings about Astarion, he himself had forgotten just how good it felt to be cared for.

For a moment, the ravenous void in his chest is a distant memory, supplanted instead by a gentle, warm glow. He remembers this now—affection, tenderness, love—things he’d thought the orb had taken from him. For so long he’d kept himself locked inside his tower—unable to leave his bed, waiting to die—and he thought no one would ever love him like that again. Who could ever love a man that only knows how to love by taking? Who can never give anything back?

Karlach, apparently.

But he’s given a lot to her—to all of you—hasn’t he? He’s given his magic, his knowledge, his time. He’s cooked warm meals by the fire in an attempt to make the journey just a bit more hospitable. In the early days, it was the only thing that brought them all together. Then as time passed, everyone slowly opened up around the campfire—sharing small bits of their lives before, laughing, resting. Gale certainly can’t take all the credit—he thinks the constant mortal peril does a fair bit of the heavy lifting. But for all his arcane study, there’s magic in this, too—the way a warm meal made with love brings people together.

It’s a joy to feed the people he cares about, to cook their favorite meals in the hopes of making their days just a little brighter, for his love and affection to be the thing that sustains them. It’s such a small, simple thing.

It’s something he could never have with Mystra.

Gale opens his eyes, shimmering like moonlight on the water and meets Karlach’s bright, sunny smile. “I love you, too, Karlach.” His heart swells in his chest, suddenly outshining the orb, bursting with the love he feels for everyone in your group. “You burn bright enough to puy the sun to shame.”

He loves you all so much. He loves you so much it aches, that his heart rattles the bars of his ribcage, and he should cast Enlarge on himself because his body isn’t big enough to hold everything he feels. He’s been alone for so long—for the past year in his tower, yes, but even before that. His status as a Chosen and Mystra’s lover isolated him from his peers. But your group knew him as Gale first and accepted him even then.

He’s smiled more in the past three months than he did in the entire year before that. Despite the peril, he’s felt more worthy, more valuable and valued in your group than he ever did as Mystra’s Chosen. It feels like blasphemy to admit. It is blasphemy. But the care he feels from you, from Karlach, Wyll, and everyone else satisfies that ravenous, aching part of him that pushed him to gift Mystra a missing piece of herself.

You all love him in the way Mystra never could.

Karlach smiles cheekily, stepping back slowly. “Oh, you charmer,” she teases with a wink before turning on her heel and heading up towards the front of the inn.

Once she heads off to find Jaheira, Gale jogs after Astarion and finds him still hovering by Shadowheart’s shoulder as she crosses the threshold into the inn proper. Astarion’s stands rigid, shoulders squared. Even in the safety of Last Light, he holds himself like he’s prepared for a fight. His gaze brands the skin of your cheek—he barely even dares to blink, as if you’ll disappear from his sight the moment he looks away. That’s not far off from the truth, Gale supposes—you slipped right through his grasp only hours ago.

Astarion’s fear is understandable, given the day they’ve had. The fear Gale felt when you were torn away lurched violently in his chest. The orb consumed his panic readily, growing and growing until it strained the prison of his flesh. Mystra’s charm placed the orb in stasis so that it would need no more energy, but it still consumed anything Gale provided it, whether that be magic or his own essence. With every pulse, the orb bled poison into his veins, pure acid burning its way through his flesh. The pain activated an instinctive panic response, his fear rising and feeding the orb even further. It hummed within his chest—a Meteor Swarm trapped beneath his skin, waiting for its trigger to go off.

Gale loves you, he realizes, and the thought of losing you is unbearable. Astarion loves you, too, and it’s driven him near mad with worry.

Gale knows all too well that fear very rarely produces good outcomes. Fear is easy. It’s much harder to step back and know when one’s judgment was clouded. It’s a skill that every wizard needs—to be able to focus as the Weave tears around you. To course correct when the power in your veins threatens to run wild requires immense focus and self-reflection. Gale has spent a lifetime learning to recognize when his body is about to betray him.

It’s a skill that Astarion desperately needs to learn.

Gale clears his throat as he approaches from behind, making sure his sudden appearance won’t startle Astarion. Astarion’s ear twitches briefly in his direction, but otherwise he makes no acknowledgement of Gale’s presence. His focus remains on you, unmoving.

“I, for one, am looking forward to a long soak in the bathhouse,” Gale says brightly, taking his place by Astarion’s side.

Astarion hums wordlessly—the only acknowledgement that he heard Gale at all.

Being ignored has certainly never deterred Gale before. “Pardon me for mentioning it, but I believe you and your armor could use a good scrub after today’s events.”

Astarion finally looks away from you and Shadowheart to look at Gale, one thin eyebrow raised. “Are you offering to bathe with me, Gale?”

Gale lets out a long-suffering sigh. At least Astarion is not so far gone that he’ll pass up a chance to make Gale uncomfortable. “I suppose I could clean your armor if you’d like.”

Astarion narrows his eyes at the wizard. “Don’t you know Prestidigitation? Can’t you just”—Astarion snaps his fingers—“poof the filth away?”

“Ah, but as convenient as that would be, nothing beats the experience of a warm bath, does it?” Gale says with a wide grin. “I’d wager that after what we’ve done today, no one will object if one of us wants to soak a bit longer than our allotted time.”

Desire flickers briefly in Astarion’s eyes, clearly enticed by the prospect of a warm bath. It’s a luxury that he so very rarely had in the Szarr Palace. The spawn were typically only granted cold water to sponge off with—after a rough night they might be allowed a full bath. It was only when he spent an evening in someone else’s chambers that he might be able to charm his host into providing warm water. It was always lovely—one of the few moments of true peace he could carve out for himself.

Decades of tension and fatigue would melt off him, leaving him loose and limber. If he was lucky, his host would let him use scented oils or soaps, and he could pretend he was the kind of person that got to enjoy such simple luxuries. He didn’t even mind so much if his host insisted on staying, or even partaking. It was so nice to be warm instead of constantly filled with the ice cold chill of death.

If he closed his eyes and submerged his head below the water, his face would grow warm and flushed. He could pretend that warmth was the sun, that he was alive again.

Here at Last Light, he can’t bathe as long as he would like, but the bathhouse is available freely. All he needs is to boil water and fill the tub. If he’s lucky, he can convince a spellcaster to enchant the water to stay warm longer. The prospect of being able to rest in the water until it cools, drifting into a daydream as his aching muscles loosen sounds like paradise.

Astarion’s eyes dart back to you, his chest aching. “Prestidigitation is fine,” he says curtly.

Gale sighs through his nose. “Astarion, nothing will happen in the time it takes for you to look after yourself.”

Gale physically watches Astarion’s hackles raise, he stops in his tracks, at the threshold leading into the main room of Last Light. Earlier, Karlach had compared Astarion to Last Light’s cat. It’s easy to see the resemblance now, in the way Astarion’s eyes narrow in terrified fury, straightening his back and standing to his full height, trying to gain as much height over Gale as possible despite them being the same size. His lips curls back to bare his teeth.

Gale has pushed his luck time and time again with Tara and been bitten for his trouble more times than he can count. He knows the face of someone about to lash out in fear. Gale steels himself for the blow he knows is coming.

“Oh, shut up, you simpering fool.” He hisses through his teeth. “This is all your fault in the first place. You and your delusions of a heroic sacrifice, hanging yourself with the first rope you can find.” Astarion’s eyes burn. He feels hot tears of fury trying to force themselves out. But he refuses to show weakness, so instead he sets himself ablaze.

Shadowheart continues moving, heedless of Astarion’s vitriol.

“Are you pleased with yourself?” Astarion laughs bitterly. “All your talk of suicide put ideas in their head, and now every time I turn my back our brilliant leader has found another way to get killed.”

Gale steps back, Astarion’s words a lance through his heart. It aches to hear something so harsh from someone he cares about. But he knows it’s fear that drives Astarion’s words and not malice. It doesn’t heal the wound in his chest, but it lessens the sting. Gale lets out a heavy sigh, watching Astarion with dark imploring eyes.

“Astarion, I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

Astarion shakes his head, both hands coming up to fist in his matted hair. “How can you tell me everything’s going to be fine when none of us have been able to do anything right?” He barely even registers Gale’s presence, his eyes staring blankly through space. “You were right there and it didn’t matter.”

A cold creeping sensation slowly winds up the knobs of Gale’s spine as his brain pieces together what Astarion’s saying and matches them with the day’s events. Astarion had been the only one who truly knew why and how you’d gotten pulled into the depths of Moonrise. Once Astarion had jumped in after you, Gale had put those questions to the back of his mind and focused on the task at hand.

But now they surge to the forefront with the prominence of a Skywrite spell. Omnipresent and unavoidable. Why had you suddenly rushed out of the kitchens and immediately into danger? You all were safe. There was no reason to suddenly climb into the rafters. Even on the off-chance you’d chosen to explore—how did your arm get stuck in the wall? The strange tentacles protruding from the crevice had some reach beyond the wall, but not much. For them to grab you, you would have to get close. Which once again, leads back to: why?

“Astarion, what are you trying to say?” Gale asks, his mouth moving but his voice sounds far, far away.

Astarion’s hands fall from his hair limply. He bites his lip, one fang digging harshly into his skin. But if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care. He stares forward blankly, for once, completely still as even his lungs don’t expand to breathe.

“Something… something isn’t right,” Astarion begins, voice shaking with uncertainty. Finally, he turns to Gale, his red, limpid eyes round and pleading. “I think—”

“Mr. Dekarios, there you are!”

Gale blinks. He must be hearing things. Except Astarion’s head whips around to follow that voice, so he must hear it, too. Gale follows Astarion’s gaze through the open door into Last Light’s main room. The softly lit den is abuzz with revelry. Word of the prison escape has spread throughout the outpost—refugees and Harpers alike have flocked to the inn to celebrate the unexpected victory. At the end of the room, Gale even spies some of the Flaming Fist playing cards. Nimble and Nickels are eating ravenously at a table with a halfling Harper who keeps the food and drink coming. One of the Harpers has even broken out a lyre—which feels a bit on the nose—and is fumbling their way through a popular tavern song.

The inn is warm and joyous, as everyone present takes a moment to celebrate the hardships they’ve overcome. And there on the bar, primly grooming one of her paws, is Tara, basking in the fireside glow.

“Tara!” Gale exclaims, both bewildered and ecstatic. He immediately cuts across the room to meet his friend. “By Elminster’s beard, what are you doing here?”

Tara pauses her bath to level Gale with a withering gaze. “What am I doing here? Mr. Dekarios, don’t tell me your memory has begun to fail you as well as your health.”

Gale’s face goes carefully blank as he carefully wanders the halls of his mental library, scanning through his memory the way he would books on the shelf. He flips through his record of the past tenday in the Shadowlands—nothing, only the same battles day after day. He moves on to his memories of Last Light Inn—he’d meant to get a moment alone with Jaheira or perhaps ask Isobel more about the mechanics of the barrier, but nothing concerning Tara. What about before then? They’ve been in the shadows so long, Gale struggles to remember everything that happened before, then put his memories in the right order.

While he reviews his memory, Astarion strides up cooly, eyeing Tara with cautious intrigue. Gale visibly startles when Astarion drapes an arm over his shoulders, Astarion’s other hand gently squeezing his bicep. Gale gapes at Astarion, spluttering as the other man clings to him much like Tara herself.

“I should hope not, dear,” Astarion coos, voice honey sweet and just as thick. “We have enough amnesiacs in the party as it is.”

Tara’s ears perk up at the sight of the familiar elf, her tail curling happily behind her. “Oh, Mr. Astarion! What a delight to see you again!”

The smile Astarion flashes her is all charm and mirth, red eyes twinkling in the firelight. “Oh, my dear, I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” All his worries about your health slough off his shoulders—shuttered deep in the back of his mind to be dealt with later.

It’s Astarion’s shameless display and Tara’s recognition that draws the memory to the forefront of his mind. The proper tome flutters gently into his lap, already open to the correct page. It seems another lifetime ago now, that last evening before they entered the Shadowlands proper. Gale had thought to prepare a meal to Astarion’s tastes. He knew Astarion had made the comment in jest—even so, they already had the ingredients on hand, so it was no trouble for Gale to do it even so.

Gale had expected a snide remark or for Astarion to preen at the attention. Yet Astarion had gazed at him the way Gale used to gaze up at Elminster during his lessons as a child—with trembling awe, afraid that reality was a dream that would shatter if he breathed too heavily. Apropos of nothing, Astarion had handed him an Infernal riddle that had plagued him longer than Gale had been alive.

Just as Gale had done for every problem he couldn’t solve in all of his years, he called upon his oldest friend for aid. His oldest friend and Astarion then proceeded to relentlessly mock him for the better part of an hour before he sent her on her way. It was only a month ago, yet so much has changed since then.

Gale had understood, conceptually, the scale of the enemy they were up against. Mystra herself would not intervene were the threat not truly dire. But his mind could not possibly grasp the true scale of Ketheric Thorm and the Absolute’s might until witnessing it with his own eyes. Now, Gale understands. He’s seen the ruins of Reithwin, and the evidence of its final gasp as Ketheric choked the life out of his home. Gale had read and seen the pain of a people divided, of those that broke beneath Ketheric’s heel, and those that refused to bend—friends and families tormented until they tore each other apart.

And he had seen, in the end, how none of it mattered, as the darkness consumed them all.

But it did matter, and the proof exists in the wooden boards beneath his feet, in the granite that lays the foundation of Last Light Inn, in the altar hidden below the earth. The people of Reithwin were lost. They could never be recovered. But without their aid, how many more may have fallen? Would Jaheira and Halsin have been able to lead their men to safety—what little of them remained? Would they have been able to return today?

The mire of loss, thick and solemn, is a funeral pall over the Shadowlands. But even in loss, memory lives on. Every life lost exists in the ink and vellum weighing down Gale’s pack, in the paved stones of Reithwin itself, even in the lingering shadows that hold the memories of bygone days. There is no doubt in Gale’s mind that if he asked Jaheira or Halsin to tell him of the people of Reithwin, they would remember the names of those they failed to save—they would remember how the foundation for what they’ve built was laid by the people they lost.

In just one month they had seen the refugees they saved slaughtered, then rescued them anew. They had seen the might of a living legend in Jaheira, and the wrath of a dying one in Ketheric. They had traversed a land brought to ruin by shadow, and restored a small piece of it anew. They had learned of your prior allegiance, and chosen to journey on at your side. They had seen the ruins of a people that had struggled against the darkness and failed, only for a new light to take root a century later. They had learned that the sand in Karlach’s hourglass was inexorably running out—and the ache of that revelation hurt far worse than the news of his own impending demise.

The world has irrevocably shifted in that time—and Gale along with it.

Gale’s eyes widen, a breath caught in his throat. “Tara, if you’re here…”

Tara nods rising onto all four feet, wings fluttering giddily at her sides. “Finally! I say, Mr. Dekarios, you’re not as quick witted as you used to be,” she laments, her whiskers downturned in displeasure. “But that is a topic for another day. It’s as you’ve no doubt surmised; I’ve found the tome you’re looking for.”

Gale doesn’t dare to breathe at the news. One month of searching is certainly no small undertaking, but there are mysteries Gale sought for years before ever finding answers. He had hoped Tara would be able to find a clue, anything to point them in the right direction. All they required was a solid lead—a place to even start looking for the mystery behind Astarion’s scars. As long as they remained outside Cazador Szarr’s influence (and a few wards against Divination magic would make the man’s search that much more arduous) they could dedicate as much time to the search as necessary even after the tadpole was removed.

But to find the tome they needed itself? To have the answer dropped directly into their laps? It was practically a miracle. Gale turns to look at Astarion, expecting to be met with matching elation. But Astarion only gazes cooly upon Gale and Tara, one dark eyebrow raised. Gale blinks owlishly at the other man. Either Astarion is remarkably good at maintaining his composure—which Gale knows for a fact the man absolutely is not—or he hasn’t realized what Tara’s referring to.

Tara traces a rune in the air with the tip of her tail, with the same pinpoint precision she had taught Gale in his youth. Astarion tilts his head curiously, the corner of his mouth quirking up in amusem*nt. As she recites an incantation below her breath, Astarion recognizes the inflection she uses—the same as Gale’s.

She finishes the spell with a flourish of her tail. A small puff of sparks swirls through the air like dandelion seeds before coalescing into a thick, heavily bound tome on the bar counter. The book is clearly very old, perhaps even ancient given its cracked leather surface and the yellow pages peeking out unevenly past the cover. An eerie seafoam green glow carves the tome’s title into its surface. Its written in runes and esoteric symbols that Astarion couldn’t even begin to identify. Yet somehow, they seem strangely familiar. As his eyes slowly trace the edges of that green glow, a name pops into his head.

T-H-E T-H-A-R-C—

“Tara!” Gale hisses, unclasping his cloak from around his neck. “You can’t just unveil tomes like this in public!” Gale hastily covers the book with his cloak, bundling the ancient tome carefully within the fabric.

Tara turns up her nose disdainfully, tail lashing back and forth in annoyance. “Then you should have met me in camp, where I waited for you all afternoon,” she bemoans dramatically.

Gale runs a hand over his face. He almost forgot what dealing with Tara was like. “I would have met you, had you sent word that you were coming,” he says, with the tone of a man that has said the same thing a hundred times before.

“I sent a carrier pigeon like you requested!” Tara insists petulantly.

Gale raises one dark eyebrow, eyes weary but fond. “And did you eat that pigeon, Tara?”

“Well, of course.”

Gale closes his eyes, fighting down the smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. For his part, Astarion can’t help the giddy laugh that bubbles out of his throat.

“I can’t exactly blame you, dear. It’s hardly fair for Gale to expect you to travel all this way on an empty stomach,” Astarion agrees, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Why, you must be starving, you poor thing.”

Gale removes his hands from his face to shoot Astarion a withering glare, but it lacks any true malice.

Tara’s whiskers twitch happily. “Thank you. Mr. Dekarios, you could learn a thing or two from your partner, you know.” Tara narrows her eyes at Gale’s face. “How to shave, for starters.”

Gale quickly dismisses the idea of explaining to Tara that elves don’t grow facial hair in the first place. “Thank you for your honesty.” He gave up on winning the argument over his beard long ago.

Tara sits back on her haunches, tail curling daintly around to cover her front paws. “You know I would never do any less.”

A sudden rush of warmth floods Gale’s heart, sweet and poignant enough to overwhelm the orb’s perpetual hollow ache. Growing up, one of the very few things he could always rely upon was Tara’s honesty, second only to her earnest, whole-hearted faith in him. No matter how many times Gale’s magic fizzled out at his fingertips, or worse, ran wild through his mother’s kitchen, Tara would always be there on his shoulder, cheering him on or cheering him up—depending. When Gale’s frustration waned or the evidence of his magical mishap was wiped away, Tara would flutter down from his shoulder and direct his hand.

“Have you tried tracing the runes backwards, Mr Dekarios?” or “No, no, Mr. Dekarios! Your pronunciation is all wrong!”

She wasn’t always right, but she was always perceptive, sharp, and intuitive. Sometimes those traits were just as likely to get her into trouble as they were Gale. But Tara had the advantage of being universally adorable. Any trouble she got herself into, she could almost always smooth over with a pleading mew. She certainly wasn’t above using that trick to Gale’s advantage either. Together, they made a terrible combination, the scourge of every educator in Waterdeep.

Tara was always at his side—for better and for worse. She believed in him before everyone else. Before Elminster, before Mystra, before even Gale himself.

The tension and weariness bleeds from Gale’s face, his smile instead turned heartbreakingly earnest and fond as he gazes upon his oldest friend. “In all seriousness, thank you, my friend. Where did you even manage to find this?” He holds up the tome, still bundling in his cloak.

“Oh, that is quite the story.” Tara shuffles her paws in excitement.

“It always is,” Gale says with a grin edged in mischief.

There’s a special tome within Gale’s mind dedicated to his misadventures with Tara, spread across the full breadth of his years. As a young boy, he and Tara would try sneaking onto one of the balconies of Knight n’ Shadow and slip into the tavern’s basem*nt so they could enter Downshadow. Elminster, of course, grew wise to their tricks and warned the owner of the tavern to keep an eye out for a young wizard and his tressym. When the barkeep inevitably caught Gale by the back of his cloak, they would send word to his mother. Morena Dekarios would storm into the seedy tavern and give Gale a tongue lashing for trying his hand at something so foolhardy.

When he was older and able to gain passage to Downshadow on his own merit, he and Tara would try to climb the Grim Statue because one of Gale’s peers insisted he was too scared. Gale would return to Blackstaff Academy with the statue’s broken off middle finger firing off errant bolts of lightning. Gale instructed Tara to affix it to the roof of the greenhouse using sovereign glue. That got him out of Arcane Horticulture for the better part of a year until the Blackstaff managed to track down some universal solvent.

And of course, there was his final misadventure, the one Tara refused to accompany him on—Gale’s Folly. He should have known then that he was making a mistake. The sting of his wounded pride is a distant memory, now. But back then Tara’s doubt struck flint against his steeled will. When Tara suggested he may be reaching beyond his means. He shot back immediate and viciously. For Tara, of all people, to doubt him after they’d come this far seemed the ultimate betrayal. Who was left to have faith in him, if not Tara? It would have to be himself alone, and that would have to be enough. How foolish he was.

His indignant rage set to light a fuse inside him. Only later, would he realize that it had led to a smokepowder barrel, placed against the foundation of the stage he’d set. When it finally ignited, the whole theater collapsed, and the play that Gale had starred in for all of his adult life came to an abrupt end.

Despite his anger and his harsh words, it had been Tara, not Mystra that licked his wounds and kept him alive.

“I had to do quite a bit of digging—which certainly isn’t easy without opposable thumbs, you know.” Tara licks one of her paws, beginning to carefully groom one of her ears as she speaks.

Gale presses his lips together, choosing to refrain from pointing out Tara has a perfectly capable Mage Hand. He’s seen Tara open many a tome when it suits her, only to complain about being incapable of it when she simply doesn’t want to.

“But, I eventually found some old notes in the Academy’s library indicating that old Ramazith Flamesinger had happened on such a tome many years ago,” Tara continues.

Gale raises an eyebrow. “That’s hardly a surprise. Rumors have been circulating about Ramazith’s secret cache almost since the man disappeared.”

It’s a far more common tale than many realize; a wizard makes a name for themselves, whether through their deeds or their spellcraft, they revel in their newfound popularity and attention, then suddenly, one day they simply vanish. Wizards are known across the realms for attracting more trouble than they can handle. Whether it’s from thieves thinking to empty a young mage’s pockets, or a powerful entity that they’ve run afoul of—fame can be a wizard’s greatest enemy. When a name spreads farther that one’s magic can reach, one is left to the whims of fate—and their allies, if they have any.

Then again, it’s just as likely for a wizard to suddenly pack their belongings into a Bag of Holding and depart for distant shores, drawn by the pursuit of knowledge.

Ramazith Flamesinger disappeared over a century ago, and his tower remained vacant until Lorroakan purchased it. Everyone had their own theory as to what happened. Some believed he was an undercover Harper agent, others that he was secretly a Red Wizard of Thay spying on the Gate. One particularly strange, but popular, rumor was that another wizard had challenged him to a duel over his romantic involvement with a nymph, and both wizards disapparated the other.

Regardless of the reason for the man’s sudden disappearance, there was far more interest in Ramazith’s rumored cache of… something. Some people claimed the man had sealed a vault full to the brim with gold in the base of his tower. Others were convinced the man had an entire library’s worth of forbidden, ancient tomes. Others still leaned into the nymph rumor and said Ramazith sealed a nymph of unparalleled beauty in the tower’s dungeons. From there, the rumors only increased in ridiculousness.

Gale never put much stock in any of them. Ramazith’s tower was an iconic landmark in Baldur’s Gate. Surely, if there was some secret within its depths, some curious adventurer would at least be able to confirm its existence by now? More likely, the only thing in Ramazith’s basem*nt was old stock for Sorcerous Sundries, forgotten and left to collect dust over the years.

Tara’s whiskers twitch in excitement. “True, and yet, you hold proof of its veracity in your hands at this very moment.” The orange of the hearth’s fire glimmers playfully in her eyes.

Gale looks down at the bundle of cloth in his arms. “No,” he gasps.

It’s absurd. The tower may have been abandoned when Ramazith disappeared, but Sorcerous Sundries’ doors remained open and well traveled. So many people have walked the halls of the tower’s bottom floors. If there was a hidden cache in the basem*nt, someone else would have discovered it decades ago, surely? Everyone knew the rumor of Ramazith’s hidden cache—surely someone had actually bothered to search for it?

Tara casually grooms her paw while she boasts, “It was really quite simple.” Gale glances sidelong at Astarion—a bitter grimace tightens the elf’s face as he busies himself picking dried blood out from under his nails. “I just perched outside the windows for a couple evenings and watched the goings on within the tower.” She flaps her wings for emphasis, the way a person speaks with their hands. “Just because glass is stained doesn’t make it any less transparent.”

Gale nods along obediently. “Ah, the old ‘Roosting Pigeon’ gambit. A classic,” he says, doling out the praise that Tara expects.

Astarion looks up from his nails. “You named your preferred method of spying on people?” he asks flatly.

“Well of course, but that would be ‘Weaver’s Eye.’ ‘Roosting Pigeon’ is far too lengthy of an endeavor, with mixed results.” The corner of Gale’s mouth quirks upward in barely restrained amusem*nt.

Tara pauses her cleaning, tongue still out, to send Gale a withering glare. “That would be your favorite—I, for one, prefer to keep my current number of limbs,” she huffs.

Gale flashes her an insincerely apologetic smile. “‘Weaver’s Eye’ does require turning Tara into a spider.”

Astarion raises one white eyebrow, gaze shifting from Gale’s casual demeanor, to Tara, then back again. “You didn’t have very many friends as a child, did you?”

Gale can’t help but laugh sheepishly at the spot-on judgment. “Am I that obvious?” He rubs the back of his neck, weathered cheeks flushing.

Astarion rolls his eyes. “Not at all,” he says flatly, clearly lying through his teeth. He crosses his arms and gives Tara an appraising look, a sour taste lingering in his mouth. “At least your animal companion could keep up their end of the conversation.” Astarion sniffs haughtily. “The rats made truly atrocious company.” He pauses. “And an even worse meal.”

Astarion raises his brows as he levels Gale with an expectant stare, scarlet red amusem*nt flickering in his eyes.

Gale meets his gaze with flat affect. “I’ll have to defer to Tara on whether Waterdhavian rats are any better.”

“Their fur gets stuck in my teeth,” she complains succinctly.

Astarion nods sagely. “Ugh, isn’t that just the worst? And then you can taste the sewer water they’ve been wading in? Bloody awful.”

“Mr. Dekarios is such a heavy sleeper, sometimes breakfast tea would be delayed for an hour,” Tara mourns.

Astarion turns to face Gale, holding a hand out in Tara’s direction. “Gale, I cannot believe you let poor Tara eat rats while you dined on your fancy cheese and wine!” he gasps in feigned horror.

Gale splutters indignantly, blindsided by the sudden shift in conversation. “Wha— I— That’s…!”

Astarion clicks his tongue. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

Gale finally collects himself enough to speak. “Bold of you to suggest I let Tara do anything,” he grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. If Tara wanted to eat a damn rat or three, Gale certainly wasn’t going to be able to stop her. “Tara, I fed you three full meals every single—”

“Lies are unbecoming of you, Mr. Dekarios,” Tara scolds, shaking out her wings in frustration. “In Kythorn of my first year—”

“That was twenty years ago!” Gale exclaims indignantly, throwing up his hands.

Astarion covers his mouth with the tips of his fingers, feigning shock in order to hide his fit of laughter. Clearly, this is an argument that’s been rehashed a thousand times over the years. Gale and Tara devolve into playful bickering—much the same way Astarion does with Gale or Shadowheart. No matter how fervent their words nor how heavy their sighs, Tara’s ears never pin back against her skull, nor does Gale’s chest glow with violet light. They’re the oldest of friends, fallen into a pattern they’ve known nearly as long as they’ve been alive.

Rough scales slither around his throat, bitter envy curling around his neck and squeezing tight. He he ever had something like this? Not a familiar but a friend? Someone to share in his triumphs and failures? Astarion doesn’t know which possibility is worse; that he had a friend that who had simply moved on like Astarion had never been part of their life at all, or that Astarion was as solitary in life as he was in death. Which is worse—being alone or being abandoned?

It hardly matters either way.

Jealousy stings the back of his eyes as Tara leans her face in Gale’s hand. Mystra is a wicked bitch, but Gale is so much luckier than he realizes. For a moment, Astarion understands the anger that you lashed against Gale’s skin, the barbs that laced your words. How can Gale be so ready to leave all this behind?

Gale finishes scratching Tara behind the ears. “Alright, enough of that.” He pulls his hand back to his side, curling possessively around his bundled cape. “In truth, I can’t thank you enough. You have no idea what you’ve done for us, my friend.” He shines a bright, gentle smile upon Tara, and for a moment she sees a glimpse of the boy that grew alongside her—soft-hearted, kind, hopeful.

Tara gazes up at him, moss-green eyes gazing up at her sun. “There is no trial too great for you, Mr. Dekarios.” She means every single word—as she always has, as she will until she breathes her last.

She spares a wary glance towards Gale’s bundled cloak. “Please be careful with that tome. It contains a power that terrifies even me.”

How she worries for her boy. She knows well just how fierce the burn of Gale’s ambition. Every challenge that Elminster placed in front of him during his training, Gale overcame. Every limit his magic reached, he surpassed. Every riddle that his instructors said could not be answered, he solved. But he never languished in victory overlong. For Gale never bothered to look back at the road he’d taken, to marvel at how far he’d come, how high he’d flown. He only ever looked to the horizon, chasing after the setting sun.

So focused was he on the fading wisps of daylight that he failed to see the pitfalls along his path. Or perhaps he saw them, and simply didn’t care. Tara has stood by more times than she can count—helpless—as Gale courts the veil of death just to prove he can. For her, the recklessness of youth faded into wisdom. She looked upon their foolish deeds and petty rivalries and saw them as the cautionary tales they were. Gale had his whole life ahead of him—time to study and hone his craft. What purpose was there in sneaking into the Undermountain as a child? The Mad Mage’s dungeon had sat beneath Waterdeep for nearly two hundred years. It would still be there when Gale was strong and wise enough to delve into its depths.

But Gale lived life as if the sands in his hourglass were in constant danger of running out. Even as a child. That hasn’t changed now that he’s older. Tara’s wings aren’t what they used to be, and her joints are poor suited for nights on the road. As much as she might want to, the journey Gale finds himself on now is one that Tara cannot join, as much as she might want to.

Every day she worries for her reckless, foolhardy boy. There is no doubt in her mind that Gale can overcome the mindflayer tadpole, and the same holds true for the orb. When it comes to magic, there is no problem Gale cannot solve. But where matters of the heart are concerned, Gale struggles terribly. He may wear the face of a wizened, rational man approaching the twilight of his life. But beneath those weathered cheeks and wrinkled eyes, Gale is still the sensitive boy the buried his tears in Tara’s fur.

Gale holds the cloak tight against his chest with utmost care. “I will be,” he vows. “I won’t let all your work be in vain.”

Yet here Gale is, on the eve of throwing his life away when he promised to remember Tara far, far beyond her years.

Tara takes a moment to regard Gale carefully, eyes roaming over his weathered face, the wrinkles around his eyes, that wretched beard she so despised. He has been her companion almost since the moment she left the nest. When he summoned her for the first time, she was small enough to fit between two of his hands, even as a child. For those first years, they grew together, two children discovering the joys of their shared craft.

But tressym reach maturity far sooner than humans, and eventually, Tara found herself outgrowing her young boy. They were still the closest of friends, but where he still fell to the folly of youth, Tara could see the pitfalls on his path. She watched Mystra bind Gale with her love, craft him a beautiful gilded cage with her words, and seal him inside with her divine blessing. Gale was her songbird, a pet for her to own and admire. She kept him safe from the world—safe from the threat of ever being loved by anyone else.

Gale sang for her, lived for her, loved her. Mystra would look in on him from outside the bars and say that she loved him, too. But she would never open the cage and allow him to perch on her shoulder, nor sail through the skies and return to her when he chose. She would never join him inside his gilded cage. She would love him and keep him, trap him in amber so that he would forever remain unchanging, unfeeling. Gale’s affection became a prison. His love curdled in his veins. The very thing that made Tara’s wizard such a compassionate, beautiful soul became a source of constant misery.

The bright, happy boy Tara grew alongside faded away. The endless road of possibilities stretching out before Gale narrowed into one. The man who was so full of love that he could barely contain it ran dry. Tara is no god and would never strive to be one—it sounds horribly dreadful. Gale and his mother are the only worshippers she needs. But Tara thinks that perhaps the cruelest thing a god can do is love you.

Now, Tara begins to see echoes of her sweet boy shining through Gale’s wrinkles. The well of love within Gale has always been impossibly vast, and deep. Even when he hid it beneath layers of scar tissue, it was still there, waiting for the day it could finally rise to the surface. Tara hopes so badly that that day has come—that Gale has finally found a place to belong beyond her.

Tara will love him until the end of her days—but that day might be sooner than either of them want. She wants to know that her wizard will be taken care of long after she’s gone. She wants to know that he’ll be loved.

“You look different, Mr. Dekarios,” Tara hums. “Better, I think, perhaps all this fresh air has been good for you after all.”

Gale pauses for a moment, looking down at himself. Cold river water stains the sleeve of his robe, Rolan’s dark red blood crusts along the ridge of his knuckles, and Gale can feel a veil of fine granite dust on his face from when the prison walls collapsed. No doubt he looks an absolute mess. But it’s strange, he does feel better—far better than he ever did during his year of solitude. But even as recently as a month ago, he could barely speak to Tara through the threat of tears, so, so close to breaking and telling her the truth of what Mystra asked of him. It had taken his every ounce of strength to let her go, certain it would be the last time he saw her. He’d been prepared to die.

He doesn’t feel like that same man anymore.

He isn’t the same man. He doesn’t want to die.

A tidal wave of grief and fear breaks against his back—emotions that he’d been keeping at bay because acknowledging them was too painful to bear. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to kill himself. Not for Mystra, not for his home, nor the fate of Faerûn. He’d thought that he was broken, that no one could ever love a man forsaken by his goddess. If even Mystra’s love couldn’t fill the hole in his chest, then what ever could? Now that there was a very literal void in his chest destroying him from the inside out, what could ever make him happy?

But he is happy. It found him when he wasn’t looking for it and now he doesn’t want to let it go. He doesn’t want to give up a future with all of you—a future where he could be loved again.

“I think you may be right.” Gale smiles, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes marking out decades of joy. “I may not be the same man I was three months ago.”

Tara laughs quietly to herself. “Of course I’m right!.” She glances around the bar as if for the first time, taking note of the eclectic groups of people milling past and the creak of centuries old floorboards. “Now, you really must show me around. You always seem to find yourself in the strangest places.”

When her eyes pass over them, the three tiefling children gasp and duck behind the bar counter. Tara paused her scan of the room, focusing in on the three children trying and failing to observe her from cover. Tara tilts her head curiously, ears pricked in the childrens’ direction. Mattis, Umi, and Ide crouch low behind the counter, whispering furiously amongst themselves. After a few moments, the other two shove Mattis forward. The young boy stumbles, before attempting to right himself smoothly, flashing a salesman’s smile at Gale and Astarion.

“Hey, uh, sir!” Mattis waves once Gale catches his eye. “Is this your cat?”

Mattis jumps back with a start when Tara hisses like a viper. “I am not a cat!” Tara states firmly, disdain clear.

Mattis gapes at her for a moment, before looking to Gale then back to Tara. “Oh wow, I thought that was just a fancy magic trick, but you can actually talk?” he gasps, suddenly craning his neck to see Tara from each side, as if he’ll find proof of the illusion.

Tara’s feathers puff up considerably as she flaps her wings. “Of course I can talk.” She goes back to grooming her paws.

Mattis’s face is nothing short of stricken, as he suddenly realizes the conversation he’d planned isn’t going to work. Gale looks on with thinly veiled amusem*nt, eyes trailing over Mattis and the other children. This isn’t such a rare occurrence—Tara would often attract the eyes of young children while strolling the streets of Waterdeep. Gale can hardly blame them—Tara is a magnificent sight. Usually, Gale simply continues on his way. He was a busy man and certainly didn’t have enough time to entertain every child that wanted to pet Tara’s fur.

But, these children are refugees, hiding in the one safe haven from the shadows. If anyone has earned a single bright spot of joy, it’s these children.

After letting Mattis stew in his own indecision for a minute, Gale clears his throat to catch Tara’s and Mattis’s attention. “Tara.” Gale turns to his first and oldest friend. “Would you allow these children to pet you for a moment?”

Tara looks up at Gale, then back to Mattis who nearly bounces in place, then further still, towards the children peeking up from behind the bar.

A long-suffering sigh leaves Tara’s mouth. She shakes out her wings before folding them neatly against her back. “I suppose I can allow it this once.”

The other two children immediately leap to their feet and crowd Tara on the countertop. Before they can reach for her. Tara shies back from their outsretched hands. “One at a time, please,” she grouses.

Gale chuckles, crow’s feet deepening with joy. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he says, gesturing towards Astarion. “I need to tell my friend what we’ve found.”

A world-weary sigh leaves Tara’s mouth—far too big for someone of such small stature. “Fine, fine. Take care of your business. then return to me when it’s through.” She waves him off with a lazy paw, before turning her full attention to her new friends.

Permission granted, Gale finally turns to face Astarion. Astarion’s attention had drifted during his conversation with Tara, as Astarion’s mind often did when he found conversations boring. Astarion idly twirls a dagger in his hand, the blade dangerously close to catching his fingers.

Gale smiles privately to himself, a giddy feeling fluttering beneath his collarbone. “Astarion,” he calls.

Astarion catches his dagger by the pommel and slips it back into its proper place on his belt. “Hm?” Astarion hums, turning his attention fully to Gale.

Gale carefully unwraps the folds of his cloak, peeling back the linen to reveal the tome’s glowing cover once more. Astarion’s ears twitch in clear intrigue, his eyebrows raising as he leans over to get a better look at the runes once more resolving into focus. That title slowly worms its way back into his mind as his eyes trace the ancient symbols.

T-H-E T-H-A-R-C-I-A-T-E C-O-D-E-X

“Well,” Astarion purrs, looking at Gale carefully through his pale lashes. “What is it you have here?”

Gale holds out the book. “It’s for you.”

Astarion tilts his head, gathering the large tome into his arms. He fumbles slightly—the book clearly far heavier than he expected. But he quickly adjusts, holding the large volume across one forearm while the fingertips on his other hand skim lightly across the gold tipped corners.

“For me?” Astarion flutters his lashes. “Oh, darling, you shouldn’t have.”

Gale raises one dark eyebrow in clear amusem*nt. “You asked, remember?” Gale tips his head forward, as if they’re sharing a secret. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

Astarion narrows his eyes at the wizard, indignation briefly twitching on his upper lip. Astarion has never asked Gale for anything except—

Astarion nearly drops the book.

The ground tilts beneath his feet, Gale’s words the final lynchpin in a spell that forces Astarion’s world forever off its axis. All traces of anger on his face melt into shock. Astarion’s knees tremble, threatening to collapse beneath his own weight at any second. He stares down at the book in his arms again, but struggles to make anything out beyond the lights flashing in front of his eyes. His vision flickers the way it does in the aftermath of Color Spray, everything appearing hazy and dull in the moments it takes his eyes to readjust.

Astarion looks to Gale again, so stunned that his mask shatters in front of Gale’s eyes. “Of course, I remember,” Astarion hisses. “But that was”—his voice cracks—“that was a month ago.”

Gale nods sagely. “Yes, it took some time to track down, but Tara is nothing if not resourceful!”

Astarion looks to where Tara preens beneath the attention of the refugee children. “I-I thought…”

Astarion isn’t entirely sure what the end of that sentence was going to be. He’d thought a great many things about Gale’s ridiculous promise to find the meaning of Astarion’s scars. He’d never truly believed the man capable of finding answers that had eluded him for decades, but chose to let him try to appease your own fears. After all, you were right. Why trust the word of a devil when they had a veritable walking encyclopedia within their own camp?

The worst—and most likely result—was that Gale would come up empty, in which case Astarion would only be right where he started. There was nothing to lose except Gale’s precious time, which hardly mattered to Astarion. As the tendays passed without a word from Gale otherwise, Astarion assumed that his search had turned up empty, or that the wizard had outright forgotten. With everything else that had happened since, it certainly wouldn’t be a shock. Astarion himself hadn’t thought of Gale’s promise in nearly a tenday.

But Gale had remembered. Tara had remembered, someone Astarion barely knew, that only sought to help him because Gale asked. She’d been working to find an answer all this time. And against the odds, the stars had seemingly aligned to give Astarion the answers he’d been looking for.

No, that wasn’t quite right. The stars hadn’t aligned—not on their own, anyway. You had given him The Necromancy of Thay, solely because he asked. You, Shadowheart, and Karlach had taken down that wretched spider to retrieve the gem that would unlock the book. You had copied down his scars, directed him to seek Gale’s aid. Gale had been the one to connect the dots, to tell him that the answers he sought were in his hands the whole time. Then Gale had called on Tara, a complete stranger, to find a way for him to unlock its secrets.

All of you had done your part—little by little pushed the stars into a line that would guide him to an answer. His hands tremble, and he has to cross both his arms over the tome, clutching it protectively against his chest. What Gale has handed him isn’t just a book. It’s the end result of three months of care. It’s physical proof of the lengths that you all will go to keep him safe.

Astarion steels his jaw, stilling his trembling lips. He isn’t going to cry. He isn’t. “I… I don’t know what to say.” He keeps his voices carefully flat, staring at the tome in his hands.

If he meets Gale’s eyes—endlessly earnest and kind—he’ll break, he knows it.

Gale’s eyes curve into crescents. “There’s nothing that needs to be said.”

Gale can’t help the tears that fall from his own eyes, slipping down the curve of his cheek. He doesn’t move to wipe them away, afraid that any acknowledgement of his own emotions will cause the moment to break, for Astarion to withdraw back behind his mask. Gale isn’t ready for this moment to end just yet. For all his bluster and sharp edges, Astarion deserves to know how much he’s cared for, and Gale relishes the ability to show it. It’s a privilege to love him.

Instinctively, Gale reaches out to place a steadying hand on Astarion’s shoulder, only to pause midway through. He hesitates. Astarion sees the movement out of the corner of his eye, and without thinking his hand darts forward to catch Gale’s, Astarion’s fingers curling around Gale’s palm.

“What-what do I owe you?” Astarion asks, still refusing to meet Gale’s eyes.

Gale lets out a gentle sigh. “Nothing, my friend.” He lays his other palm over Astarion’s knuckles, gently clasping Astarion’s hand in both of his. “Your safety—your happiness—is payment enough.”

A thousand small gestures of kindness have wormed their way through the cracks in Astarion’s armor. Over the past three months, they’ve slowly pressed on the gaps between his ribs, one by one prying them back, letting sunlight in to warm his cold, dead heart. Gale’s words are the final strike against his sternum, a swift, decisive blow, that causes all his bones to crumble and fall away. His heart may be dead—but something new has rooted itself in its empty chambers and blossomed anew.

He has been so fully unmade that the rest of the world falls away. The sounds of revelry, the smell of ale, the solid ground beneath his feet. The only thing that remains is Gale’s hand in his. He squeezes tight. Gale is warm, kind, safe. He trusts Gale to protect him. He doesn’t know when that happened—when your group of weirdos stopped being potential threats and became his… his.

It happened so slowly, bit by bit by bit, until one day he opened his eyes and his world of darkness bloomed with bright, beautiful color. He turned his back on the world, and when he dared to face it again, it had changed. He had changed.

That druid had said even the undead have their place within the cycle of life and death, hadn’t he? Perhaps this is what he meant. Astarion’s flesh may be dead, but life still grows within him. He is undying, but not unchanging. Life, death, then life again.

For the first time in two hundred years, a future spreads out before Astarion, blank and unknown. He can choose it for himself, for better and for worse.

Astarion finally dares to meet Gale’s eyes, his brows drawn upwards. “You truly mean that,” Astarion says quietly.

Gale nods, his expression unwavering, as resolute and steady as yours. “I do.”

Astarion closes his eyes to push back the sudden onslaught of tears. If he breaks in front of Gale, he’ll never live it down. He draws in a shuddering breath he doesn’t need and holds it in his lungs for far longer than any mortal would. When he finally looses the breath again, his eyes slowly slide open, a familiar teasing glint placed back where it belongs.

“Well, if you insist on lavishing me with gifts, who am I to object?” Astarion sighs breezily. “For your information, I’m partial to magnolias.” He flashes Gale a wide smile, fangs peeking out from behind his lip.

Gale breathes out an easy laugh. “Noted.”

A silent understanding passes between the two men as Astarion meets Gale’s eyes with full clarity for seemingly the first time. The world has irrevocably shifted in this moment. The nautiloid ripped two lonely, broken men from their homes and set them on a course to collide. They crashed together violently—along with five others—and shattered on impact. All their pieces scattered, glittering in the sun like shards of glass—when they tried to patch the holes in their armor, it was with all their fragments mixed together.

Astarion goes forth now with Gale’s kindness etched into his bones. Should they survive this, a hundred years from now, Astarion will remember the wizard who helped him and asked for nothing in return. Gale will remember the vampire that showed him how to love again in spite of his fear.

Whatever lies ahead, they’ll face it together.

Astarion slips his hand from Gale’s, curling it into a fist to try and trap the warmth against his palm for as long as possible. “Now, it seems I have some light reading to do.” He folds his hand carefully against the tome in his arms. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Astarion sweeps past Gale, crossing the floor in long determined strides. Gale turns to watch him go, his entire body bursting with light. Gale’s eyes follow him until he slips through the door and out of sight. As soon as he’s gone, the warm flutter in his chest begins to quiet, subsumed by the cold hunger of the orb. It slowly eats away at his joy, and one thought echoes through the vast halls of his mind.

Astarion deserves a future.

Rolan lays back on the farthest bed in the den, nursing a bottle of his favored Arabellan Dry as Halsin sets an array of tools at his bedside. Lia stands at the druid’s shoulder, watching her brother with clear reproach, arms folded tightly over her chest. Her tail lashes back and forth, jerking, stopping, stuttering with unease.

“We haven’t been back for ten minutes and the first thing you think to do is grab some booze?” she huffs incredulously.

Rolan lowers the neck of his bottle and wordlessly levels her with a dry gaze. His eyes pointedly slide over to Halsin as the man places a healing potion on the bedside table. Lia rolls her eyes as the weight of Rolan’s stare settles back on her shoulders.

“My medical team doesn’t appear to have a problem with it,” Rolan says haughtily.

A soft breath of laughter leaves Halsin’s mouth, his eyes wrinkling as they close. He turns to face Lia with a gentle, comforting smile. Halsin has a long history of soothing anxious friends and family. He knows well that Lia’s sharp edges are proof of the care she holds for her brother. He would never seek to scold her for such an instinctive act of love.

“A few sips of alcohol won’t pose any undue harm,” Halsin assures her. “The main concern with any drink is that it thins the blood—however, your brother’s wound isn’t large enough to pose any significant risk.” Halsin gestures to his tools, carefully set atop a clean cloth on the bedspread. “Any damage done will be repaired by the healing potion afterwards. In fact, some alcohol can help dull the pain and relax the body.”

“See?” Rolan gloats, earning a reproachful stare from Halsin. “Doctor’s orders.” He takes another long sip of wine, maintaining eye contact with Lia the whole while.

Halsin clears his throat. “I should point out that I’m no physician.” He looks carefully between the siblings. “I am simply a local healer with many years of practical study under my belt.”

If Lia hears him, she makes no move to acknowledge it. “You’re insufferable,” Lia groans. She turns to her other brother, perched on the bed next to Rolan. “Cal, you better get ready to hold his hand because I’m not going to.”

The sigh that leaves Cal’s lips is one the speaks to twenty years of being stuck firmly between the two most hard-headed people alive. “Lia, don’t be like that,” he groans, voice bordering on a whine.

The fire crackles gently within the hearth, the distant chatter of music and dance drift in from the main room. The metallic clang of pots and pans cuts a discordant note against the low din, as one of the Harpers works furiously to cobble together a proper celebratory meal. Halsin’s sensitive nose can just pick out the cozy scent of roasted herbs and boar grilled over a low flame. The points of his teeth feel suddenly sharper, scraping against his tongue, and he realizes with a start just how ravenous he is. It’s been a long, harrowing day, and the stress—both mental and physical—has taken its toll on him. Halsin pushes that hunger aside for now. It can wait.

Halsin smiles as he turns his full attention to Rolan, sympathy coloring his eyes a bright hazel green. “Now, there’s little risk of any permanent damage. The healing potion should mend the arrow wound itself—I doubt it will even leave a scar.” Still, regret draws Halsin’s thick brows together. “However, there is little I can do for the pain. This will not be pleasant.”

Rolan nods sharply once, and allows his eyelids to close. “Just get it over with,” he grumbles. He knows this will hurt. He simply wants it all to be over so he can rest properly.

Shadowheart watches Halsin work from the next bed over. The sheets envelop your body in a warm cocoon, safe from the world’s chill. Your hair fans out across the pillow in a tattered halo. Shadowheart has cleaned you some, carefully wiped the sweat and grime from your forehead and brushed her fingers through your hair as best she can. You still paint a weary, messy visage, but you’re marginally better than before.

Shadowheart sits stiffly in a chair at your bedside, her hands aglow with a familiar seaglass blue magic. Shadowheart can feel the flow of energy, between the two of you like the ebb and flow of the tides. Shadowheart’s magic pours across your skin and your own raw magic surges up to meet it. Her mind slips beneath your skin, scanning across the tight muscles and inflamed skin where your body has tried to soothe its pain. The gentle thrum of divine energy casts long shadows across the Weave, met by the wildfire in your veins, licking across the darkness, casting it out.

Shadowheart finds the places where those familiar flames dull into sputtering cinders. The crest of your shoulder, up through your neck, the inside of your skull—thoughts spilling out carelessly as your brain swells within its casing. She presses a glowing hand to the flat of your shoulder and another to the top of your head. Shadowheart’s magic surges into those pockets of ash, crowding out the dying embers.

“Vincere est vivere,” she murmurs, her eyes pulsing briefly with a gentle glow as Lady Shar’s gift flows into your injuries.

Your body empties itself of infection, the swelling blood within your skull and around your injured shoulder suddenly wiped away—gone in the blink of an eye. Shadowheart feels as the feverish heat of your skin fades back into its natural warm glow. The pressure inside your skull lessens, and the painful beat of your pulse softens.

The light fades from Shadowheart’s palms as a heavy breath escapes your lungs—nearly rattling your vocal chords with the speed that it leaves you. You practically melt into the mattress—boneless as the day’s tensions suddenly leave you. While Shadowheart would need you awake to confirm, it’s a clear indication that she’s eased your pain. Privately, Shadowheart smiles to herself, a wave of relief rising to meet the shoreline.

A pained scream erupts from the other bed. “Ah!” Rolan shouts, holding Cal’s hand in a vice grip.

Rolan’s whole body nearly jolts, stopped only by Lia’s hand pushing down on his shoulder. Lia squeezes her eyes shut, unable to bear witness to Rolan’s pain. Cal’s face drains to a near peach color as fresh blood wets the tattered cloth of Rolan’s robe. Halsin grimaces, doing his best to block out the noise as he works. He knew this wouldn’t be pleasant—as arrow wounds rarely are.

As quickly and carefully as he can, Halsin unsticks the arrow’s barbs from Rolan’s meat. As soon as the last spine is clear, Halsin pulls the arrow free of the wound. As soon as he does, blood bubbles up furiously from the now open gash in Rolan’s chest. Swiftly, Halsin tosses the arrow down on the bedspread and grabs the clean gauze laid out at his side. Halsin presses it down over Rolan’s arrow wound with one hand, and with the other grabs the healing potion on the bedside table.

“Here.” He thrusts the bottle into Rolan’s hand. “Drink this, quickly now.”

Rolan takes the potion with an unsteady hand, gazing at Halsin through the pained tears in his eyes. Without instruction, Cal leans over and uncorks the bottle. When Rolan makes no move to drink, still reeling from painful aftershocks, Cal physically takes Rolan’s hand and guides it to his mouth. Once the rim of the bottle touches Rolan’s lip, sense memory takes over and he immediately quaffs the potion.

Almost with the first gulp, the pain eases almost immediately, concentrated healing magic pouring into his veins. It spreads through the lining of his throat, through his lungs and diaphragm, up to the surface of his skin and the open wound just below his clavicle. Rolan’s flash knits itself back together, sealing his blood within his veins. In just moments, the bleeding suddenly stops entirely. When Halsin pulls back the dampened gauze, through the cuts in Rolan’s robe, Halsin only sees unblemished skin, where moments ago there was a bloody mass of torn flesh. Some blood still remains, smeared across the surface of Rolan’s skin and the edges of his robe. But Halsin quickly wipes it away, leaving only the memory of Rolan’s brush with death.

Rolan’s chest heaves as he struggles to regain his composure, pained tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. He blinks rapidly to clear the fog from his vision—dazed as he stares up at the weathered ceiling. His breathing slows after a moment as his brain fully registers that the lightning bolt of pain through his chest is gone. All that remains is a dull, pulsing ache above his heart, as muscle fibers continue weaving themselves back together beneath the surface. Rolan’s vision scans across Cal and Lia’s faces—still blurry through his tears.

He wouldn’t change a thing. If he were to lose Cal or Lia, the pain would be far worse than any arrow.

Lia pats his shoulder before pulling away, her help no longer needed. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” She forces her mouth into a teasing grin to hide the tremble in her jaw.

Rolan glares at her. “f*ck off,” he bites out.

Lia clicks her tongue, shoulders slumping in visible relief. “Watch your mouth,” she scolds. “You’ll have Mum rolling in her grave.”

A deep rumble of laughter interrupts their banter as Halsin finishes wiping off the extracted arrow. “You did well. Even veteran soldiers have fallen to an arrow that hits its mark.”

He holds up the arrow so all three siblings can see. The wooden shaft is thick, fletched with dark raven feathers on one end. At the other is an arrowhead that comes to a wickedly sharp point. Both points of the arrowhead are line with hook-like barbs, designed to keep it lodged in its target. Every movement digs the arrow further into the body, but any attempt to pull it out in the field will rip out chunks of meat with it.

Cal visibly recoils at the sight. “Zariel’s flaming tit*—”

“Cal!” Lia scolds.

“—that was inside you this whole time?” he gasps, eyes flashing to Rolan with an even mix of horror and awe.

Rolan shrugs flippantly, as if there aren’t still tear tracks drying on his cheeks. “Easy enough.” He meets Cal’s gaze, the flames in his eyes flickering almost playfully. “I couldn’t very well let you take it. You cried for hours because you skinned your knees in the park.”

Lia covers her mouth to muffle her snickering as Cal splutters indignantly. “I was seven!”

“Hm.” Rolan sets aside the empty potion bottle. “Some things never change.”

The display kindles the hearth within Halsin’s chest. Warmth trickles across the peaks and valleys of his skin, tending to the parts of himself that he’s allowed to grow cold beneath the shadowed sky. Firelight glints off Lia’s fangs as she smiles, salty tearstains crystallize on Rolan’s cheeks, and Cal’s answering laughter rings through the air. The winds may be cold and the lands barren, but here Halsin has nurtured something beautiful—something living, breathing, and alive.

He remembers the desolate wasteland he left behind a century ago. In truth, it’s something he could never forget no matter how hard he tried. The green expanse of the river valley turned desolate and barren in an instant. Deer drinking from the river slumped over dead, birds dropped out of the sky, and a land bursting with color and life turned silent in a single instant. There wasn’t time to stop and take in the full extent of the horror. He was only able to catch a glimpse over his shoulder as he led what remained of his men to safety. But one look was all he needed to forever sear the dark, necrotic stain on his homeland into the backs of his eyelids.

Yet even in the most violent of storms, there is peace within. Even in the desert, flowers grow. Isobel and Jaheira have done what Halsin was too afraid to do. They’ve returned life to a land ravaged by darkness, turned barren ground into fertile earth, and tended the seeds they planted so that something could grow. Halsin’s gaze sweeps across the room—the tiefling siblings, you, Shadowheart, the gathered Fist, and through the door the Harpers and refugees celebrating the day’s victory.

Small and struggling though it may be, there is life here. It’s nothing short of a miracle. Halsin turns once more to Rolan and his siblings, allows their laughter to wash over him like a gentle stream. This is what they fought for all those years ago—what he fights for even to this day. Families brought back together, the land bursting with life, the light of hope flickering even in the deepest shadows.

Halsin is eager to find Thaniel’s missing half, to finally put an end to his oldest friend’s suffering, but he is glad that you have saved these people. With you, he’s done what he couldn’t a century ago—saved these people lost within the darkness. Because of you, hope lives on, even when he thought it was dead.

Halsin glances out through the window, over the hillside, and past the silver barrier of Selûne’s protection. The land beyond is only formless shadow, but even still he knows it’s there—he can see it clearly in his mind’s eye. One day, perhaps far sooner than he thought possible, he would like to see this land alive once more.

Halsin clears his thoughts of the past and future, turning back to his charge. “You should be well on your way to recovery, now.” Halsin sets the arrow on the bedside table, then gathers his tools back into his pack. “I would recommend you take the evening to rest and give your body time to finish healing. In the morning, the wounds you suffered today will be memories and nothing more.”

Lia turns to him quickly, hair swinging over her shoulder. “We truly can’t thank you enough—”

Halsin stops her with a hand and a gentle smile. “That you all are together again is all the thanks I need.” At Rolan’s dubious look, Halsin laughs. “Truly.”

Halsin takes his leave, his eyes immediately turning to Shadowheart, and you spread out before her. You eyes are still closed in deep sleep, your body limp against the mattress, hands folded carefully over your stomach. Your skin and clothes are clean—courtesy of Gale or another wizard, most likely—but your hair is still tangled, messy and wild beneath your head. The dark purple bags beneath your eyes are more evident beneath the inn’s light.

The siblings resume their easy banter at Halsin’s back. Quietly, Halsin walks around the bed to Shadowheart’s side. She glances briefly at him before her gaze returns to you. She sits still at your bedside, one leg folded over the other and hands resting in her lap.

Halsin settles a hand on the back of Shadowheart’s chair. “How goes it?” he asks, voice low.

Shadowheart deflates slightly against the chair as a heavy gust of air leaves her lungs. “I’ve done what I can,” she says simply, matching Halsin’s soft voice.

Halsin nods and steps forward. Much like Shadowheart before him, he collects a dull, pulsing energy in his palms. He draws latent magic up from the earth, and it bubbles to the surface like groundwater. He holds it there in his palm, and passes it over your sleeping form. Roots of magic spread through your veins—a vast interlocking network of energy passing harmlessly through you. Vines curl around your shoulder, finding nothing, before moving onward to your skull. Once again, Halsin finds nothing unusual, only a normal brain—save for the scarring he already knew was there. And the mindflayer tadpole chittering as his magic passes through it.

Satisfied, Halsin lowers his hand, and his magic harmlessly slithers out of your veins. “You’ve done good work,” he confirms with a nod in Shadowheart’s direction.

Anger streaks through Shadowheart’s veins. Who does this man think he is? He only just offered to lend his service to the party after sitting idly in their camp for a month and now has the gall to pass judgment on Shadowheart’s work? Just like a man of the wilds, an elf no less, to talk down to her like a child.

(Distantly, Shadowheart isn’t sure where that thought comes from. She knows, logically, how some elves treat those with mixed elven blood. But you and Astarion have never treated her differently, and she can’t remember anything else. Yet Halsin’s behavior still strikes a chord inside her, one she senses has been hit many, many times before.)

Shadowheart frowns at Halsin’s back sharply. “Of course I have,” she says coldly. “Do you think me an incompetent healer?”

Halsin throws an apologetic smile over his shoulder. “You’re right, forgive me.” He carefully sits down on the bedspread facing Shadowheart, in the small space between your hip and the edge of the mattress. “I find you an excellent cleric. But in my experience, clerics are not always the most competent healers.”

Halsin leaves out the fact that it’s specifically clerics of Shar that come to mind. He saw many clerics of the Nightsinger during their battles against Ketheric Thorm, and very rarely did he ever see them heal their allies. A far more common tactic he witnessed was for Shar’s clerics to protect only the strongest of their allies, and for the rest wait until they fell to cast Animate Dead. Ketheric Thorm’s army struck fast and hard—his aim was for the enemy to always be on the defense, never able to recoup their losses and stage a proper counterattack. Clerics spared little time for healing, instead focused on inflicting as much harm as possible.

One need look no further than the bastardized “House of Healing” to see exactly how much Shar values medicine.

Even still, Shadowheart’s gaze is absolutely frigid, her green eyes reflecting the cold, icy sea far to the north. “I have served as this party’s primary healer for months before you decided to lift a finger to aid us,” she says tersely. “You may be older, but I have kept my friends alive far longer than you.”

In her anger, Shadowheart fails to realize the true weight of what she just said. Shar’s clerics do not have friends.

Halsin tilts his head, seemingly unmoved by her anger. “Is that what you consider yourself?” he asks. “A healer?”

Shadowheart’s hands curl into tight fists. “What? Are you about to tell me I’m not?” she challenges.

Halsin smiles gently, in a way that tries to be soothing but only sparks Shadowheart’s ire further. “Nothing of the sort. If you consider yourself a healer, then you are.” He gestures towards your sleeping form. “Your skill speaks for itself.”

He watches Shadowheart carefully for a moment. “I only mean that I’ve seen you do a great many things.” A deep furrow of anger marks the space between her brows, and shadows darken the scar over her cheek. “Being able to cast healing spells does not make one a healer.”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes, recognizing the beginning of a lecture when she hears one. Even still, she can’t help but be curious what the bear they found in a prison cell stinking of his own piss and sh*t thinks he has to teach her. “Fine. What makes one a healer, then?”

Halsin recognizes her annoyance and does his best to push down his own amusem*nt. Three hundred years ago he was the young elf rolling his eyes and scoffing at advice from his elders. He supposes it’s only fair that it’s his turn to dole out wisdom that will only be useful in hindsight.

“There are plenty of those that can heal without being ‘healers.’ Paladins and bards, as an example,” he begins. “The Nameless Bard could heal, but no one would think to call him a healer.”

Shadowheart raises an eyebrow. “Likely because they were too busy calling him vain and foolish.”

Halsin laughs easily. “Perhaps. But likewise, there are a great many healers that don’t know a single spell; only the knowledge gained from years of study.” Magic is a privilege that not everyone is fortunate enough to receive, and it often comes with a high price. “Even magic cannot stop the aches and pains of old age, nor can it treat an unidentifiable illness. A skilled physician can see the signs of a hidden ailment years before it becomes apparent.”

“If you have a point, I’d appreciate if you’d get to it,” Shadowheart says sharply.

“Clerics are holy warriors, and their roles are as varied as their are deities in the realms,” Halsin continues, undeterred. “One cleric will call themselves a healer. Another will say they’re a guardian. Yet another will claim the title of champion.”

Halsin levels Shadowheart with a piercing gaze, dappled sunlight sparkling on the water. “My point, Shadowheart, is to ask why it is that you became a cleric?”

The corners of Shadowheart’s mouth pull taut, her lips thinned. “That’s a rather unfair question given the state of my memory, don’t you think?”

Halsin nods, conceding the point. “Then why do you think you became a cleric?”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes again, tired of this line of questioning. “To serve my Lady. Obviously.”

Halsin’s eyes never waver, pinning Shadowheart’s fluttering soul to the wall, framed and put on display. “There are many ways to serve a god. You could have been a paladin.” Halsin gestures towards the symbol emblazoned on his armor. “I am a servant of the Oak Father, despite having no holy order.” His gaze holds the weight of all three hundred and fifty of his years. “You must have chosen to become a cleric for a reason.”

Shadowheart opens her mouth instinctively, hoping that an answer will come as she speaks. “Well, I chose to become a cleric because I…”

It doesn’t come.

In truth, Shadowheart has no way to tell if she chose to become a cleric at all. If Lady Shar offered Shadowheart her divine gift, Shadowheart would never dream of refusing. But she isn’t about to tell that to Halsin, knowing that he’s searching for further reason to besmirch her goddess.

Shadowheart certainly has nothing to prove to him. But she isn’t about to hand him what he’s searching for so easily. So she searches within herself for an answer—something sincere enough to please Halsin enough to get him to go away.

What does it mean to be a cleric? What does it mean to her? To Shadowheart, the gift of Lady Shar’s power means… everything. How could she possibly put it into words? Serving Lady Shar is her life’s purpose, the reason she was granted life at all. Without Lady Shar, she would have nothing—she would be nothing.

Being a cleric means being chosen. It means unending loyalty and devotion to her dying breath. It means a direction, guidance through the trials of life. It means a mother’s love. Lady Shar’s power is a veil of protection—it protects her through the shadows, keeps her soul safe from the wounds all of you have suffered. And that veil extends to anyone Shadowheart touches. Shadowheart uses Lady Shar’s power to mend your wounds, to stop your enemies from laying a hand on your allies, to ward all of your from harm.

Shadowheart’s eyes slowly slide from Halsin to just past him, at your slumbering, peaceful face. Being a cleric means—

“Who did this?” Shadowheart recognizes her own voice, higher pitched—younger—but trembling with barely contained anger.

A young tiefling with purple skin and bright violet hair, unevenly grown to her shoulders, winces as Shadowheart thumbs as a scrape on her cheek. “It’s fine, it was just a harmless prank.”

“It’s not fine!” Shadowheart’s anger bursts out of her chest with such force that it shocks the both of them into momentary silence.

The tiefling girl stills, eyes wide with shock. Another moment passes before Shadowheart sighs and grumbles, “And it clearly wasn’t harmless. You’re injured.”

The other girl smiles softly. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Still.” Shadowheart pouts. “If you don’t tell me then I’ll just start threatening people until somoene cracks.”

The pale pink flame in the other’s eyes dances to the tune of her answering laughter. “You’re a good friend, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart shakes her head wildly, twin braids falling messily over her shoulders. Shadowheart certainly doesn’t feel like a good friend. She should have known the other acolytes were up to something when they started avoiding her. Every time Shadowheart entered a room, everyone would suddenly grow quiet before making excuses to leave. Shadowheart had thought they were simply jealous now that Mother Superior had started her training as a cleric. It was a rare honor for someone of Shadowheart’s age.

But of course it wasn’t that simple, and Shadowheart had let them plan against her closest friend right under her nose. A good friend would have realized what was happening. A good friend would have stopped those bullies before their plan ever got off the ground. A good friend—

Shadowheart’s hand tingles with an unfamiliar presence. Pale blue-green light shines from the center of her palm. Where Shadowheart’s thumb swipes over scratched purple skin, the injury disappears, as if her friend’s flesh were a painting that could simply be smoothed out. Shadowheart draws in a sharp breath of air. Just as quickly as it appeared, the light disappears, Shadowheart’s tremulous connection to her goddess cut short.

Even still, it’s a momentous occasion.

Shadowheart draws her hands to her chest, staring wondrously at her palms. “Did you see that?” she exclaims, her awe and elation echoing through the small cavern.

“I did, I did!” her friend cheers, clapping her hands together giddily. “Oh, that’s amazing, Shadowheart!” The flames in her eyes shine brighter in the dark. “Think of all the ways you can serve Our Lady now!”

“I know!” Shadowheart joins in, nearly vibrating out of her skin in excitement.

But the wound on her hand tingles ominously. Serving Lady Shar isn’t the thought at the forefront of her mind. That should be the only thought in Shadowheart’s mind, and there should be room for nothing else. But instead, Shadowheart gazes upon her friend and thinks: I can protect you now.

Shadowheart’s wound pulses—not just in her memory, but now in the present. The vision of her childhood fades back into the darkness, and Shadowheart finds herself gazing upon your sleeping face once more. Her hand throbs in time with her heartbeat, steadily growing stronger. If she doesn’t do something it will—

“Shadowheart?” Halsin calls gently, bending down slightly to catch her gaze.

Shadowheart abruptly holds up a hand. “Stop,” she hisses through her teeth. “Please,” she adds, desperate.

She shouldn’t have remembered that. Every memory returned to Shadowheart is an act of disobedience. No matter how sincerely Shadowheart devotes herself to Lady Shar, nor how vehement her prayers, the memories will not cease. Shadowheart cannot stop the course of her thoughts. How can she, when her allies force heretical ideals into her mind? Every time her allies ask her a question about her devotion, she looks within for an answer. When she first awoke, there was only nothingness—a great void where her past used to live. Slowly, the memories she’s formed on your journey have taken root, and those roots have stretched deep, deep down into the shadows, where the echoes of the past she buried still linger. Her past is the foundation from which today blossoms. It’s still there, even if it hides beneath the shadows.

Half-formed recollections shine through the shadows like dappled moonlight. Against her will, Shadowheart’s mind reaches out, passing beneath each moonbeam and basking in the memories flowing across her skin. Piece by piece, her mind patches together its broken pieces and fills the space that the Lady of Loss emptied.

The truth is she cannot stop herself from searching within. She cannot stop wanting to fill the emptiness inside her

“Why?” Shadowheart gasps as the fingers of her hand begin to twitch, convulsing with a familiar pain. “Why do you want me to suffer?” she spits, glaring at Halsin through her bitter tears.

Halsin looks on with a somber gaze, his eyes dappled with sunlight neither of them have seen in a month. “Your suffering is the last thing I want,” he sighs.

Shadowheart lowers her hand, teeth still grit against the mounting agony beneath her scar. “Then why do you ask me these things, knowing I have no answer?” The threat of tears clouds her vision as she gazes up at Halsin. “Why do you ask, knowing it will hurt?”

Halsin gazes upon Shadowheart with a deep, unshakeable regret. The town of Reithwin sundered itself beneath Halsin’s gaze. A hundred years ago, he watched, helpless, as the Lady of Loss tore her people apart with an apathetic, cold cruelty. Halsin knows better than most what awaits Shar’s most devoted followers. He’s seen their blood strewn across the earth, heard their bones crunch beneath his feet.

In the past month and a half with your group, Halsin has watched Shadowheart flourish beneath the sun’s light. He’s seen the pride she takes in her craft as a cleric, in her ability to heal and defend those at her side. Much like you, much like himself, Shadowheart holds something dear she wants to protect, and it isn’t her faith. The Lady of Loss is not a goddess that fosters companionship among her followers. Her warriors wear masks for a reason; her soldiers are faceless, nameless, blank—empty. You cannot care for someone who doesn’t exist, and to become a Dark Justiciar, Shar asks that you cast off everything save for your devotion. She asks that you lose everything, including your self.

Halsin has heard her laughter, quiet as a sigh beneath the crackle of the campfire. Shadowheart’s smile is a soft, hidden thing, that she only allows behind the cover of her hand or a goblet of wine. No matter how much Shadowheart tries to bury it down, the beauty of her soul shines through the dark.

To follow the Nightsinger’s path all the way to its bitter end would be to lose it all.

Perhaps, if Halsin had succeeded in their goal a hundred years ago and Reithwin still stood in all its glory, Shar’s grip on the Sword Coast would have weakened Perhaps whatever circ*mstances led Shadowheart to Shar’s embrace would have taken her down a different path. Perhaps someone else would be here in Shadowheart’s place.

Halsin cannot look at Shadowheart and see anything but the end result of his greatest regret. Much like Last Light’s haven, Shadowheart, too, has grown from the darkness Halsin left behind. She is the life that’s grown from these barren lands. Yet even still, love grows like a weed within her heart, fighting to survive despite all the times that Shar has ripped it out. She may not admit it, not even to herself, but Shadowheart loves you all dearly.

And you all love her back—truly, honestly, unconditionally. It is no less than she deserves—and something Shar will never give her.

Halsin’s sigh is deep and weary as he looks away from Shadowheart’s burning glare. “You are an exceptional cleric, Shadowheart.” His eyes fall to you, slumbering peacefully for the first time in his memory. “You have tended to many wounds in our time together—soothed pain more times than I could possibly count.” He sets a gentle hand over yours, folded over your stomach. “What would you do, if you were in my place?”

It’s a dangerous question, Halsin knows. It may very well cause Shadowheart’s wound to burn even hotter, for her pain to grow from “agonizing” to “completely unbearable.” But Halsin needs to ask it. Shadowheart needs to understand.

“If it were one of your friends in pain…” Carefully, Halsin turns over one of your palms, exposing the tender skin of your wrist for a moment. Another sigh escapes through Halsin’s nose as he eyes the deep scratches carved into your skin—new wounds layered atop the old. “What would you do?”

As quickly as Shadowheart’s wound speared through her skin, it fades away, leaving her body empty in its wake. She slumps back in her chair, panting softly as she struggles to fill her lungs. She wipes the frigid sweat from her brow before gazing upon your face. She has seen you in pain—pain you refuse to treat, instead choosing to bottle it up and swallow it down. It led you here—injured to the point of breaking and seven worried souls breaking alongside you.

It hurts to see you struggle. It burns deep within her chest, to offer you help that time and time again you refuse to accept. She’s so… angry. You’ve shown Shadowheart more care than she’s ever known, but refuse to give her the chance to return the favor—refuse to let anyone return the favor. Every day you set yourself ablaze and force the people you claim to care for to bear witness to your self-made pyre. How is that fair?

To answer Halsin’s question; Shadowheart would help you anyway, as much as she can, no matter how much you protest.

Shadowheart pushes herself out of her seat with shaking knees. “I need some air,” she says, desperate for an escape. Her thoughts threaten to break off into dangerous territory. She needs to clear her head.

Halsin nods, withdrawing his hand from yours. “I should go fill in those that stayed behind of everything that happened.” He stands slowly, nodding towards the tiefling siblings as he takes his leave.

Shadowheart quickly strides out of the den, almost before Halsin finishes speaking. She needs to find a quiet place for her prayers. The back of her hand simmers—a lingering threat of what she stands to suffer should her loyalty waver again. She balances precariously on the knife’s edge, only ever one stumble away from cutting into her flesh. It’s so easy to trip with the lives you lead. All it takes is a wandering thought, or an itch beneath her skin that resolves into a memory. She falls, agony spreads across the whole of her arm. Each time is different—sometimes quick and subtle, others streaking through her body as forceful and swift as lightning. There’s no preparing for it, nor a way to stop the pain’s course once it’s begun. All she can do it ride out the storm and wait for her mind to become her own again.

For now, she finds a quiet place, through the inn’s entrance, past Dammon’s forge, on the sunken path that leads down to the river. Here, she finds solitude, the chatter of the outpost dull over the crest of the slope. Here, hidden from sight of the Harpers and their allies, Shadowheart sinks to the ground, bows her head, and prays.

You awaken slowly. The first thing that comes to you is the scratch of harsh linen against your cheek. But the surface beneath you is the softest you’ve felt in… ever, actually. Everything is warm, from the tips of your fingers all the way down to your toes. You wiggle your toes. Hm. Your boots are gone. So is the weight of your robe. Instead you’ve been stripped down to your undershirt and trousers. It’s a good thing, you suppose, otherwise it’d be too stuffy in your little cocoon.

You could lay here forever, just floating in this hazy, liminal space between sleep and waking. No thoughts. Just the weight of a heavy quilt over your shoulder and the scratch of cotton against your cheek. Nothing can reach you here.

But in spite of your wishes, slowly your other senses wake, too. Heavy woodsmoke tickles your nose, ash falling on your lips. It must come from the crackling fire along the wall. Soon after, the low murmur of laughter and unsteady music traces the tip of your ear. The revelry is dim, dampened slightly, but even still you can pick out the clink of glasses toasting Lady Selûne and the creak of the worn floorboards as leather soles dance across them. You know without opening your eyes—you’re at Last Light Inn. You recognize the smell of their spirits, and the soft thump of footsteps overhead. You must be in the room occupied by the Flaming Fist. A trio of hushed voices mumble gently on the other side of the room. There is peace and happiness and you are safe.

For some reason, that feels wrong. You move your arm, expecting a tight pain to travel up the side of your neck. But it doesn’t—there’s only a gentle, dull ache that could just as easily be from overexertion as it could be injury. In fact your whole body feels fresh where it should ache, all your muscles and bones suddenly loosened from their usual bowstring tightness. Everything should hurt. Why is that?

You feel a phantom suckle on your wrist, the wet flesh of a tentacle clasping tight and pulling you down. That’s right. You spoke to the voice in your head—the monster that’s plagued you day and night. You joined the stream of its thoughts, allowed it to enter your mind and crack the casing of your skull.

The Absolute, your mind supplies. It knew you, just as Ketheric Thorm did. But much like Thorm, the Absolute failed to provide you with any answers, leaving you with only more questions. The Absolute knows you, it called you the “jewelled hope” for whatever plot had orchestrated the cult. What does that mean? Why are you here, instead of by Ketheric’s side where you belong? What killed you and left this empty vessel in your place? What all did you leave behind?

Everything after meeting with the Absolute is a hazy blur. Copper-scented water wets your socks, and strong red light chills your skin. Someone holds you in their arms as their face shifts and warps in front of your eyes. First Astarion, recognizable by the glow of his red eyes, then Halsin, broad and weathered, Ketheric, Sceleritas, and then a blank featureless mask, swirling and shifting endlessly.

Even after just waking up, you’re still tired. The moment you leave this bed, you’ll have to begin moving forward. You’ll have to tell your allies about what you learned and face their scorn, again. Then you’ll have to formulate a plan to keep moving, to find Ketheric Thorm’s relic and destroy him. Every step forward means revealing more of your past. Every revelation awakens the same ache anew. You experience the same loss a thousand times over, without ever being able to grieve. How can you grieve something you don’t remember? That was never truly yours?

You don’t want to get up anymore. You just want to pull this quilt above your head and lay here forevermore. Let the cult lay siege to Last Light, let the Absolute win—you don’t care. Just let the ache be over. Just let you rest.

The hushed voices suddenly raise, breaking through your thoughts. “I can’t believe you tried to reach Moonrise on your own,” Lia admonishes quietly under her breath.

Rolan sits on the other bed, hands fisted in the sheets. Lia stands in front of him, a bottle of alcohol and some gauze in her hand. There’s no arrow in Rolan’s shoulder, and much like you, his robes have been removed, leaving him in his undershirt. Cal sits in a chair nearby, a needle and thread in hand as he sloppily mends the tear in Rolan’s robe.

Rolan hisses as Lia carefully dabs the cuts on his face. “I wouldn’t have had to if someone hadn’t thrown themselves at a bunch of cultists!” Lia flicks his forehead. “Ow!”

“I’m sorry we got captured by murderous lunatics,” Lia exclaims, throwing her hands up in frustration.

Rolan scoffs, the flames in his eyes surging. “I thought you were dead, you ass.” He looks pointedly at Cal, who meets his gaze. “Both of you!”

Cal looks helplessly between his brother and sister. “We’re all safe, Rolan—that’s what matters.”

Lia’s lip quivers, grabbing Rolan’s chin to hold his face still as she wipes at his forehead. “You thought we were dead, so you decided to run off into the curse on your own to get killed?”

Rolan tenses his jaw, closing his eyes miserably. “What else was I supposed to do?” he snaps. “If there was any chance you both were alive—I needed to do something.”

“Lia,” Cal sighs, looking pointedly at his sister. “You know if Rolan was the one captured, you would have done the exact same thing.”

Lia’s anger deflates, her shoulders dropping. “You’re right.” She sighs and sets the alcohol and gauze on the bedside table. “I’m sorry, Rolan—we should have been here.”

Rolan suddenly slumps forward, all the fight leaving him at once. Lia darts forward quickly to brace her hands on his shoulders, steadying him so he doesn’t topple over. “No—no, I’m sorry.” His hands shake as he slowly winds his arms around Lia’s waist. “I thought after everything—after Mum and Elturel, that I’d led you both to your deaths.” Rolan ducks his head into Lia’s stomach, careful to mind his horns.

Lia’s eyes turn downward. “That wouldn’t have been your fault.” She gently sets on hand on the back of Rolan’s head, combing through his hair.

Rolan shakes his head, his shoulders beginning to shake with silent sobs. “You both are all I have.” A guttural, choking noise escapes his throat in a gasp. “I’ve lost everything else. I can’t lose you, too.”

He wraps his arms tighter around Lia’s waist, holding on almost painfully, then gripping her tighter still. His nails pierce holes in the fabric of her shirt where he fists the linen in his hands. A low keening noise suddenly escapes his mouth. He tries to hold it in, needing to stay strong for his younger siblings. But he can only hold his breath for so long, and when he gasps for air, his breath escapes as heaving sobs. Lia’s shirt grows damp with his tears as he finally lets himself cry for all the things they’ve lost.

He cries for his birth mother, and Mum. He cries for their home, all the friends and neighbors that they saw slain in the streets, the Winter Garden of their childhood ripped asunder by Avernus. He cries for their exile, for being spit on and cursed by the very people that sold out their city. He cries for Asharak, Guex, Ikaron, Kaldani, and everyone else that he watched fall to the cult. He cries for his own weakness, his inability to protect the people he loves.

Lia holds him close, quickly devolving into her own sobs. Rolan’s always been the one to stay strong for her and Cal. He was always their rock, the one they could go to for help. But she can’t imagine the weight he carries on his shoulders—the pain he went through in the time they’d been apart. They’d been separated for nearly two tendays. Ever since Rolan joined their family, they’d never been apart for more than a few days at a time. To spend nearly twenty of them convinced they were dead? The idea is unbearable.

Lia collapses onto the bed beside Rolan, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and holding him tight. “We’re here now,” she chokes out. “And we’re never leaving again.”

Cal sets Rolan’s clothes aside and takes his place on Rolan’s other side. He leans into Rolan, winding an arm around his waist and resting his cheek on Rolan’s shoulder. Wordlessly, Rolan removes one hand from Lia’s waist, and grasps the back of Cal’s neck, holding his younger brother there.

“No splitting up,” Cal sniffles weakly, voice muffled by Rolan’s shirt.

“No splitting up,” Lia agrees, reaching over to place a hand on Cal’s thigh.

You open your eyes. All three of them tangle their limbs together, pressing close and relishing in the simply joy of being together. They’ve crossed cities, cursed lands, and the planes themselves to get here. They’ve lost everything—their mother, their home, everything but the clothes on their backs.

But in this one moment, they’ve clawed something back from the hands of fate—the one thing they couldn’t bear to lose. No doubt, there are more trials awaiting on the road ahead. But they’ll be together. If the world tears them apart again, they’ll cut through the Hells themselves to find their way back to each other.

Your hands clench in the sheets beneath you, bitter hellfire pressing against the skin of your palms, singing the fabric fisted in your grasp. A viper slithers its way up from the pit of your gut, winding itself around your heart. The snake sinks its fangs into that fetid muscle and venom sears its way through your veins. It itches inside you, so agonizing that you nearly dig your nails into your skin and begin peeling it back, layer by layer until the poison inside you spills out and burns a hole through the floorboards.

It’s not fair.

Astarion regains his freedom. Karlach can touch people again. Halsin pulled his friend out of the Shadowfell. Rolan gets to hold his siblings. Everyone else gets to regain the things they’ve lost.

But never you, never ever you.

You’ve served your friends, done everything they asked, let them wield you so that they can carve out a path to reclaim what’s theirs. You’ve shared in their victories when they finally held what they wanted most in their grasp. All the while, you’ve been chasing after phantoms, yearning for something you can’t name.

Everyone else knows what they want and trusts you to illuminate a path through the shadows. But how can you chart a course to an unknown destination? How can you reach for a place you can’t name? The viper burrows into your heart, finding a home in its rotten chambers. It spits its vile poison into your bloodstream, so thick your heart can barely force it through your veins. Every nerve in your body burns at your blood’s acidic touch, and the snake within your heart chuckles darkly as you corrode from the inside out.

Envy.

If you can’t reclaim what you’ve lost, then neither should anyone else.

Surely you have a Crown of Madness scroll in your bag? You could wreathe Rolan’s head in barbed iron and force him to rip apart the two people he loves most. They would die in his arms screaming and someone would finally understand what it’s like to be trapped in your own body, forced to destroy everything you love. Once his siblings were dead you would force him to claw through the skin of his own chest, crack open his ribs, and shove both his siblings’ hearts into the gaping wound. Then he would cast Firebolt into his own chest and burn all three hearts to ash. You’d remove the crown of thorns from his head just long enough for him to sob as he died.

For Thaniel, you would carry him out into the center of the Shadowlands where no light can reach. You would lay him on his own forsaken soil and call upon the Shadows to find him. They would creep forward slowly, gliding effortlessly across the ground. Thaniel was their creator, the cursed spirit of the land from which all nightmares sprung. The Shadows would crawl into his open mouth and return from whence they came. The color would drain from the boy’s face, growing pallid and gaunt, until eventually Thaniel was painting in the same necrotic grays of his home. You would lead Halsin to his old friend just in time to see Thaniel rise as a Shadow-Cursed undead. All trace of the land’s spirit would be gone, only in search of bright souls to dim. He would claw viciously at his former friend, and Halsin would have no choice but to put him down like a dog. Then Halsin would understand how much it aches.

You’d tie Karlach and Dammon together, then rip both infernal casings out of her heart. The would begin to burn and burn, the flames on her skin growing hotter, higher, cooking Dammon’s flesh where he pressed against her. Karlach would burn up her organs cooking and shriveling within, spreading to her muscles, and slowly her skin. She would smell decadent and savory, like smoked venison. If you sat by her side and carved her calf muscle from her bone would it melt on your tongue? When Karlach’s own body betrays her and poisons the blood in her veins, maybe then she’ll understand how you feel every day as your blood rots inside you.

And of course, Astarion. Oh, how you’d kill Astarion so—

You nearly fall out of bed in your haste to stand, legs tangled in the quilt that provided refuge only moments before. Rolan, Lia, and Cal all spring apart at your sudden movement, remembering that they’re not the only ones in the room. Rolan averts his eyes, a deep red flush blooming over the bridge of his nose. Cal and Lia, however, look on sheepishly. You don’t pay them any mind, however, your sole thought being the coordination of your body. Not because it requires your attention—your mind is startlingly clear—but because focusing on that crowds out all other thoughts.

Right. Left. Right. Left. Breathe in. Right. Left. Breathe out. Blink.

Cal stands unsteadily. “Wait, um…” He wrings his hands, glancing nervously at his siblings. “Your friend—the Archdruid?— said you should stay here.”

You don’t wait.

Right. Left. Breathe in. Right. Left. Right. Left. Breathe out. Blink.

If you stop for even a moment, the Urge will consume your thoughts. Hellfire licks along the back of your teeth, venom dripping from the ends of your nails. You hear the footsteps above your head and feel the weight of the inn’s second story pressing down on you like the ocean pressing your belly against the seabed. Your own voice, warped and unnatural, echoes through your mind.

Isobel. Kill Isobel. The cleric must die. Kill her. Rip out her heart and throw it at Ketheric’s feet. Isobel. Isobel. Isobel.

You don’t trust yourself to hold the Urge back. Not when its teeth tear at your skin like never before. You ignore Cal. You ignore the Flaming Fist that greet you. You ignore the cheers from Lakrissa and Nimble when you step into the den. You push past the drinks held out in greeting, the praise and admiration lavished upon you. None of it matters. You wish you hadn’t saved the prisoners at Moonrise. You wish you’d left them to rot.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

You run away from the joy and the laughter, all the people celebrating because of your heroism, singing your praises. What do shallow praise and empty words matter? None of that makes it any easier. At the end of it all, nothing has changed, you’re still empty and broken and ruined.

Something itches beneath your skin—a feeling so overwhelming that your body can’t contain it. All the feelings you’ve learned to name clash inside you, roiling and churning, the tails of a thousand squirming rats knotted together within your chest. It becomes something else, a feeling you can’t name—all you know is that it hurts. It hurts so much that you need to slice open a vein to let it out.

Gravel crunches and burns beneath your bare feet, sharp rocks and scattered glass scratching the soles but it’s only static, another awful, horrid sensation against your skin. You don’t have a destination in mind, only the desperate need to escape—escape the inn, escape the dozens of watchful eyes, escape this body, this life. You storm to a quiet, empty place, the silence calling to you like a beacon.

The Chionthar stretches out beneath you, dark and cold and deep. You remember this place—it’s the same rocky outcropping that you sought out after you learned Karlach was dying. You choked the life out of Sceleritas Fel here, and he dissolved into blood between your hands. You’d hoped that would be the last of him, but still he found you again. It should be impossible, shouldn’t it? The dead don’t come back to life.

Yet here you stand.

Strings of wet ichor stick between your fingers—warm and familiar blood smeared across your palms. Your heart stills within your chest. Did you lose control again? Did this body act without your knowledge? You don’t know how much time has passed since Moonrise. It could have been minutes, hours, days of nothingness—a blank expanse that your wretched body could have filled with slaughter. Or even on the brief walk from the inn to this ledge above the river—it had felt like only a few seconds, but can you say that for certain? How sure are you that what you remember is what truly happened?

How many people could you have killed in that time? How many people have you slaughtered without ever knowing? The thought thrills you, it terrifies you—your loins tingle at the same time bile rises in your throat. Desire and disgust are two sides of the same coin.

You hands tremble as you lift them, but do they shake with excitement or terror? Ever so slowly you turn over your palms.

…

Nothing. For once, your hands are clean.

Then why do you feel filth between your fingers?

Your nails dig into the meat of your palms, scratching at a stain that will never come out. You dig and dig until your skin parts messily beneath your fingers, your own meat sticking beneath your fingernails. Blood, warm and wet smears across your fingers and now you can’t tell whether your hands are painted with someone else’s offal or your own. It’s pointless. How can you cleanse a body that’s made from filth?

You turn your face to the dark, empty sky. The last time you were here, you prayed to the gods and one answered. “Why didn’t you kill me?” you ask the darkness.

You smooth your bleeding palm over the back of your skull, over the scar that seals what’s left of your mangled brain beneath your skin. “Why didn’t you just let me die?”

No one answers.

Do you want to die?

Astarion’s voice hisses through your mind. “Don’t you dare leave me,” he begged, pressing your hand against his mouth. You were barely coherent, a stream of consciousness slipping through your fingers. But his voice, desperate, sticks in your mind. Twice now, he’s begged you to stay—once when you abandoned him beneath a falling building, and again, when he followed you beneath Moonrise.

It doesn’t matter what you want. How can you leave him behind when he pleads with you to stay?

“You know, it’s rather strange for the hero of the hour to be out here all by themselves,” a sweet, sonorous voice calls. “The party is inside.”

You freeze. Your blood stills. No, no, no, no, no.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

Your body trembles. Fear or excitement? You force yourself to look straight ahead, even as your every vile instinct screams to turn around.

Isobel, sweet, naïve Isobel, tilts her head to the side curiously. “So you have been avoiding me,” she hums with idle intrigue. “At first I thought it was just my imagination. But when you flee from every room as soon as I enter it, those excuses wear thin.”

Every single muscle in your rotten body is stretched to its breaking point, braced against the hard stone earth. If you turn around, it’s over. You’re drowning on dry land, a serrated blade your only lifeline—the last vestige of control keeping your head above water. Holding on carves through your flesh and leaves you bloodied, but letting go means sinking into an abyss with no end. You cannot turn around. You cannot lose focus.

“You need. To leave,” you growl, guttural and inhuman.

Isobel stands firmly rooted on the inside of the barrier, studying you with piercing, moonsilver eyes. “Why? Why does my presence affect you so badly?”

How could you even answer that? Whenever I lay eyes upon your slender neck, I envision my hands around it. I want you stuffed into my mouth. Your soul is too beautiful for this wretched world and I want to be the one to break you. She would imprison you or kill you. But more importantly, it would reflect poorly on your friends. If you are exiled from Last Light Inn, you’ll survive, but you cannot steal this one safe haven from your friends—one of the few places they’ve been able to experience joy in these cursed lands.

“What does it matter?” you spit venomously.

The Weave stretches out beneath the ground in a vast, endless spiderweb. Every soul within Last Light weighs it down, footsteps echoing in the dark.. The Weave shudders, and you feel every single ripple through your bones. A dozen, two dozen souls? They hang suspended on a tightrope crafted of silken moonlight and you could cut the cord in an instant. It would be so easy to pull Isobel onto your side of the barrier and watch it shatter behind her.

The darkness would swarm in and devour everyone as they sing your praises. All the people you’ve saved—gone in an instant. You want it so desperately. You want to walk through the ruins of this beautiful place—an idyllic moment trapped in amber—and watch it collapse inward.

All the people you’ve saved would choke as shadows poured into their mouths. They would beg and plead for mercy and you’d grant it through death’s eternal embrace. No more pain, no more fear. Nothing forevermore.

Isobel folds her arms across her chest, regarding you carefully. “Jaheira looked into all of you, you know.” An involuntary shudder runs down your spine. “The Harper’s information network runs vast and far. Difficult to reach out here in these cursed lands—but not impossible.”

Jaheira, Jaheira, Jaheira. That names arcs across your mind in a white-hot flash. If Last Light fell could you take her with it?

“Wyll Ravengard is an old acquaintance of hers, so that was simple. Karlach Cliffgate, too—though everything on her is a decade old. And of course, Gale of Waterdeep is well known among wizards.”

Your teeth grind within your skull. Your jaw aches—could you bite down so hard that it breaks? You search for something on the water—anything at all to focus on, to study and distract yourself from the siren song of Isobel’s voice. But the water only the silver glow of Isobel’s power, a pale imitation of Last Light floats on the surface. If you only turn back, you can look upon its beauty one last time before it falls.

“Granted, the others were more difficult. Shar’s operations are clandestine by design—but Shadowheart has operated out of the House of Grief in Baldur’s Gate for forty years. No one can do that without leaving some trace.” Your ears twitch, tilting slightly to better hear Isobel’s croon and your neck strains to turn with them.

“The same goes for your vampiric friend—he’s done a passable job of cycling through aliases, but his mouth is a bit too smart for his own good. Nearly every tavern owner in Baldur’s Gate has a story about a pale elf causing trouble.”

Your pale elf, resplendent in death. You’ve bedded hundreds of corpses but he is your very favorite.

“Lae’zel of Crèche K’liir was the most difficult out of your friends. But Jaheira’s agents managed to track down some slate communications between Stardock and the surface that name her among the trainees.”

Isobel lifts her chin—you feel the weight of her stare stabbing between your shoulderblades. “And then there’s you.”

Your hands curl and uncurl into fists, rhythmically to the beat of your festering heart. “What about me.” You imagine Isobel screaming. Would it be as beautiful as you’ve dreamed?

The pressure in your chest is so great that you can no longer draw breath. You strain to pull air into your lungs, but they can’t expand against your swollen blood. Dark spots dance in front of your eyes, your vision narrowing as the moonlight fades. One hand comes up to claw at your breast, your throat. Your heart pumps uselessly in your chest, putrid blood drying up within your veins.

You’re going to die. You’re certain of it. If you don’t do something the Urge will tear you apart. You’re going to die.

I can’t die, not yet. Astarion needs me.

Isobel lets a moment pass, the tense silence a funeral pall over the both of you. “Jaheira said she couldn’t find anything.” Isobel watches the trembling in your hands. “But I’m not sure that’s the truth.”

You bark out a bitter laugh. “You don’t trust the legendary Jaheira?”

Your flesh was crafted from holy fire. It burns inside you, painful and bright. Every step forward carries you through the rubble of a life that used to be yours. You’ve lost so much—your life, yourself, your body, and anything you used to live for. No matter how tightly you hold on, you cannot grasp fire in your hands. It only burns as smoke slips through your fingers.

So many of the people within Last Light call you their hero. You would like to belong to them, you think, the same way you belong to your friends. Dammon, Mattis, Lakrissa, Bex, Cal, Lia, Rolan—they’ve left their mark on you. With them, you feel just a bit less empty.

If you burn Last Light Inn to the ground, then nothing can take them from you. If you take their lives as your own, they’ll be yours forever.

“I do,” Isobel answers easily. “But I’m not convinced she trusts me.”

A wicked sneer curls across your lips no matter how hard you try to fight it down. “Ha! Does the Moonmaiden’s sweet little cleric have some skeletons in her closet?”

That’s not your voice. You didn’t say that.

“I suppose that would make two of us, wouldn’t it?” Isobel says, peering at you carefully through the barrier.

You’re so tired of losing everything.

The moment that thought enters your mind, it’s all over.

You turn around.

Isobel stands beyond the shimmering silver of the Moonmaiden’s barrier. Her face is sweet, cherubic, the flush of life high on the apples of her cheeks. A gentle, ever-present smile curls on her lips, even in the face of your taunt. But you recognize the dagger held in her open palm—her kindness is meant to disarm and not to soothe. Isobel is wise to treat you with suspicion. But she believes too readily in the judgment of those under her protection. They call you “hero,” “savior of the Grove” and so she trusts in the kindness of a stranger. You protected her once before, so she believes herself safe enough in your presence to approach you alone.

That will be her last mistake.

You meet her silvered gaze, unyielding. “It would.” The voice that leaves your mouth is far sharper than yours, amusem*nt and malice weaving between your words. “If you have a question then ask it.”

Isobel feels the world shift as the Urge swallows you whole. A deep, ravenous void unfurls before her eyes. It draws the fabric of reality into itself with an iron grasp—slow, steady, unshakeable. Isobel cannot look away. Your presence is so heavy that it weighs down the ground beneath her feet—the flat earth becomes a downward slope, and no amount of force will stop gravity from dragging her to the bottom.

Isobel does not—cannot—understand the shift for what it is—that a monster has reclaimed its rightful throne. But her skin prickles, and a shiver runs down her spine. She fights against your magnetic pull to take half a step back, knowing that it will do nothing to help her escape your clutches.

Isobel has to meet your blood red eye. “Who are you?” She can’t look away.

You glide across the ground with unnatural lightness, weightlessly stepping down off the stone ledge. A low mist rolls in from the river, nipping at your heels as you walk. It spills across the valley, painted silver in the moonlight.

For the first time in your memory, you feel truly powerful. The threads of fury and fear that you held onto as your last vestiges of control snap. The serrated blade slices your wrists open as you slip, and all that pain bleeds into the ocean waves. Nothing hurts anymore.

You breathe easy—the crisp, cool autumn wind fills your lungs. Even the raw magic in your veins lay still and quiet. It will answer to your call—you know that instinctively. But the wind doesn’t surge around you, nor does hellfire rise up from beneath your feet. Magic doesn’t bleed from your skin and call a storm into being. You are the storm, and everything in your path falls to ruin.

There’s a cold comfort in that—in knowing the ending before you even dare to start. Your hands bleed where you’ve desperately tried to hold onto what’s yours. It only burns when everything inevitably slips away. It’s so much easier to let go. You ruin everything you touch before it can ruin you.

The veneer of silver moonlight slips across your shoulders like rainwater as you cross to Isobel’s side of the barrier. “I’m every body rotting in the battleground beneath our feet.” A heady, lustful sigh escapes your open mouth. “I’m every blade that’s ever tasted innocent blood.” You approach Isobel in a wide spiral, circling her, closing in, step by step by step. “I’m the last violent gasp before the eternal dark, and I’m going to kill you.”

The uncertain future resolves into perfect clarity. You know what happens in the next few minutes. You close in on Isobel. You reach into her chest with hands made of fire. She burns from the inside out. It spreads. You watch everyone you’ve laid claim to go up in flames.

You know this story. You’ve watched it play out a hundred times before. You’ll watch it happen a hundred times more. Everything you hold, ruined—burned and the ashes scattered.

Isobel’s hand slowly moves to grip her spear. “And yet you hesitate.” She doesn’t make any move towards you, only watching, her gaze locked with yours—moonsilver against spilled blood.

Poor, sweet child of the moon. She doesn’t believe you will do it. She aims to show a monster mercy.

“We’re having such a delightful talk.” You draw close enough to catch her scent on the gentle breeze. “It would be a shame to cut it short.” Ozone and decay.

Isobel carefully draws her spear across her chest defensively, not yet brandishing it, but preparing to strike. “You aren’t the first to threaten me,” she says cooly, unphased.

It’s impressive. Is she truly unafraid? Or simply good at pretending?

The silver in Isobel’s eyes pierces your chest as surely as any dagger. “But I know the eyes of a killer when I see them.” You slink around behind the cleric, and she can no longer follow you with her eyes. But your burning gaze is still a brand against her neck. “You mean me no harm.”

She speaks firmly—as if her conviction alone will make the words true. It’s the same voice you’ve used when brokering deals with devils. It’s the resolve to chase a monster through the depths of Avernus to save someone’s soul. Except you are no devil, bound by a contract with all its exclusions and loopholes. You are something far, far worse, bound by your very nature.

A wildfire rages within your flesh. It’s your nature to destroy. It’s an instinct written into every strand of the Weave that forms this wretched body. Wildfire cannot keep anything it adores. Everything it tries to hold only burns. Its love is an act of destruction.

Loving someone is the cruelest thing you can do.

“We’ll see about that,” you say darkly. “But it’s my turn to ask questions, little cleric.”

Your footsteps ring out loudly through the nighttime stillness. The buzz of revelry and joy within Last Light Inn is only at the top of the slope, but it might as well be realms away for all it matters to you and your prey. You circle around to Isobel’s front, and she can finally see you again. When you drift back into her line of sight, Isobel raises a cautious eyebrow and gestures for you to go on.

You stop and turn a perfect ninety degrees to face her fully. You watch her expression with sharpened eyes, charting her every twitch, readying yourself to strike should she sound the alarm. She truly is beautiful. It would be such a shame to let that beauty fade, stripped away by the ravages of time, piece by piece. Even mountains eventually crumble into the sea.

“How do you kill a man that cannot die?” you ask plainly.

Isobel blinks rapidly, her stance faltering for a moment in surprise. Of all the questions she expected, that certainly wasn't on the list.

She quickly corrects herself with a shake of her head. “If we knew that, we would have solved a great many of our problems,” she states, an almost teasing lilt to her voice.

“Wrong answer,” you growl, teeth clicking as your jaw snaps shut.

The annoyance and doubt are plain to see on Isobel’s face. Your flippant attitude and grand claims have worn her patience through. She thinks you a liar and a troublemaker—not a threat. That’s the beauty of a brazen attitude and an easy laugh. No one wants to believe that evil can wear such a pretty face, nor that a monster can wield charm as a weapon. By the time the other shoe drops, you’ve already gone in for the kill.

All traces of amusem*nt leave your face, leaving only a cold, blankness—devoid of any feeling at all. “If you want to kill a man made of undying flesh, you break him.”

A dark, achingly familiar power hums at your fingertips. Blood, murder, death is your domain—they give you power. You tap into that well of dark energy and fill yourself to bursting. That power has lain just beyond your reach all this time, scratching incessantly at the edge of your mind—an echo of the strength you once held. But with your mind fractured, the connection had been severed. You didn’t even remember that the power was there.

But the Urge remembers—allowed free rein over your body it immediately leeches from the very thing you’ve been missing for so long. The power to sunder the world awaits at your fingertips. All the dozens of souls within Last Light are but fluttering fireflies—tiny motes of light against the wildfire inside you.

After all this time, you’ve finally clawed something back from the dark.

“And if you want a man to break, you take away the thing he loves most.”

You take a single step forward, crowding into Isobel’s space. She matches you with a full step back, the gentle warmth finally dropping from her face. Isobel holds her spear across her chest like a shield, the shaft of it slightly tipped in your direction. You lean in, the point of her spear nearly grazing your cheek.

“Sweet, sweet Isobel,” you croon, close enough for her to smell the iron on your breath. “How does it feel, to see the world sundered in your name?”

Isobel’s breath hitches—almost imperceptibly so—before she forces her body to ease. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A rumble of laughter escapes your lips, dark as the endless night. “You can’t lie to me, little cleric,” you sing. “There’s no greater ruin than a father’s love, is there?” You tilt your head, peering at Isobel with a sharply pointed gaze. “And your father loves you, doesn’t he?”

Isobel freezes—finally, finally realizing she’s invited a monster into her haven. She cannot even breathe, your presence stealing all the air from her lungs. She gasps, both in shock and for breath, but the air is empty. You have yet to cast a single spell, but your very gaze pins her in place as surely as your magic.

You raise a hand, the Weave collecting between your fingers. You watch the display with amused disinterest, glowing strands of light winding through your fingers. “Once, I asked your father if he thought he still had a place in your heart.”

You meet Isobel’s eyes once more, close enough to see your reflection in those silver pools of moonlight. Isobel’s every instinct tells her to sound the alarm, to thrust her spear through your ribcage, to pray for the Moonmaiden’s blessing. But her body won’t respond. She can only watch in horror as everything she’s fought for shatters before her eyes.

Why had you fought this for so long? No matter how far or fast you run, you cannot outrun your own body. There was only ever one ending to this story. For the first time in your memory, you are finally, finally complete.

“When I spread your organs across the floor of his throne room, would you like me to give him your answer?”

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Decoding The Necromancy of Thay even with the Tharchiate Codex is still a monumental task. Astarion sits on the ground in front of his tent, The Necromancy of Thay set closed to one side, while he reads through the Codex for the first time. Only a few minutes pass before Astarion’s eyes begin to water, the runes inside seeming to leap out of the page. Not long after beginning his task, Astarion has to grab a quill and parchment from Gale’s tent.

The Codex explains that The Necromancy of Thay was a rare and precious find, as the Red Wizards so rarely put their secrets into ink. Their knowledge was closely guarded, passed down only through years of training and study to ensure that only the worthy would ever control the veil of life and death. In Thay, magic was power, and allowing a rival wizard access to your secrets might just become a knife in your back.

But even still, some magicks were too complex to be passed down through word alone. Eventually, they would need to be recorded so that they could be preserved. So a powerful lich chose to guard the Thayan tome’s secrets with the spirits of the dead themselves. By crafting the book's pages from flesh, and inscribing its runes in blood, the book became the final resting place for a hundred souls, all desperate to escape beyond the veil.

Uncovering the book’s secrets became a test of arcane prowess. Only those that had been taught the secret to evading the call of the dead would be able to plunder the tome’s depths. It was intended that only the tome’s author would pass down its secrets. But even outside of Thay, the call of forbidden knowledge is a flame sputtering in the dark, and wizards are but moths, unable to escape its pull.

According to some rumors, Ramazith Flamesinger was an agent of the Red Wizards of Thay. Or perhaps he was simply a sage blinded by hubris. Regardless, he eventually got his hands on The Necromancy of Thay. Over the years, Ramazith inscribed the total sum of his knowledge into The Tharchiate Codex. When it was done, he sealed it beneath his tower—either aware of the danger it posed or too proud to let anyone else have it.

Ramazith’s words warn that even under the ideal circ*mstances, the knowledge contained in The Necromancy of Thay is volatile and fickle. Anyone attempting to unravel the tome’s secrets did so at great personal risk. The path to uncovering forbidden magicks was never an easy one—no cypher could ever truly prepare you for the danger ahead.

But the wise traveller, who can tread the line between life and death, will find knowledge witnessed by precious few mortals, Astarion reads.

“I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not mortal, then,” Astarion hums, carefully turning the page.

Astarion jots down notes as he reads, carefully transcribing runes and laying out the obstacles that the Codex warns of, and the proper counter for each. Reading the Codex is draining in a way that Astarion struggles to understand. The Codex isn’t dangerous like The Necromancy of Thay—there are no undead spectres battering at the walls of his mind, stretching the limits of his consciousness to breaking. But the knowledge it contains is a physical weight on Astarion’s chest. His head aches as his mind struggles to wrap around the labyrithian wards that the Codex describes.

His third eye has been forcibly pried open. His understanding of the world shifts and trying to comprehend the new landscape spreading out before him saps his strength. When he finishes with the Codex and carefully sets it aside, he feels weak. His limbs ache and his eyelids droop. He wants nothing more than to retreat into his tent and lay his head down to rest.

But the answers he seeks are so close at hand, enclosed within an ancient tome that weighs as heavy as iron between his hands. Astarion forces himself to continue. He’s borne the scars on his back for decades, unsure of what they say, nor what secrets they contain. Now, after all this time, he’ll finally know Cazador’s plans for him. He might finally be able to seize the upper hand.

Slowly, Astarion opens The Necromancy of Thay to the page that Gale showed him before. The now familiar Infernal runes spiral across the pages—a perfect copy of the scars on his back. The symbols inscribed on the page shimmer before Astarion’s eyes. The cacophonous whispers of a hundred long-dead souls creep into Astarion’s mind. The more Astarion’s eyes travel the page, the louder the wails of the damned grow, until finally the dead trapped in these pages drown out all else—even Astarion’s own thoughts.

It’s nearly impossible to think with an endless deluge of souls cramming themselves into his brain. Astarion’s mind bursts at the seams, struggling to contain the sudden influx of consciousness. Astarion’s body was only built to house one being, and now it stretches to try and hold a hundred. It’s unsustainable.

Astarion strains to remember the instructions in The Tharchiate Codex, the ones he just wrote down. His eyes pinch shut against the surge of thoughts that aren’t his own. It’s so hard to pick apart which ideas are his and which belong to the ghosts crowding his brain.

The first step is to steel his mind. Astarion retreats to the center of his brain, the point from which all his thoughts originate. He imagines building a wall here, expanding it brick by brick until all the other voices in his head are pushed out. The souls riot at the sudden barrier, lashing out with ice cold, necrotic claws that dig into the folds of his brain. But Astarion lets those wounds roll off him like water, continuing to expand that impenetrable shield to keep the phantoms at bay.

When his mind is blessedly clear, encased within a seal of iron, Astarion tries to read the pages once more. What was once incomprehensible gibberish now resolves into familiar runes. The echoes of long-dead souls still prod at his mind, but they find no give, a perfect shield crafted to house his thoughts. Slowly, the shades of the past fall away and the tome’s secrets bloom before his eyes.

In truth, Astarion isn’t entirely certain what he expected to find hidden in The Necromancy of Thay. Answers, certainly, but as to their exact form? He couldn’t really say. He supposes if you’d asked that morning, he would have imagined some… absolute domination ritual—perhaps a way for Cazador to eliminate his spawn’s free will entirely. Or perhaps, some sort of complex ward or glamour. Any spell fueled by flesh was certain to be powerful—no doubt a spell fueled by the flesh of seven immortal vampires would be that much more effective. Even a spell for Cazador to siphon power off his spawn to fuel his own strength—that would be an inconvenience, but likely manageable with the right countermeasures.

He finds none of those things.

What he finds instead is something far darker, far more sinister, evil beyond even his wildest imagining. The Rite of Profane Ascenscion. With each line he decodes, a deep, inescapable well of dread opens in the pit of his stomach.

The Necromancy of Thay describes a vile ritual—a contract with Mephistopheles himself promising protection from all the weaknesses that plague vampires. The ritual grants a Vampire Lord a beating heart, a reflection, entrance to any abode they desire, and… the ability to walk in the sun. It’s everything Astarion has wanted for two hundred years.

But no contract with a devil comes without a price, and the price for transformation into the Vampire Ascendant? Every single vampire in the ascendant’s lineage, bound together by the Infernal brand on Astarion’s back.

Astarion slams The Necromancy of Thay shut, bile rising in his throat. He tosses the vile tome aside like it physically burns and draws both hands against his chest. He stares at the closed book, wild-eyed and trembling. His mind struggles to comprehend the weight of what he just read—what it means for him and his future.

Cazador carved the runes into Astarion’s flesh over a century ago. Had the bastard been planning this ever since? He must have. That was their sole purpose. Then, all this time, Cazador had planned to consume him? Cazador had made him to be consumed?

Then what was the point of it all? Since then, Cazador had sired Yousen, Violet, Petras, Dalyria, and Leon. Since then, all of them had spent the decades bringing back pretty bodies for their Master. Why? Why has Cazador kept him around all these decades? Why force them to play at being a family? Why call them his children and break them down only to rebuild them into something warped, grotesque, and ruined?

What was the point of all the torture, the sex, the humiliation, and abuse, if Cazador never intended for his spawn to survive the centuries? Why mold them into his perfect, wretched, pathetic slaves only to kill them and start anew? Even if Cazador needed seven spawn for the ritual to succeed, surely he could have found seven vagrants off the streets two centuries ago? Surely, he could have completed the ritual then and saved Astarion two centuries of torture.

Was that the point of it? Just to make them suffer? For his own sick entertainment? Was the torture of Astarion and his siblings more important than the power offered by the Rite?

A sudden realization streaks through Astarion’s mind, his veins chilling like the grave he’d crawled out of two hundred years ago. Every vampire in the ascendant’s lineage. Every sire, sibling, and spawn bound together in undeath. No matter where Astarion goes—he will always be bound to his Master. There is no way to sever the tether between Master and spawn. Sharp though his fangs may be, they cannot cut through the chain that binds him and Cazador together.

Cazador needs Astarion to complete the ritual. There is no loophole in Mephistopheles’s contract. There is no escape—for either of them.

Astarion considers what he would do for the power promised by the Rite. To abandon all the curses of his affliction, but keep his vampiric power. To be a new breed of vampire—a new type of being entirely—stronger and superior to all others. To hold the world in his hands, be able to bend others to his will, unbound by the cloak of night. No one would ever control him again. He would be free—not only from his Master, but from the “gift” that stole all the world’s joys from him. He could live—truly live—for the first time in his memory.

There is nothing Astarion wouldn’t do for that kind of power.

During the past few months, Astarion had entertained an idle fantasy of simply… disappearing after this was all over. Should your journey end at Moonrise, the tadpoles cured, Astarion would never be able to return to Baldur’s Gate. Even if, by some miracle, your party agreed to help him kill Cazador (assuming enough of you lived) the mere thought of returning without the tadpole’s protection forced Astarion’s mind from his body.

He would be completely at Cazador’s mercy. Even if the rest of you promised to protect him, none of you could possibly understand the power of a Vampire Lord. It would only take one slip-up, one small oversight, and Astarion would be gone for good—returned to a life of slavery before any of you could react. Cazador has had three months to devise punishments more painful than Astarion’s wildest imagination. There was a time when torture and pain were simple facts of Astarion’s life. Now, though, three months removed from that life, the thought of even one night on the pike sends Astarion into a frenzied panic.

Even if your group managed to rescue him, the Astarion you know might very well be gone by the time you find him. Or worse, a Vampire Lord’s control over his spawn is complete. If Cazador were to learn just how much Astarion cares for you… You would be Cazador’s newest plaything, and Astarion would be his blade.

He can’t go back there. He can’t let you see the pathetic beast he truly is. It will break him.

But if he simply ran, turned his back on the Gate and traveled as far as his feet would take him, he could just disappear. Hiding is Astarion’s specialty. Hiding from a man who can only travel under the cloak of night and needs to rest in his coffin should be simple enough. Even if Cazador sent bounty hunters after him—mercenaries could be bought or killed. Even Cazador’s reach began to wane out in the wilds. How well could you track a single pale elf in the inhospitable Frozenfar to the north? Or the ever-shifting Border Kingdoms to the south? Or, hells, Blingdenstone far beneath the surface?

Surely one day, Cazador would lose interest? Astarion may be Cazador’s favorite plaything, but one spawn is as good as any other. Cazador always loved to remind Astarion of his own uselessness, his shortcomings and failures. Cazador could simply replace him with some other white-haired elf and forget all about his wayward spawn. Maybe he would even assume Astarion died.

It was simple. Easy. Not the bloody revenge Astarion craved, but better than an eternity as a slave. If one of your party would allow him to follow on their own adventures—even better.

But now with a clear picture in his head, Astarion knows with absolute certainty: Cazador will never stop hunting him.

For the promise of a life in the sun? Cazador will chase him to the ends of Toril and beyond. There is nowhere Astarion can run to that Cazador will not follow. Cazador will spend the rest of his immortal life chasing Astarion down. Until the stars burn out and the world falls to ashes, Astarion will be hunted.

There’s no escape.

The end of your journey hovers just over the horizon. If you defeat the Absolute and cure yourself of the tadpoles, where is he supposed to run? He certainly can’t return to the Gate, knowing that one word from Cazador will have him walking directly into the jaws of oblivion. But how far can he run before he makes a mistake? For a spawn, Cazador might simply write him off. But for an Ascendant’s power, Cazador will call upon every vampire in the realms to track him down.

Astarion will feel eyes on him at every moment, jump at shadows flickering at the corner of his eye, cower at the sound of every howling wolf. Astarion will forever be seeking someone strong to protect him, spreading his legs for anyone that might be able to shelter him. The thought makes bile rise in his throat. He doesn’t want to be that person again.

Less than a tenday ago, you showed him that his wants matter, that his body belongs to himself and no one else. He doesn’t want to give it up again, but what else can he do? How else is he supposed to evade Cazador for an eternity? No one will protect a vampire, especially a vampire that’s wanted by every Vampire Lord in the realms.

No one, except you.

Astarion leaps to his feet, scanning the camp with wild eyes, searching for any sign of you. He doesn’t find any. He only sees Wyll and Karlach sitting by the fire, chatting as they clean their equipment. Last Astarion saw you, you were with Shadowheart in the den at Last Light. Astarion immediately stalks off towards the inn, nearly breaking into a jog in his desperation.

He needs you. He needs to know you’ll protect him. He needs you to help him kill Cazador. Or agree to keep the tadpoles. Or stay by his side when this is over. He’s not enough on his own. He needs you.

He doesn’t remember the walk up the hill to the inn. Distantly, he’s aware of people greeting him, cheering for one of the heroes responsible for saving Moonrise’s prisoners. But an impenetrable, cloying darkness shrouds him. Every voice he hears comes from somewhere beyond the veil, muffled and distant. A thick layer of shadow hides even the ground itself. It clings possessively to his heel with each heavy step. The only beacon of light is the lantern hanging above the inn’s doorway. Astarion blinks, and suddenly his feet find creaky wooden floorboards.

None of it registers. It’s all background noise to the wax and wane of his cycling thoughts.

I’m just cattle, I’m a sacrificial lamb, I’ll never be free, I’m so weak, I can’t go back, I can’t run, I can’t die, I need you, you’ll know what to do, you’ll protect me, I’m so scared, make it go away.

He bursts into the den claimed by the Flaming Fist. He scans the room with wild eyes, searching for a flash of violet skin. But he sees only the dull armor of the Fist, the tiefling siblings, and Shadowheart, standing near the middle bed. She and all the others look up at Astarion’s sudden entrance, but the point of their stares glances off Astarion’s skin.

Shadowheart immediately notes the desperate scan of Astarion’s eyes. She can’t remember her youth, but her body has been shaped by decades of training. Knives forcefully carved out her instinctual fear, and the whip honed her reflexes until it no longer struck her flesh. Without a word she leaps to action, grabbing her bag and taking a hurried step towards Astarion.

“Astarion?” Shadowheart asks, voice clipped short. “What’s wrong?”

Astarion’s gaze drops to the vacant bed, steeling his jaw. “Didn’t you have a patient to take care of?” he snaps.

Shadowheart leans back, clutching at hand to her breast in mild surprise. “I left for some air, when I came back…” She gestures at the empty bed, the sheets haphazardly thrown back. “I was about to go check the bathhouse.”

Astarion bares his teeth at her, his voice escaping as a feral growl, “You just let someone with a concussion wander off?”

Shadowheart recognizes that Astarion’s ire comes from a place of fear—that some unknown terror has sunk its claws into his chest and demanded control. But unlike the others, she won’t let Astarion use his fear as a dagger to cut through her skin. Her hand tightens into a fist at her breast. Does he think he’s the only one who cares? That your wellbeing is a burden borne by him alone?

“I provided treatment.” Shadowheart meets his burning eyes with stubborn resolve, refusing to back down in the face of his anger. “Do you think I should pin someone to the bed after they’ve already been healed?”

Astarion stalks forward, crowding her space as her feet firmly root themselves to the ground. Shadowheart refuses to budge, her face upturned without a trace of fear as Astarion snarls, “You were supposed to keep an eye—”

Cal coughs into his fist timidly, eyes darting anxiously between Astarion and Shadowheart. “Um, excuse me, sir?”

Astarion turns on the young man with anger threatening to overflow. “What?” Astarion snaps, eyes flashing.

Cal shrinks back slightly, cowed by the venom in Astarion’s eyes. “Your friend walked towards the front entrance just a few minutes ago.” He indicates the door to Astarion with a tilt of his head.

Without another word, Astarion turns on his heel, sweeping out of the room just as quickly as he entered. Shadowheart’s mind reels as her anger dies in an instant, leaving an emptiness it its wake. Astarion tries to slink back into the shadows

“Wait, Astarion.” Shadowheart crosses the room in three strides, reaching out to grab Astarion’s wrist. “Is everything alright? You seem—”

“Don’t touch me!” Astarion snarls, clutching his arm to his chest as soon as her fingertips brush his skin.

Shadowheart pulls her hand back with a jolt. “Of course, of course. I’m sorry, I—”

Astarion doesn’t bother lingering to hear the end of her sentence. The shadows swallow her words as his world narrows. He rushes out of the inn and back into the courtyard. Except he was just here and there was no trace of you. That hasn’t changed in the handful of moments that he wasted inside the inn. He doesn’t find you by the quartnermaster, nor does he see you near Dammon’s forge.

Where, then, could you have gone? There’s not that many places to hide in this bloody bubble. The Harpers are packed tightly beneath Isobel’s protection. There’s virtually nowhere private to brood without being tripped over by some drunkard. But Astarion remembers one quiet place bathed in moonlight—somewhere you’ve been before.

Astarion hooks a sharp left onto the gravel path, gazing out over the slope that stretches down to the river’s edge. A low silver mist pools in the valley, beams of moonlight rippling over the surface like the clouds themselves are water. The ground hides beneath the fog, enough that Astarion only sees two hazy figures—featureless against the dark sky. Astarion rushes down the path, drawing closer before he can properly make out two silhouettes against the silver barrier that protects Last Light from the shadows.

Astarion’s steps stutter, stones skittering down the path. His breath catches in his throat at the radiant corona shimmering along the edges of your shadow. Quicksilver moonlight spills across your lavender skin. If Astarion believed that the gods would show him favor, he might believe you were heavensent. No mortal could possibly shine like you—no mortal could possibly create miracles out of despair.

The rest of the world falls away, shadows at the edge of his vision crowding out everything save for you. Distantly, he’s aware you’re with someone. If he took the time, he would notice it was Isobel and that her spear was braced defensively across her chest. But in the moment, none of that matters. Only one thought fills his mind, crowding out all else: I need you. I need you now.

“Darling, there you are!” Astarion calls, rushing down the path. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

The hand preparing to plunge into Isobel’s chest freezes. Your gaze shifts for the first time in minutes, just a few inches to the left, where Astarion appears in the distance over Isobel’s shoulder.

The all-encompassing need for destruction wavers, subsumed for just a fraction of a moment by want. Your flesh was molded around primordial flame because you were built to destroy. You were born to be the world’s last survivor. You were made to be alone. But you have always been a creature born of pathetic yearning. You have always longed for the things you can never have.

You want Astarion—now and forever. Even if you have to kill him in the end, you want to hold him for as long as you can.

That desire only flickers for a moment, sparking brightly before the Urge smothers it down. But the momentary weakness is enough to break through the veil. Your weaker self surges forward and grasps that desire with bloodied hands and stubbornly refuses to let go.

Do. Not. Look. Away.

You meet Astarion’s piercing gaze with an uncaring mask, One part of you longs to destroy, to fulfill the purpose you were put on this earth for. The other part is so pitifully tired of being alone. If you look away from Astarion, the Urge will wipe that second half of you away, until you forget it ever existed at all. You can’t let yourself forget again, so you hold Astarion’s gaze tight.

His familiar red eyes pierce through the fog like a dagger. It strikes the center of your sternum, cleaving you perfectly in twain. Both of your shattered halves peel away, pulling your body in two different directions. A war rages behind your eyes as your two selves fight for control. Half of you roots itself to the ground, ready to burn Last Light to cinders. The rest of you says to run into Astarion’s arms.

Raw magic gathers in your palm, pulsing with the power you need to seize Isobel’s heart in your grasp. It surges as your resolve weakens, mist swirling in torrents around your feet. Even still, you hold onto Astarion’s gaze and his face visibly brightens when you meet his eyes. He deserves it. Every piece of happiness that he’s found. He deserves it all and so much more. You’d give him the world if it was yours to give. But that is beyond your means, so instead you offer yourself—the only thing you have.

Not just him—all of your friends.

Wyll told you, in what feels like another lifetime, now, that you could choose to change—that away from whatever came before, you could choose your own path. You chose him—your friends. You chose to keep them alive. Do you still have the power to choose? As the Urge breaks you beneath its heel, can you choose to defend instead of destroy?

A thousand fleeting moments flash before your eyes—all of the three months you remember, distilled into memories that glitter beneath the sun. Wyll promised you a dance ages ago that you still have yet to collect. Gale held your hand and channeled the Weave together, and your raw, wild magic mixed with Gale’s own controlled, exacting energy, and together created something beautiful. Lae’zel taught you the proper way to hold a sword, took blows in your stead, followed you into the unknown. Halsin, tending to your wounds, like you’re someone who deserves to be cared for. Karlach burned bright and held you close in spite of the danger. Shadowheart embraced you as a friend—something you didn’t know you could have.

Astarion showed you that another’s touch didn’t have to burn. He held you in the night, keeping the Urge at bay as much as anyone could. He took your festering blood into his veins and it kept him alive, instead of rotting within your heart. He bore his own curse, and when his eyes met yours—both blood red, both tarnished by your makers—he saw a kindred spirit. He cared for you—enough to jump into the abyss and enough to find you when you needed him most.

They gave you a place when you had nothing else. They trust you despite all your flaws. You want so badly to be the person they think you are—the better version of yourself you could never be. You don’t know if you can, but they make you want to try.

Moonlight falls across his face, his hair painted almost silver. Joy and relief spread across his face like flowers blooming beneath the sunrise. He runs towards you and with every step it only shines brighter, more beautiful and alive than ever before.

It’s you. It’s you, he shines for you.

You think yourself a guide to those under your care, a compass leading them back into the light. But that isn’t true at all. Every path you take only leads back around—back to your friends. Back to Astarion.

He shines brighter than the moon, brighter than the sun, brighter than every star in the sky. You’ll follow him wherever he goes—into the Hells, through the ruins of your past, or into his own gilded cage. That’s how it’s always been. He shines and you follow. Astarion—your light, your guiding star.

What else is there to do, but go to him when he calls?

Your hand falls, all the bowstring strands of the Weave dissolving back into the ether. You brush past Isobel’s shoulder, and the girl flinches violently away. She expects a strike that never comes. You walk across the ground with halting steps in a haze, unable to resist the lightning lure of Astarion’s presence. The Urge still pulls you back—a deep, twisting ache tearing you apart. But you bear the pain gladly.

You move one foot, then the other, again and again. Already, the Urge howls within you, tearing at whatever pieces of your fractured mind it can reach. With every bite down a spasm runs through you, a memory flashes in front of your eyes.

Sweat beading on Dammon’s brow as he shapes infernal metal beneath his calloused hands. Mattis’s squawk of indignation as Astarion palmed his ring. The fire burning in Rolan’s eyes as he cut through the shadows. The bite of lute strings against your fingertips as Alfira guides you through the major chords. Every moment of your journey spreads out before you—all the scattered pieces that form the person inhabiting this body.

There are things you cannot change. You can’t rid yourself of your blood, the visions that plague you every night, or the past that haunts your waking hours. Perhaps you can’t even change the ending of this story. Perhaps it was already written long ago. But if you’re destined to turn the world to ash, then you’ll savor every moment that it burns. You’ll squeeze out every bit of time that you can—give Astarion and the others as much happiness as they can hold.

Every step towards him, lightning spears through your chest as the Urge tears you apart. Every moment threatens to bring you to your knees. But losing him would be so much worse. Killing Isobel, then returning to camp with bloodstained hands would ruin you. You’d rather die than tell Wyll that his trust was misplaced—that you let him down once more. Isobel watches in silence, her breath held as you simply… go.

Your steps pick up momentum, like a boulder rolling down hill. One slow step, then the next, then the next, then the next, slowly picking up speed with every passing second until suddenly, you’re running into his arms.

You chase the light cast by the only person who’s ever kept the Urge at bay. “Astarion!” you call breathlessly.

Astarion slows as he reaches the bottom of the hill, eyebrows raising slightly at the unexpected urgency in your voice. “I’m glad to see you on the mend, dear. I was—”

Without warning you leap into his arms, thighs squeezing around his torso. Both your hands desperately clutch the sides of his face, tilting his head back to meet your eyes. You wrap yourself around him—desperate for any tether at all. His touch keeps you from floating away, his arms keep your hands from straying.

Astarion scrambles to catch you, nearly tackled to the ground by the force of your embrace. Both of Astarion’s hands curl around the undersides of your legs, holding you in his arms the same way he did the first night you slept together. Just like that first night, you meet his lips in a heated kiss, whining desperately against his mouth.

Any time in the past tenday, Astarion would have relished in this sudden embrace. He’d been waiting for you to kiss him again, ever since that night in Moonrise. Now though, in the wake of the revelation about his purpose, the reason Cazador sired him, your touch makes his skin crawl. Your tongue lightly brushes his, and he pushes down the shudder of revulsion that creeps up his spine. Instead he meets your enthusiasm, groaning against your lips.

He wanted this. He wants this.

After a few moments you pull away, lips flush and spit-slick. Your warm breath brushes against his cheek. “I need you, my Star,” you gasp, darting in for another kiss, one hand clutching desperately at the back of his neck.

He surges up, squeezing your thighs where they clutch beneath his ribs. This is good, this is different, he reminds himself. He cares about you. He should want this. This isn’t like before. Yet before is all he can think about—all the other hands that have tangled in his hair, all the people that he’s killed with his touch.

He could tell you to stop. He could tell you to stop and you would. You would step back down onto the ground, take his hands, and spend the night in his arms as you always do. But the knowledge of the Rite and Cazador’s plans for him looms in Astarion’s mind. A familiar panic wells up from deep inside him, and everything he’s learned over the past three months empties itself from his mind. Two hundred years of instinct takes over and he searches for safety the only way he knows how—by handing his body over to someone else. You’ve never claimed to need him before and he was made to serve.

Astarion’s lips travel from your mouth, along your jaw, to the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. “I need you, too,” he gasps.

He can lose himself in your kiss and let his mind drift away. Outside of his body, the fear can’t reach him. He mouths gently at the side of your neck, pressing a fang against your skin without drawing blood, sickened by the shudder that runs through your body.

“I know a place,” he breathes, sucking a bruise onto the underside of your jaw. “It’s quiet. Just up the path.” With every word his stomach churns.

Is he really doing this? Is he really falling back into his old habits, not even a tenday after believing himself better than this?

“We can be alone. Just the two of us. I’ve missed you terribly.”

Yes. He is. He can ask for better, but he doesn’t know how. He needs you and he only knows of one way to have you.

You nod easily, tapping his hand on your legs to signal him to set you down. Astarion squeezes the underside of your thigh, first letting down one leg and then the other. He playfully pinches the skin where your leg meets your tailbone as you pull away. Back on solid ground, you gaze into Astarion’s eyes. In your own desperation, you miss how they no longer shine. Instead of sparkling rubies or fresh blood, his eyes are dull, like the dying light of a flame as it sputters out.

You grasp both sides of his face tenderly. “Alright.” You nod. “Anything you want.”

If only he was honest about what he wants.

You refuse to let go of Astarion’s hand as you dart briefly into Last Light. The Urge still claws at the underside of your skin, tearing through your veins with every heartbeat. You could give in again so easily. You could let go of Astarion’s hand and your future with him would slip through your fingers. The power you held lay beneath your feet, waiting for you to gather it in your hands once more.

It consumed you so thoroughly, twisted you into something both completely alien yet all too familiar. All your thoughts passed through a prism of half-formed memory and came away warped and twisted. Your fingers twitched at your side, plucking at the strings of the Weave, spinning it into holy fire. The only way to stop them was by holding tight to Astarion’s hand—so you held on and didn’t let go.

Astarion’s hand is a tether, keeping you chained to your body—keeping your thoughts your own.

You grab the Moonlantern and your pack where Shadowheart set it by your bedside. After that, Astarion takes the lead, guiding you by the hand past the blacksmith, hopping over the traps across the bridge. You pass through the silver barrier into forsaken lands, your skin pimpling against the cold. You hold the Moonlantern high to shield against the worst of the chill.

There’s a giddy joy to your rush across the bridge. It reminds you of the nights back at camp in the Grove, where the two of you would sneak off into the woods for time alone. But it was never like this, hand-in-hand, searching for privacy amongst two dozen Harpers. You don’t remember being a teenager, but you imagine this must be what it’s like to escape with a young lover. You can’t help but wonder if you ever had trysts like this in your youth, if you had to sneak out beneath your father’s watch to meet a lover he disapproved of. It’s a silly thought, but if you don’t think beyond Astarion’s presence at your side, you can almost envision yourself as a normal person—on a normal date.

Across the bridge is Last Light Inn’s makeshift graveyard. The ground is hard and cold beneath your feet, grass crunching with every step. Despite being on the far side of the barrier, the graveyard is lush and thriving. The light dusting of grass over the gravetops is a verdant green, as are the leaves on the gnarled trees blocking the view from the inn proper.

“Sex in a graveyard?” you raise an eyebrow. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“I thought it would appeal to your tastes my dear,” Astarion hums. “Clearly you like your lovers a little on the deader side.”

Astarion lets go of your hand to break a few low hanging branches off a nearby tree. He forms them into a makeshift campfire, with a dried shrub as kindling. The graveyard extends to the base of a rocky bluff which provides cover from the worst of the autumn gales. Instead, the wind is gentle and breezy. Together, the protective bluff, the Moonlantern, and the fire warm the air to just “cool” instead of “frigid.”

This little pocket of nature holds an ethereal beauty. You can peek through the trees to see the top of Last Light Inn, but the rest of the world falls away into shadow. Mist rolls up from the river, softening the whole of the world. Standing here, it’s easy to imagine this place as the last bastion of peace in a forsaken world. Nothing else matters beyond your little garden of Eden.

Purple wildflowers bloom between the rocks, and potted white zinnias rest against the headstones. It’s clear that whoever rests beneath your feet was well-loved. A shadow of unease flickers across your face as your eyes pass over each headstone. From what you’ve gathered of your past, you operated out of Moonrise for a time. During your time there, did you run afoul of the Harpers at Last Light? Did you butcher them and leave their mangled bodies for their allies to find? How many of the people beneath your feet died because of you?

You brush away the thought and stake the Moonlantern into the ground. You fetch your bedroll from your pack and lay it out on the ground while Astarion tends to the fire. You pause just before you toss your pack to the side, a thought flashing in your mind. Your eyes flicker to Astarion where he carefully stokes a small flame. A wave of exhaustion and desperate yearning sweeps through you. You quickly snatch a scroll out of your bag before setting the bag down. By the time Astarion rises, the air has warmed considerably.

Astarion turns to you with a familiar quirk to his lips, eyeing you from beneath his lashes. “Now,” he purrs. “Where were we?” He holds out a hand for you.

The spell scroll weighs heavy in your hand, the latent magic licking your fingers. “Actually, I had… an idea.” You carefully set the scroll into his open palm. “If you’re alright with it.”

Lust darkens Astarion’s gaze. “A request?” he croons, his index and middle fingers smoothing over your wrist as he takes the scroll from your hand. “If this is why you haven’t come to my bed as of late, all you had to do was ask.” He unfurls the scroll with affected amusem*nt.

In truth, he feels nothing at all. He’s sealed his mind far below the earth, in a warm, quiet place—safe from the disgust poisoning his veins. He’s completely numb to the scratch of parchment against his fingers and the weight of your gaze on his cheek.

This is a script he’s played out a hundred times before—the experienced lover taking the reins. “I promise you, I’ve done it all.”

His eyes skim the lines of runes written in careful ink, unseeing. The scroll itself doesn’t matter and neither does the spell it contains. It’s not his place to deny you pleasure. If Master doesn’t step in himself, then Astarion’s duty is to keep you entertained.

He reads the words enough to identify the spell you’ve handed him, but there’s a rift between his eyes and his mind far, far away. He knows what the scroll in his hands does. He understands what it is you’re asking of him. But he fails to follow that thought to its logical conclusion. He sees the path you’ve laid out before him but doesn’t look to the destination on the horizon. He allows you to guide him by the hand as you always have.

Were Astarion fully present in his body, he’d like to think he would say, “Absolutely not.” Or “Are you out of your bloody mind?” Or, if he’s living out the fantasy where he’s a good partner, he would say, “You need help.”

Instead, he laughs airily, holding the scroll limply between his first and middle finger. “You want me to use this?” It’s a question he’s been made to ask many times before.

Oh, darling, lingerie? For me? You shouldn’t have. A leash? Well, for you I suppose I can. You want me to wear this all day? You want me to keep going until I cry? You want me to scream? I can be whatever you want me to be.

He barely registers your silent nod before carefully rolling the parchment back up. “Then I stand corrected,” he hums with a wink. “No one’s ever asked me for that before.” With his free hand, he captures yours and tugs you into his embrace. “I suppose this will be a first for both of us, then.”

You stumble forward, bracing your hands against his chest. “But you’re alright with it?” you ask with carefully restrained relief.

Gods no, he’s not alright with any of this. But it’s not his place to sully your fun—no matter how deranged. “If it’s what you want, dear, then I am happy to provide,” he says with an empty grin.

Astarion sets your clasped hands on his waist and tangles his fingers in your hair. He tips your head back so that he can fit his lips over your fluttering pulse, suckling gently at the tender skin. You gasp, gazing up at the empty sky. Your eyes flutter shut, as you lose yourself in Astarion’s caress.

“Let me make it all better, my love,” he croons against the underside of your jaw.

Astarion fits the length of his body against yours, leaning into you further and further. He kisses you slowly for a time, nibbling at the skin of your neck, nipping at your ear, licking into the seam of your mouth. He rubs his hands up and down the length of your arms. Even though his skin is cold, the gentle friction warms you, your heart beating faster and faster with every tender kiss.

His arms hold you tightly around your waist as he leans you further and further back, until you teeter on the edge of unbalance. You whimper softly, and place both hands on his shoulders, fisting in his shirt. Slowly, you give up control, letting him hold your weight. He smiles slyly against your mouth and begins to sink down onto the bedroll, his arms lowering you carefully onto your back.

He lays the length of his body over yours, one knee fit between your legs. You gasp, hips stuttering against him. Astarion’s lips slowly trail from your mouth, down your chin and neck, to the ridge of your clavicle, peeking overtop of the scar stretching across your torso. Your hands firmly anchor themselves to his shoulders.

Your hands yearn to entwine your fingers with his, play with his messy, untamed curls, smooth your thumb over the point of his ear. But the Urge spasms beneath your skin, fantasizing about the crunch of his neck in your grasp. You don’t trust your hands to obey your commands. You want all of him, but you don’t trust your fists not to pop his eyes like grapes within their sockets, nor do you trust your nails to not carve into his pale skin. So you leave them where they are, desperately clutching his shoulders.

Astarion untucks your undershirt, his cool hands exploring your naked sides. You shiver with a quiet whimper. If Astarion notices, he doesn’t react. Instead he moves down, sucking a bruise into the skin of your hip as he unlaces your trousers. Even with the Moonlantern and the fire, it’s too cold to disrobe entirely. Instead Astarion shucks your trousers down to your knees, where you kick them the rest of the way off. He fits his palm between your legs, rubbing through your smallclothes as he surges up to kiss you.

You gasp into his mouth, hooking both legs over his hips as he rocks against you. Your hands still remain planted on his shoulders, fisting the fabric of his shirt in your hands.

“I don’t want to think anymore,” you pant into his mouth. “I just want to stop existing for a while.”

Astarion growls against the underside of your chin. He unlaces his trousers with one hand then pushes them down to mid-thigh. He curls one hand beneath your knee, guiding you as he rolls his hips against yours.

“I’m here, my love,” he gasps. “I’ve got you.”

Finn panted those words into Astarion’s neck, two broad, warm hands wrapped around Astarion’s waist. Astarion couldn’t look away from the young man’s face. Those beautiful, tawny eyes watched Astarion with an adoration that the vampire hadn’t felt in years—not since the last time he saw his darling boy. Astarion rode the other man, thighs burning with exertion. Desperately, he tried to just fall away and let his body take over, act out this familiar farce. But no matter how much he tried, he was firmly rooted within his flesh, forced to bear witness to Finn’s last moments.

Finn lifted a hand to Astarion’s cheek, smoothing away a tear beneath Astarion’s eye. “Star? Are you alright?”

How dare he ask that? Everything was fine until Finn waltzed back into his life, ignorant of the suffering Astarion has endured since their last meeting. Astarion was a professional at using his body—whether for pain or pleasure. He knew how to survive torture and humiliation—how to empty his mind so that nothing could reach him. After a decade and a half of slavery, Astarion had grown numb to all the ways his body could be controlled.

How was it possible, then, that there were still new ways for Astarion to hurt?

Kissing Finn—being in his presence after all these years—the overwhelming panic slowly faded and that old ache returned. Finn held him with a tenderness Astarion had long forgotten, the dawn of hope shining in his eyes. All the memories came rushing back—and suddenly Astarion was on his back again, the first night he met the man in his arms.

Finn took his time making sure Astarion was ready, kissing all over his body. No matter how much Astarion tried to rush him. Astarion needed to bring someone back to the Szarr Palace and soon. He knew Master’s patience was already worn thin, the longer Astarion stalled, the harsher the punishment would be. But Finn saw the pained spasms in Astarion’s core, the hidden winces, and refused to hurt him. Finn entwined their fingers and kissed him gently.

At that point, Astarion had been a slave for less than a decade. Long enough that pain and torment had become routine, but not long enough to numb him to a beautiful face and a kind touch. His memories of his old life had yet to fully disappear into the shadows. He still held onto a distant, vain hope of escaping one day. He still believed that he could be lucky—that a prince could come save him.

Was Finn the prince that would love him enough to save a beast? Beneath Finn’s care, Astarion’s grief and yearning overflowed. Uncontrollable tears poured from his eyes unbidden, and his body wracked with sobs.

Back then, too, Finn stopped and wiped Astarion’s eyes, and asked if he was alright. What was Astarion supposed to say to that? Nothing was alright and it hadn’t been for a decade. Astarion only wanted to rest—just a break from giving his body to whoever asked, for leading innocents to the grave. Astarion was simply tired, scared, broken down

When the tears wouldn’t stop, Finn gently pulled out, unfinished. “Wait, wait, wait—” Astarion pleaded, catching Finn’s wrist before the man could leave. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. We don’t need to stop.”

Finn’s answering gaze was so kind and gentle that it only started the tears all over again. “Yeah, we do,” Finn said, pressing a kiss to Astarion’s knuckles. “Let me take care of you.”

Finn fetched a bucket of warm water and carefully cleaned the sweat and come from Astarion’s aching body. As he worked, Finn pressed gentle kisses into Astarion’s skin—onto his knee, beneath his ribs, against his wrist. Astarion kept expecting the man to dip between his legs, to try and get the night back on track. If he asked for sex, Astarion was obligated to give it to him. But Finn never did, instead he bundled Astarion tightly in a warm blanket and fit himself into the curve of Astarion’s back.

“Do you want me here?” Finn asked gently, pressing a gentle kiss beneath Astarion’s ear. “Or do you want me to go?”

Astarion whimpered, unable to speak through a new wave of tears. But wordlessly, he reached back, grabbed Finn’s arm, and draped it across his own waist. Finn curled his arm around Astarion’s body overtop of the blanket, and pressed gentle kisses into the back of his neck. Astarion knitted his fingers with the hand over his stomach and cried silent tears all through the night.

The only love in Astarion’s life those days was in his reverie, when he was blessed with reliving a time before his slavery. Finn awoke all the grief Astarion felt for himself and the life he’d lost. Astarion had had so many years ahead of him—until the last agonizing moments of it, Astarion never imagined his life would be cut so short. If his life had proceeded the way it was supposed to, where would he be now? A magistrate still? Married? Titled, perhaps?

He never would have bothered with a poor, uneducated peasant like Finn. And yet Finn brought him peace, where the patriars and politicians Master paraded him around in front saw Astarion as a prized mutt. Now, he would have given anything to stay in this bed, with the peasant boy who gazed at him like he was the sun.

He chose to take Master’s punishment, instead of turning Finn over to the man.

Astarion should have never returned after that. He should have turned his eye to other targets and allowed his night with Finn to become a pristine, perfect memory. But he was so lonely. There was a filth beneath his skin that he could never cleanse. Every day his body was battered and used without reprieve. There was no comfort to be found. Astarion only wanted to be taken care of.

But Master’s control was absolute. There was no secret between Master and spawn. Astarion was sloppy back then, and Aurelia ratted him out to their father. Master demanded Astarion bring Finn back to the palace. Astarion couldn’t do it then. He couldn’t destroy the one good thing he’d had in the past decade.

His memories of his nights spent in Finn’s arms were the balm that dulled the sting of his Master’s blade. As Astarion bled out in the kennels, Astarion would think of seeing Finn the next night. Finn would tend to any lingering wounds and rub oil into his aching muscles. The promise of future comfort made it easier to withstand the agony. Godey carefully split the fibrous tissue attaching his skin to muscle, and Astarion would think to himself: if I make it through tonight I’ll see Finn tomorrow. He’ll make everything better.

It didn’t make the pain go away, nor did it give him claim over his body. But surviving was so much easier when there was something good waiting for him on the other side. Even the memories kept him company—in the dead of night when his past replayed against the backs of his eyelids, all too often Astarion would relive his torment. It wasn’t enough for him to suffer and debase himself once—he was cursed to relive it over and over and over. But on the rare occasion, Finn would wait for him in his reverie.

Instead of a bone saw cutting through his pelvis, or the rough f*ck he’d endured afterward, Astarion would relive a night in Finn’s arms. Sun-warmed skin curled protectively around him, holding him against a broad chest. Finn’s loving whispers replaced the imprint of his Master’s cruel words. Finn only ever touched Astarion where Astarion wanted to be touched, and pulled away whenever disgust shuddered down the length of Astarion’s spine.

Astarion would wake alone in the spawn quarters feeling safe and loved. Even if it was only a memory, it made his body’s constant ache easier to endure. Astarion couldn’t sour all his memories of Finn. Not when they were his sole source of comfort.

Only, his year of confinement ruined those memories, anyway. All the love blossoming inside him withered and died in that cold, dark abyss. The comfort those memories brought couldn’t survive the drought. He loathed Finn for ruining him—for awakening his dead heart just so it could suffer.

Seven years later, that same boy followed him into the mouth of hell all on his own.

Finn chased the memory of a man that died the night Master sealed Astarion away. The man in Finn’s memory still held onto hope, still remembered his childhood—a life in the sun. The creature in Finn’s lap now was born of the dark—jaded, bitter, resentful. Astarion had suffered so that Finn could have a future and the idiot boy threw it all away in pursuit of an imagined love.

Yet no matter how much he tried, Astarion couldn’t dam up the well of grief within him nor rip out the sunflowers blooming from his heart, seeking the light in Finn’s smile. Tears slid down the sides of Astarion’s nose, dripping off and shattering like glass on Finn’s cheeks.

How dare Finn reawaken the tenderness and care that Astarion ripped from his chest. How dare he remind Astarion how it felt to be loved just to rip it away. How dare Finn show up just to ruin him again.

Finn carefully brushed away Astarion’s tears with a hand on Astarion’s cheek. Finn’s palms were warmed by the sun, and just like the sun they seared Astarion’s flesh. Only ash was left in their wake. Astarion forced himself to smile for the man underneath him and leaned into the touch, even as it burned. The hourglass of Finn’s life was running dry. Any moment now, Master would slip through the door and drink his fill.

Astarion needed to make sure Finn’s blood was properly bursting with pleasure.

“Of course, my darling,” Astarion sniffled performatively. “I’m just… happy to have you back.”

Either Astarion had polished his silver tongue in the years since their last meeting, or Finn’s useless feelings blinded him. Finn’s face broke into a dazzling smile, radiant and beautiful like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Tenderly, Finn entwined his fingers with Astarion’s on the bedspread.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, my star.”

What an oaf, Astarion thought.

Astarion squeezed Finn’s hand in his, eyes roaming every part of Finn’s face again and again. Astarion counted every freckle and memorized the exact copper tone of Finn’s hair. Finn’s nose held a slight hook, his eyes soft and downturned, a small scar cut through the boy’s eyebrow. A thousand tiny details—Astarion etched them all into his memory.

He hadn’t had the chance before, unaware that their last meeting would be their last. He’d regretted it, in that tomb, that he couldn’t remember the exact shade of Finn’s eyes nor the curve of his lips. Finn may be a fool, but he had once been a fool that made Astarion very happy.

Hundreds of years from now, these memories would be all that remained of his sweet boy—the only part of him that Astarion could keep. He would. He would keep them close, always.

The chill of the grave whispered across the expanse of Astarion’s naked back. All the way from the top of his head to the base of his tailbone. Astarion shivered and glanced up. A dark cloud of mist emerged from the gap beneath the door. It was nearly time.

Astarion wasn’t ready. It had only been a handful of minutes that they’d been together. Astarion wasn’t ready to let go of him again.

Astarion sank down so that he and Finn were pressed chest to chest. Astarion touched his forehead to Finn’s, his fluttering lashes painting tears onto Finn’s brow and cheek. “I’m close, darling.” Astarion tightened his pelvic floor, earning a groan from the man beneath him. “With me?”

Finn nodded and matched the movements of Astarion’s hips, rolling into him like ocean waves. Astarion squeezed both of Finn’s hands as tightly as possible to try and still his own shaking.

“Yes,” Finn gasped. “I’m with you, always. “ Finn’s gentle brown eyes swelled with happy tears—certain that he’d been reunited with the love of his life.

In a twisted way, perhaps he had. Astarion was the love of Finn’s life simply because Finn would never give his heart to another. There would never be another person for Finn to love.

Finn’s care for Astarion would be his undoing. Finn was naïve enough to hold onto fairytales, to follow the Pied Piper’s call into the mouth of hell, hoping that he could lead his love back into the sun. He didn’t know that Astarion belonged to the underworld—that sunlight would burn him just as surely as the flames of Avernus.

Love would be his undoing.

If this were a fairytale—the kind of story Astarion’s mother used to read him as a young boy—perhaps there would be a sword for Astarion to fall on. The monster would sacrifice himself so his noble-hearted lover could escape, and in doing so cleanse his undying soul of its sins. The monster would die a hero and the world would be rid of one more undead abomination. A happy ending for everyone—the only kind of happy endings monsters deserved.

If this were a fairytale, would Astarion sacrifice himself for Finn’s future?

Astarion has always been a selfish bastard. But inside that tomb, he’d spent months praying for death. Death would be a mercy compared to the eternity stretching out before Astarion’s eyes. After only a decade and a half Astarion had been warped and twisted from the man he used to be. If he had peered into his own future at thirty-nine, Astarion would have been disgusted by the pathetic beast wearing his skin. How far would Astarion fall in another century? Two? A millennium? There was only one thing in Astarion’s future: agony.

Finn’s future was full of possibility. So many people could have loved him. His gentle heart could change the fates of so many others in Baldur’s Gate alone. But instead he wasted his good, noble soul on a hopeless cause. The threads of all those futures, weaving woven together to form a beautiful life suddenly snapped, and Astarion found himself holding the shears.

It was an easy choice. Astarion would give up all his years in an instant so that Finn could have a future. It would be a mercy for them both.

Is that what it meant to love someone? Holding onto a memory even as it soured? Walking into hell for a chance to save a ghost? Sacrifice?

Astarion couldn’t remember if he ever loved anyone in life. If the shards of stained glass piercing through Astarion’s dead heart were “love,” then love was truly a wretched thing. Astarion wished he could rip the useless organ from his chest and crush it in his hands. This feeling was worthless. It didn’t change any of what he had to do.

Astarion wasn’t sure if he truly loved Finn. But even if he didn’t, it’s certainly the closest he ever came in two hundred years.

The stories of Astarion’s childhood promised that love would save him, that even in the darkest hour, it would be a gentle light to keep him warm. But Astarion knew better now. Love was false hope, a year of silence and starvation. Love was a young life cut tragically short.

Love was remembering the smile of a young man two hundred years gone.

The tears came faster now, joining the sweat on Finn’s brow. “Finn, I…” Astarion choked, struggling to find the words he wanted to say.

What do you even say to the man you doomed by daring to love him?

“Star?” Finn gasped.

Astarion bowed his head, whimpering at the pleasure trembling in his thighs. He was close and he hated it. He hated that arousal could build inside him despite the circ*mstances, hated that Master could see him getting off on someone’s final moments, hated that even if his body couldn’t reach completion, Master would reach into his mind and force it out of him.

“You… you made me… very happy,” Astarion panted.

Finn smiled. “You made me happy, too.”

Astarion closed his eyes and basked in the love Finn offered freely. Privately, he allowed his heart to ache in turn. No one would love him, nor would he love another like this for two hundred years. He wanted to soak it up for as long as he could. He’d earned that much, hadn’t he?

Astarion panted, chest heaving. “Thank you.” His body shuddered with all the words he wanted to say.

Thank you for taking care of me.

Astarion looked up, tears beading on his lashes, to meet a pair of glowing red eyes. Master stood at the door, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes roamed over Astarion’s naked body with cold indifference. Astarion’s instinct was to shrink beneath the weight of Master’s gaze—but refusing to let Master survey his possessions would earn him a day in the kennels. So Astarion forced himself to continue suffering the humiliation and debasem*nt of Master’s stare.

Finally, Master met Astarion’s eyes and a single order whispered through Astarion’s mind: kill him.

“Astarion…!” you gasp, your sweat slick bodies rolling together.

Astarion looms over you, fit between your spread legs. One hand plants itself in the dirt next to your head, supporting him and bracketing your body to keep you from moving. His other hand clutches your naked hip, guiding you to roll against him. He slides his hand down your thigh, slowly pressing it back, until an involuntary moan erupts from your lips.

Astarion chuckles emptily. “There we are.” He hooks your knee over his elbow. “Now just lie back and let me take care of you.”

Your hands still haven’t moved from his shoulders, holding tightly for fear that he’ll slip away. “Make me forget,” you plead with a whimper. “Make it all go away.”

Astarion rolls against you more forcefully. “Focus on me, darling.” He moans—all performance without any real desire behind it. “Just let yourself feel.”

You feel everything. That’s the problem. Even now, the Urge gnaws at your straining bones. Your hair fans out beneath you, tangling with the purple wildflowers sprouting between the graves. Those flowers bloomed from blood and rot—bodies consumed by the earth and turned into something beautiful. How many of these kills are yours? Did you spill the blood that feeds the blossoms in your hair?

Death becomes beautiful beneath your skilled hands. This whole graveyard is a monument to your expertise. Spilled blood has brought color to this land of shadow. Nature’s cycle. Life, death, then life again.

The Urge claws at the undersides of your palms, so close to Astarion’s exquisite neck. Your core tightens at the thought. He’s always been your favorite corpse. It would be poetic to die here. Your body would sink into the fertile earth and you would bloom into something beautiful. No more burning, and you could finally birth something from your ashes.

One hand falls from his shoulder and clutches his wrist by your head. You guide his hand to your neck. Instinctively, his palm curls around the expanse of your throat, his thumb digging into the hollow of your pulse point. You gasp in delight at the sudden ache.

What form would flowers born from your rotten soul take? Is it too much to hope that they’ll be beautiful woven into Astarion’s curls?

“Kill me,” you beg. “I need you to kill me, please.”

Astarion would like to say that he hesitated. He would like to claim that he waited for Master’s will to unfurl in his chest, that Master had to force his hands to kill Finn. He would like to describe the horrors of a Vampire Lord’s compulsion, that resisting would be as impossible as stopping the sun’s arc across the sky. It would be far easier to spin a tragic tale about how he watched Finn die, a passenger in his own body as the light left his eyes.

It would be a wretched lie.

No magic rooted itself in his chest. Nothing forced his hands to move. But they moved even still, obediently closing around Finn’s throat and squeezing with the full force of Astarion’s vampiric strength.

“Star?” Finn gasped, one hand coming up to grasp Astarion’s wrist.

Astarion remained silent, a void opening where Master’s compulsion would have unraveled. But no order ever came. Everything Astarion did was by his own hand.

All of Finn’s warmth disappeared into the hole in Astarion’s chest. He’d known as soon as he saw Finn in the palace that he would never leave. He’d prepared himself for this—expected this. The only thing Astarion felt was a numb relief that for once he wasn’t the one at someone else’s mercy.

This had been Master’s goal all along—not to kill the boy Astarion had let go, but for Astarion to correct his mistake. This was Astarion’s chance to prove that the ungrateful boy Master had sealed in that tomb emerged a year later as an obedient slave.

Finn’s murder wasn’t a punishment. It was a trial.

Immediately, Astarion felt a sickening crunch as Finn’s trachea collapsed beneath his hands. Finn’s eyes widened, fingernails scratching at Astarion’s hands on his throat. He desperately tried to fit his fingers beneath Astarion’s palms, to physically pry Astarion’s hands from his throat. But Finn’s strength was no match for that of a vampire, even a starved one. The shock and betrayal in Finn’s eyes was nigh unbearable. Astarion stared through Finn’s pleading gaze, eyes empty.

Even a thousand realms away, Astarion could hear Finn’s breathless gasp of “Stop.”

Realization dawned in Finn’s eyes as Astarion’s carefully constructed mask shattered. Violence stripped away the beautiful man Astarion had pretended to be—that Finn had loved—and left a disgusting, pathetic monster in his place. Years ago, Astarion’s love shriveled in the dark and left behind only a husk of resentment. Now, Finn’s love warped and twisted as he realized he would never again see the sun.

Astarion had to do this. Astarion had refused to kill Finn once, and Master sealed him away for a year. The worst year of Astarion’s existence. A year trapped with only his own mind—his own failures. A year waiting for a rescue that would never come—abandoned by the gods and anyone who’d ever known him. Every day served as a reminder of his own worthlessness. He could simply vanish for an entire year and no one would even notice his absence. No one would mourn him.

No one, save for the weak boy beneath him choking on his last breath. With him gone, Astarion would truly be alone.

One year of isolation nearly broke him. If Astarion were to refuse again, how long would Master seal him away this time? Five years? A decade? A century?

He can’t. He can’t go back there. It would break him. What little remained of Astarion would be stripped away, driven mad by isolation and hunger. He would live the rest of eternity a feral beast, no better than a filthy animal. And then, when Master orders him to destroy something he loves, Astarion won’t even remember that he loved it in the first place.

The remaining breath in Finn’s lungs escaped as a rasp through his broken windpipe. Finn scratched desperately at the backs of Astarion’s hands, at first breaking skin, then only rubbing at Astarion’s wrists, and finally falling limp against the bedspread. Astarion held on, unmoving, long after Finn’s breath stopped. He waited for the telltale silence of Finn’s kind, noble heart.

Finally, Finn’s heart emptied and stopped. A wave of immediate relief flooded through Astarion’s veins. It was over. It was over and, for once, completely painless. As long as Astarion had his hands around someone else’s throat, he wasn’t the one beneath someone else’s heel. For the first time in a decade and a half, Astaron tasted strength.

The click of heels against the marbled floor echoed through the chamber. Master approached the edge of the bed, eyes carefully assessing his son’s work. The boy was dead, body rapidly beginning to cool. Though Astarion could certainly have been less pathetic about the whole affair.

His father would simply have to use a firmer hand.

“Here.” Something small and furry hit Astarion in the center of his chest.

Astarion’s looked down to see a black rat laying on Finn’s unmoving chest.

“Clean yourself thoroughly in the en suite,” Master ordered. “I have need of you tonight.”

Master turned on his heel and swept out of the room, leaving Astarion with a dead rat and the cooling body of the man he might have loved still inside him. Was it a blessing or curse that Master didn’t even bother to feed from Finn’s neck? Astarion would have ached to see Finn’s blood smeared across Master’s lips. But leaving him undrained was another twist of the knife. It was a clear display that Master had no need or use for Finn—the boy’s death was for no other purpose than punishment for Astarion’s failures.

When Astarion finally removed his hands, they ached. His teeth chattered, his entire body trembling uncontrollably. He wasn’t cold. But for some reason he nearly shivered out of his own skin, anyway. The shaking never stopped, even as Astarion finally dared to gaze upon the destruction he’d wrought.

Finn’s face stared directly at Astarion, his beautiful gold-flecked eyes now forever vacant—never to sparkle again in the lamplight. His skin had yet to pale, the flush of exertion as he died suddenly gone. Were it not for the complete silence of Finn’s chest, perhaps Astarion could close his eyes and pretend the man was merely sleeping. Foam bubbled at the corner of Finn’s mouth, which Astarion absently wiped away with the sheets. Across the expanse of Finn’s neck, a crimson red bruise began to bloom.

Despite the resentment, the relief, the lust for power, an inescapable cloud of grief filled his shivering body to the brim. “Oh, darling,” he hiccuped, framing Finn’s face with both his hands. “My darling boy.”

Astarion curled forward, drawing his knees up and touching his forehead to Finn’s as his body shook with uncontrollable sobs, the true weight of his sorrow finally unleashed from his chest. Astarion did his best to stay quiet, when all he wanted to do was scream. But he didn’t know how far Master had gone and didn’t want to risk being found, still sobbing over Finn’s corpse.

“I saved you,” Astarion spat viciously. “I saved you and you threw it all away you worthless ingrate.”

The only way Astarion could have saved Finn was by never approaching him in the first place. Astarion’s kiss is the kiss of death.

“You’ve ruined me.” Astarion hissed, carefully combing his fingers through Finn’s radiant copper hair for the last time. “I wish I’d never met you.”

Astarion rose onto his elbows, taking in Finn’s face for the last time, vowing to himself that this would never happen again. He would never fool himself into thinking he could be saved. Astarion runs his thumb over the smattering of freckles on Finn’s sun-warmed cheek.

Softly, the venom carefully stripped from his voice, Astarion whispered “In another world, I would have loved you for a lifetime.”

Astarion whimpers as he comes, slumping forward. He catches himself before falling on you with a hand on the cold ground. He pants heavily, his breaths visible in the cool air. The world is unnaturally quiet—everything perfectly still. The only sounds are the rush of the Chionthar and the rhythm of his own useless breaths. It takes some time for the fog to clear from his mind, during which you lay still beneath him, recovering. It has been a while, Astarion supposes, and circ*mstances aren’t exactly ideal. He’s a bit more worn out than expected himself.

The sheen of sweat on his skin turns absolutely frigid as a bitter wind blows across the graveyard. Astarion shudders and falls back on his ankles. He feels… wretched. Thinking about the stickiness on his co*ck makes him vaguely nauseous. He doesn’t… want to deal with it. Part of him hopes that you’ll get up and take care of it for him so that he won’t have to.

But you don’t move for a long while, the entirety of the world hanging in perfect suspension. After a moment, Astarion swallows down his disgust and wipes himself off with the edge of the bedroll. He laces his trousers, grabbing yours from where you kicked them in your rush to get your clothes off. When he finishes, you’re still lying on your back, face turned towards the sky.

Astarion breathes out a gentle laugh, grabbing and wiggling your foot back and forth. “Did I tire you out that badly, darling?” he teases.

Your foot falls limp against the ground without a response.

Astarion furrows his brow. “Darling?” He begins to crawl up to get a better look at your face.

Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea for the both of you to have sex only hours after you suffered a concussion. But Shadowheart had sworn you were fine, and you hadn’t had any trouble leaping into his arms earlier. Still, Astarion can’t help the seed of worry that plants itself in his chest.

“You didn’t fall asleep again did—”

A vacant red eye stares up into the empty expanse overhead, unblinking. Deep lavender lips part around a silent gasp. A burst blood vessel colors the sclera of your good eye a bright scarlet red. Dark purple skin blossoms across the column of your throat. The hazy, unclear memories of the past hour snap into focus with sudden clarity. His fingers slot into the notches of your spine and squeeze with all his strength. Without the tadpole, he could crush your bones in his grasp. With it, your neck collapses beneath his weight. You gasp for air that never comes, your mouth moving around words with no sound. You don’t try to pry him off, instead your thumb tenderly smoothing over they vein where his pulse used to thrum, affection shining in your eyes as they dim. The radiant sunlight fades from your eyes—familiar blood-red turning to shards of dull glass.

Astarion watches himself from outside of his body, realizing with sudden, dawning horror what exactly you asked of him—what he’s done.

He ducks to the side just in time to vomit blood on the ground. A spray of vibrant red paints the earth and dribbles down his chin. The familiar taste of your blood fills his mouth as it spills from his lips—the first gift you ever gave him, all the moments of closeness that he’s come to treasure. Your life runs through his veins while you lie beneath him dead. He can’t scrub the taste from his tongue. Worse still, hunger gnaws at his flesh—an ever-present ache that never fully fades. He sees your blood on the ground, smells it still in your veins and hot saliva drips from his fangs.

“Oh gods,” he gasps wetly, before another wave of vomit erupts from his mouth.

He gags after that with a wet rasp in the back of his throat. But nothing more comes up. His stomach empties itself across the barren graveyard. He chokes, his throat burning as his body tries to find bile it doesn’t have. But his insides are as dry and dead as the Shadowlands themselves. When the retching stops, Astarion finds himself on all fours, fingers sunken into the dirt as pink-tinted spittle drips from his mouth. Astarion wipes away the blood and spit with his pale wrist.

When his insides stop churning long enough for him to think, the trembling starts. “Oh gods.” He screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Not again. Please, no, no, not again.”

He doesn’t know who he’s begging—the gods? Himself? All he wants is to open his eyes and find that it’s all been a wretched nightmare, a vision of the past woven into the present. At any moment, he’ll feel your warm hands on his cheeks, and your voice will rise over the horizon to cast out the memories of his past.

Any second now.

No matter how much time passes, no gentle touches smooth over his clammy brow, no soft whispers guide him back into your arms. You’ve gone somewhere beyond his reach, leaving him completely alone as the autumn wind bites the nape of his neck. He can’t turn to you when he needs you most. He needs to pick up the pieces himself.

He doesn’t want to look. The brief glimpse he caught was already too much. But someone has to and he’s the only conscious soul in this barren graveyard. Astarion forces himself to open his eyes and sits back on his heels. His hands still shake with a tremor he cannot stop. He steels himself and slowly turns back to you.

Just like before—you’re beautiful. Astarion scoots closer, staining the knees of his trousers with grave dirt. If he draws close enough… if he were to draw you into his lap and take your hand, it would be just like Moonrise. Wasn’t it only a handful of hours ago that he chased you and dragged you back from the mouth of hell? After everything he did to save you—why?

He leans over you, head bowed to his chin. “I told you not to leave me,” he hisses miserably. “You said you weren’t ready to let me go.” He grits his teeth, a breath he doesn’t need whistling between his fangs. “So why—?”

Why does he always end up here?

His shaking arms burn with the strain of holding him upright. When they threaten to give out, Astarion slumps further and further down. He curls in on himself, until finally he lays his cheek against your silent breast—ear pressed to your ribcage, listening for a heartbeat that will never come.

“It was supposed to be over.”

Why is it that everyone who loves him ends up dead?

He can’t blame his Master anymore. He can’t even blame his insatiable hunger. This time he killed you with his own hands, of his own volition. Simply because you asked him to.

Is he that incapable of saying no? That he’ll destroy one of the few joys in his miserable life solely because someone asked? After all this time, he’s still just a puppet on marionette strings, begging for a master to direct his hand.

Astarion pushes himself up once again, gently cupping your cheek in his hand. “You wretched hypocrite,” he breathes fondly. “All that righteous fury and it turns out you’re the most selfish bastard of all.”

Perhaps that’s why Astarion likes you so much.

Numbly, Astarion grabs the Scroll of Revivify you pressed into his hand earlier. He unfurls it, sitting back on his heels as he reads over the dense lines of text. After all the reading he’s done today, the runes swim in front of his eyes. His whole body aches, worn from the day’s battle, the mental and emotional strain of the secrets he’s uncovered, and of course, the empty despair of killing someone he cares for. Again.

His mouth moves around the words for the spell. With the scroll, there’s no need to trace the runes in the air. He only needs to speak the propers words, and the scroll will disperse on its own, the energy stored within the parchment diving into your chest and pulling your soul back from the brink.

His tongue trips over the incantation, the unfamiliar words heavy and unnatural in his mouth. “Te curo,” Astarion finishes, voice trembling.

The scroll remains firmly in his hands. He waits, thinking, perhaps revivification scrolls are different. Perhaps the parchment lingers even after the spell fades. But he remembers when Shadowheart revived you the first time. The scroll faded then, its energy coalescing into a ball of radiant light that Shadowheart guided into the center of your chest.

There’s no ball of light in Astarion’s hands, nor any life returning to your cooling corpse. Astarion’s hands shake, struggling to hold the scroll in his grasp.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he murmurs, eyes scanning each line of the spell scroll, searching for the piece that he missed.

He said the right words, and from his memory, he doesn’t remember Shadowheart adding any other steps. Shadowheart explained to all of them the limits of Revivify as she anxiously tried her hand at the spell for the first time—when everyone woke to find you dead in the middle of camp.

She explained carefully that there were two obstacles to overcome where resurrection was concerned. The first and most crucial was that the body’s soul still needed to be tethered to its corpse. Once the soul had departed beyond the veil and found its place in the City of the Dead, it was too late, and stronger, riskier magic would be needed to cross over. Exactly how long that took was different for every death—in some cases there were only minutes to spare, and in others the soul would linger for a tenday or more.

You couldn’t have been dead more than a minute, so that shouldn’t be the issue.

The second obstacle Shadowheart explained, glossed over at the time, was that the soul needed to be willing to return.

A horrid thought takes root in Astarion’s chest, chilling him to the core. What if you aren’t willing? What if you’d tricked him into killing you—allowed him to think he could bring you back afterwards, only to know he’d be unable to? What does it even mean, to be willing? You clearly wanted to die, even if only temporarily. Is that enough to seal your fate? If your sense of duty or guilt is the only reason you want to survive, is that enough to bring you back?

So many times, he’s found you skirting the edge of death. Without his intervention, would you have died that night outside Moonrise Towers? He found you hiding against the parapet—that was frightening enough, but the moments before that are a mystery. Had it been your intention to simply sit and wait to freeze to death? Or was that your backup plan when you couldn’t force yourself to jump?

Today, you ran into danger with open arms. He still doesn’t know what drove you to approach the broken wall. He doesn’t even know how you knew it was there in the first place. Had you known what it would do to you? Had you simply not cared? When Astarion followed you down, you told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave you there.

What would have happened, if he had? Would you have drowned in a lake of putrid blood? Would the hook horrors have heard you as you stirred to consciousness and eviscerated you? Would you have simply started to dissolve before the rest of the group could reach you? Was that your plan all along? To die down there? Had Astarion ruined it by refusing to let you go?

Did you approach him, scroll in hand, thinking that framing your death wish as a sexual perversion would get Astarion to play along? Was he just a noose for you to hang yourself with? Another blade for you to fall on? Is that all you saw him as?

For a moment, he wishes he was back in the Szarr Palace so that he could hand himself over to Godey and let the wretched skeleton flay him alive. It’s the only way Astarion can imagine ever being able to feel clean again.

His hands shake with equal parts fury and despair. He hates you for doing this to him—for somehow managing to find a new way to use him, for asking this of him, for making him care so much about you while holding so little for yourself. Did you not think about what seeing you dead would do to him?

Having felt your thoughts, however briefly, Astarion thinks he knows the answer, and it sickens him. Your own wellbeing is barely even an afterthought in your mind, and only in the sense that you cannot fight if your body breaks. It would never occur to you that your death would affect anyone else.

It didn’t before. Shadowheart brought you back and everyone simply gave you a pat on the shoulder before carrying on. Astarion brushed off your anger with the same flippant, uncaring attitude that he regarded anything that didn’t immediately benefit him.

Self-loathing stokes the flames that burn his dead heart to ash. Did he truly not see, even then, how different you were? How your cold, violent disposition had already begun to irreversibly shift? He hates himself in the present for somehow falling into the same trap, for losing himself in the moment you most needed him to be present.

He’d been so blind. He thought he could help you—return the favor that you’d granted him time and time again. He’d allowed himself to think he was the only one who could. He was your closest ally, the one you first trusted with your darkest secrets, the one who understood you more than all the others. If no one else would, or could, help you through this—this madness that threatened to consume you, then it fell to him, surely?

How arrogant, to think himself capable of that.

This was the inevitable conclusion. You, dead, and him, broken. That was how all his love stories ended. There was no other ending to his fairytale.

Even so, Astarion carefully smooths out the parchment. Whether the conclusion is foregone or not, he still holds a scroll that can bring the dead back to life. He needs to try again. He’ll keep trying until the stars burn out and the world falls down. You would do the same for him. He’ll drag you back from the City of the Dead, kicking and screaming, so that he can tell you exactly how much of a selfish bastard you are.

Astarion takes a deep breath and traces the arcane runes over your chest once more. “Te curo!” he repeats, stronger this time, his voice commanding the tether between your body and soul to pull it back into its rightful place.

This time, the scroll curls in on itself, folding with the finaliy of a book snapping shut. A familiar golden light spreads out from the scroll’s center. Astarion catches it in both palms, and its gentle warmth spreads across his skin. A relieved breath escapes Astarion’s nose. He holds your soul in his hands as the seemingly endless night comes to a close—dawn rising over the horizon. Astarion cradles that light in his hands and slowly presses his palms flat against your ribcage. The light pours from his hands and into you, disappearing beneath your skin.

Astarion holds his breath, straining his ears for the gentle flutter of your heart. A moment passes, then another, as Astarion anxiously leans over you. The pallor of your cheeks and lips begins to flush back to a healthy lavender, and then—

Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.

The steady rhythm of your heartbeat may just be the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard—better than any bard song or serenade. Your whole body feels pleasantly heavy and sore, your thoughts scattered. It’s just like when Astarion drinks from you, but even more. Your mind is blissfully empty just like your sputtering heart. There are no thoughts, no urges, no ancient powers trying to fit into your skin.

There is only you and the steady swell of your breaths.

You’ve only just returned to consciousness when something heavy presses down on your chest. You blink blearily, swimming up faster from the hazy, liminal state of nonexistence you’ve languished in. You feel the scratch of musty old linens at your back, spread over the hard ground. Your heels hang off the bedroll, pressing into the cold earth. Your legs are bare, between them cold and sticky. Your hands rest limply at your sides. Your body rocks gently, swaying in time with the weight on your ribs. The cold wind carries the smell of damp earth and mossy stones—but it’s hard to catch beneath the overwhelming cloying scent of bergamot and rosemary that blankets you.

In the distance, you hear the rush of the Chionthar’s current and the bitter wind across the valley. But closer, a pained rasp tickles your ear. A wet, choking noise accompanies the gentle sway of your body.

Your brow furrows and finally, your eyes flutter open as you rise from the grave. You look down to find a familiar body pressing you down into the dirt. But there’s nothing sexual in Astarion’s embrace—he curls in a fetal position beside you and drapes his upper body over yours. He clutches a shoulder in one hand and the curve of your ribs in the other, holding on almost painfully. Perhaps it would be painful if your body wasn’t so pleasantly numb.

His face hides against the crook of your neck, coarse curls tickling the underside of your chin. His eyelashes flutter against the column of your throat, smearing something wet and warm over your skin. The pitiful gasp against your ear is Astarion’s breath, you suddenly realize, and the sway of your body is a result of his trembling shoulders as he sobs into your neck.

“Star…?” You slur. “What’s wrong?” It takes all your effort to move one of your arms to curl across the expanse of his back.

To your shock, he flinches violently at the touch. You let your hand fall back to the earth with a thud. Your senses sharpen, honing in on Astarion’s clear distress. Your instinct is to read him down, to try and parse his actions and figure out what it is that he needs—the words he’s trying to convey but refuses to speak aloud. You’ve gotten fairly good at it, by now. But your thoughts are scattered and evasive, slipping like water across your fingers.

How much time did you lose? The last thing you remember is Astarion’s sultry smile as your vision darkened. What happened since then to cause such a visceral reaction from Astarion?

Unable to touch him, you tilt your head to the side, pressing your nose gently into his curls. “Starlight?”

His shoulders tremble more violently. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he laughs incredulously, muffled into your neck. “You died.”

Your brow furrows, confusion clear in your tired eyes. “But I’m fine, now.”

Despite your words, Astarion continues to shiver as if you’d said nothing at all. “You were dead and I killed you. Again.” His voice breaks and trails into a high-pitched whine on the final word.

“Astarion, Little Star,” you coo gently, grasping the dirt beneath your hands to stop yourself from reaching for him. “It’s alright, I wanted you to—”

A dark, miserable laugh rumbles through your chest—passed seamlessly from where his breastbone presses against yours. “Is that all that matters?” He chokes, his laughter hitching in his throat. “What you want?”

Rivers of ice spread through your veins, all the slowly warming blood freezing painfully beneath your skin. The frigid autumn winds carve through your hollow chest. The cold of the grave claims you once more. The whole world falls away reduced to only the near-painful squeeze of Astarion’s embrace and the uncontrollable whimpers he desperately tries to hide.

That, more than anything, forcibly pulls you up from the depths. “What?” you gasp.

Your body is still sluggish and heavy, and it takes immense effort to collect your strength enough to lean back on your elbows. Astarion stays attached to your front, unwilling—perhaps even unable—to let you go. You want to tangle your fingers in his hair so badly, but you force yourself to fist clumps of graveyard dirt..

“Astarion, I…” His shivers travel through your entire body, each one accompanied by a keening whine. It’s difficult to speak around the stone in your throat.

“Why would… Did I…” A dozen questions weigh heavily on your tongue, but you don’t know which is the right one to ask. Perhaps there isn’t one.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you breathe, lips barely moving.

“I would never make you do that. Not if you didn’t want to.” Your heart shatters and collapses in on itself, piercing your newly reborn flesh clean through. “Did you think I would?”

Even now, stripped bare and defiled, Astarion uses your body as a shield. He presses his face harder into the crook of your neck, like he could simply disappear beneath your skin if he gets close enough..

“I didn’t—” He gasps wetly against your skin, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “I didn’t know how to say no.”

The world stops. The moon pauses its arc across the sky, the Chionthar’s water still. If the wind so much as caresses either of you, the moment will shatter. There will be nothing left of you but shards of ice. For the first time in your memory, the fire inside you doesn’t burn. You tried so desperately to assure that your hands would never hurt him, but even still you’ve managed exactly that.

“What?” Your mouth moves around words that don’t reach your ears.

Astarion shakes his head against your neck, unable to repeat himself. It’s just as well. If he had anything to say, you wouldn’t be able to hear it. Everything you’ve done. It was all for him. You’ve desperately struggled to keep from setting Astarion alight. You’ve struggled every day against your festering blood. When you’d turned away from Isobel and into Astarion’s arms, you thought you’d succeeded in just that. But in your attempts to resist your calling, you hurt him even still.

Was it foolish arrogance to think you could keep your friends safe? You were made to ruin the world. Is that all you can ever do? You tried to douse the fire in your hands as you held Astarion close. Are you so desensitized to destruction that you can’t even realize when your touch begins to burn?

How many times have you made this mistake? How many times have you hurt him without even knowing?

You wish he hadn’t brought you back.

“I’m so sorry.” Hellfire burns the back of your eyes as hot, molten tears trail down your face. “I never… If I had known I would never have asked that of you.”

Astarion shudders against you. He knows.

But you did, and he did.

At any other time, he would have refused. He would have snapped at you for trying to use him as a means to pursue this ridiculous death wish of yours. Then he would have dragged you back to camp and told the rest of the party exactly what you’d asked of him in the hopes that someone would know how to fix this. Failing that, Astarion wasn’t above tying you up until you came to your senses.

But fear and instinct had taken over after learning about the Rite of Profane Ascension and Astarion had done what he’d always done to stay alive: followed orders. In that moment, you could have asked nearly anything of him and he would have performed without question. It was just his luck that you chose that moment to ask for anything other than bland, vanilla sex.

For the past tenday, he’s worried himself sick over the possibility of you getting yourself killed, and in the end he was the one to kill you. Again.

He can’t even begin to parse through the feelings knotted together inside him. His disgust and self-loathing supercedes them all. He will never be able to scrub himself clean. Even if he somehow managed to crawl out of his own skin, he couldn’t empty your blood from his veins. The bruise on your throat grows darker every minute, and it’s a sight that will haunt him as long as he lives. The past and present blur together. You’re every lover that’s ever died in his arms—all the people who loved him and died for it. Of course this would end the same way. Within a tenday of meeting you, he killed you himself.

Astarion only knows how to do one thing and he’s a professional.

Your instinct is to curl your arms around him and hold him tight. That was what he did for you, that night in Moonrise Towers. But Astarion shudders so violently at the threat of your touch. One hand on his side becomes another, becomes a dozen, becomes every hand that’s ever touched him against his will.

“What do you need from me?” you plead, echoing his own words to you not so long ago. You’ll go to the ends of the earth to help him. You just need to know what direction to turn your blade and you’ll make this right. You’ll make this right if it’s the last thing you do. “How can I help you?”

A low, keening sound escapes Astarion’s lips. “I don’t know,” he gasps. “I don’t know.”

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Astarion gazes out over the empty, dark expanse of the Shadowlands with vacant crimson eyes. He sits cross-legged, hands clutching the ends of the borrowed cloak draped over his shoulders. Periodically, his thumb brushes over the soften, silken weave, distantly admiring the fine make. The silk running over the pad of his thumb is just about the only thing he feels.

You slowly clean up your improvised campsite. You pull on your trousers and straighten your clothes. Then, you carefully smother the fire with your boots and roll up the worn bedroll. After a second of appraisal, you mark it for sale before tying it to your pack. A wayward glance at Astarion shows that he hasn’t moved, his eyes still unfocused and empty. You take a few moments to fix your hair—brushing out the dirt and pinning it back. You don’t bother fixing your braids, knowing that as soon as you reach camp you’ll collapse into your bedroll.

But fixing your hair only takes so long. When you turn back to Astarion after finishing, there are no signs of improvement. With a regretful sigh you take a couple steps towards him, before crouching down, lowering yourself to his level.

“Astarion?” you call tentatively.

He blinks, the fog clearing from his eyes, if only slightly. He turns his face towards you with a blank, empty expression. You’ve never before seen him loudly and ulike this. Despite being undead, Astarion is a man full of life. Ever since you’ve met him, he’s livednabashedly. You would love to one day live without shame, to be you instead of constantly caging yourself behind bars. If you were a different person, perhaps you could. But as things stand, you’ve been content to live vicariously through Astarion.

Seeing him so vacant and lifeless is unnatural. You want nothing more than to bring back his smile. “I… I think it’s clear that… we need to talk,” you say cautiously. There’s a noticeable rasp to your voice—a roughness from being choked that even the resurrection spell couldn’t fully erase.

Astarion’s gaze falls before he wordlessly offers a slow nod.

A sigh of relief escapes your nose. “I’m… glad we’re in agreement.” You lick your lips, finding them cracked and dry. “But I think a night’s rest first would serve us both well.”

Astarion doesn’t respond, instead staring down at his lap. Seeing him like this summons a physical ache in your chest. Your whole body is battered and bruised, both from the day’s events and your recent resurrection. A stiff breeze could knock you to the ground. But the pain you feel for Astarion hurts worse than any other wound. It hurts worse knowing you caused this.

“Are you ready to head back to camp?” you ask. “We can stay here as long as you’d like.”

Astarion purses his lips—the only indication that he heard what you said.

“Or hells, if you’d rather stay somewhere else tonight, I’ll make it work,” you suggest. “I could put you up at Last Light with the Harpers.”

That earns the first genuine display of emotion you’ve seen since his panicked tears dried. His nose scrunches in clear disgust and he sharply shakes his head. A breath of weak laughter escapes your mouth. Your Astarion is still there beneath the numbness, slowly returning to himself.

“Alright. Camp?” you offer once more.

This time Astarion nods once and pushes himself to stand. Instinctively, your hand begins to reach out to take his. More than anything you just want to hold him until all his worries are far, far away. But you stop yourself, forcibly pulling your hand back to your side. Astarion’s eyes catches the aborted movement and he wordlessly recoils at the thought of your touch.

A pregnant silence hangs in the air in the aftermath. A shadow of bitter longing flickers across Astarion’s face. He wants the very same thing you do—to find safety in your arms, the way he has a dozen times before. But the thought of being touched, even by you, makes him want to flay himself alive. Just the same, guilt and regret darken your eyes. You swallow down the emotions burning at the back of your eyes.

Wordlessly, you lead him back to camp. You stay on the fringes of Last Light Inn proper. The celebration has died down, but a few stragglers still remain, trading stories by the fire. The very last thing you want in this moment is to fend off yet another person that wants to congratulate you for a victory that now feels hollow.

You both walk in complete silence, the only sounds the distant, howling wind, and the pad of your footsteps over the hard earth. It isn’t long before the warm glow of camp appears in the distance. Your whole body nearly melts at the familiar sight. The wave of relief is so strong that you actually trip over your own feet. Astarion glances at you with concern, but remains silent as you catch yourself.

It feels like another lifetime that you left camp, but in truth it was only this morning—perhaps twelve hours ago? You’ve been worn down to the bone—mentally, physically, and spiritually. You want nothing more than to collapse onto your bedroll and remain there—perhaps forever, but at least for a long, long time.

A cold sorrow squeezes around your heart when you realize you’ll be trancing alone tonight. It’ll be the first time you’ve rested alone in a long, long while.

Karlach and Wyll are the only ones still chatting by the fire as you and Astarion cut your way across camp. Karlach wolf whistles at your backs while Wyll throws up a hand in greeting. You wordlessly wave back, but don’t stop to chat. Astarion’s only response is to clutch his borrowed cloak tighter around his shoulders.

You lead him to the opening of his tent and stop. You expect him to crawl in unprompted, but instead he stops short beside you. When you take him in, Astarion’s eyes are fixed blankly on the ground, vacant and dull.

You swallow thickly. “Astarion?” you call quietly.

He blinks, some amount of clarity returning to his eyes. Not fully, his eyes aren’t the piercing ruby gemstones you’ve grown to adore, but they’re clear enough to take you in. He looks to you, physically blanches and then looks away.

Your throat tightens at the negative reaction. But at least he has some awareness. You wait for him to move now that he’s at least aware of his surroundings. But his feet stay rooted to the ground and you watch as his eyes begin to cloud once more.

What are you to do in this situation? Under normal circ*mstances, you would struggle to come up with a way to help him. But right now? When your very presence distresses him? It feels impossible. He would hiss at you for thinking it, but he’s so vulnerable. You worry that like before, Astarion would simply follow whatever suggestion you made without consideration for his wants or needs.

How are you meant to navigate that, when he’s either incapable of or unwilling to voice them?

“Is there…” You begin, voice cracking from disuse. “Is there anything you need?”

Astarion blinks again, indicating at least that he heard you. You watch his face carefully, hoping for some indication of his answer, even if he doesn’t give one verbally. But instead you watch his brows draw together, uncertainty and anxiety tightening the lines around his mouth. Every second that passes, his distress only seems to heighten, the breaths he doesn’t even need coming faster and heavier.

“I… never-nevermind, um.” Hells. You don’t want to just dump him on his bedroll and leave. But you also aren’t going to invite yourself inside. “Have you eaten?” you try.

Astarion shrugs, which you interpret as a ‘no.’

You let out a long breath. “Alright. Alright. I’ll go see about getting something for you to eat.” You can’t imagine that hunger is helping Astarion’s mental state. “If you’re tired, it might help to sit down—either out here or in your tent.”

That at least earns a wordless hum. A long-held breath escapes your mouth. Astarion is clearly a far cry from fully recovered, but it’s a least a sign that he’s returning to himself, however slowly.

“Does that sound good?” you ask tentatively. “If you’d rather not be alone I can stay here.”

He shrugs listlessly.

“Alright,” you sigh. You gesture back towards the fire where Karlach and Wyll watch your stiff exchange with muted concern. “I’m going to be near the fire with Wyll and Karlach okay? If you need anything you can come find me or…” you tap your temple, signalling the tadpole.

Astarion makes no response, but for lack of any better ideas, you slowly back away—first a step, then two, then three. After a few seconds, Astarion’s shoulders slump and he ducks his head slightly to enter his tent, the flap closing behind him. That, at least, gives you some comfort. You fully turn towards the fire once he disappears.

Wyll and Karlach make no secret of the fact that they’ve been watching. You suppose it only makes sense—normally Astarion would at least offer a dismissive wave. More likely, he would shamelessly flaunt the fact that he just bedded you to anyone awake to hear him—especially to Karlach.

As you near the fire and both your friends get a better look at your appearance, Wyll’s eyebrows raise in slowly growing alarm. You stop in front of both of them, face carefully blank, doing your best to project an air of authority.

“Wyll, you’re under no—”

“By Zariel’s tit*, Solider, you look worse than when Shadowheart carried you off earlier!” Karlach exclaims, leaning back as she takes you in.

You close your eyes and breathe out your frustration through your nose. You can hardly blame her. Shadowheart was able to heal your wounded shoulder and concussion, but all the minor injuries from your fall earlier still remained. Now, you can feel the dirt staining your hands and hair. Dark purple blotches line the sides of your neck and cheek where your blood vessels burst, in addition to the obvious red staining your good eye. And most telling of all is, of course, the now dark purple-blue bruise spanning the width of your throat.

“Thank you, Karlach.” Wyll’s expression turns severe at the obvious rasp in your voice. “Now, I was about to ask Wyll if you’d be willing to donate some blood tonight.”

Wyll peers at you cautiously. “I have no objections, but I admit I’m surprised. He hasn’t fed on you already?”

You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth as you try to determine the best angle to approach this from. Everyone seems to have—correctly—assumed that Astarion normally feeds on you during sex. The fact that you’ve returned under strange circ*mstances, unbled but somehow still on death’s door is, to put it lightly, not the best look.

“...No.” It’s a fool’s errand, but perhaps if you simply offer nothing, he and Karlach will take the hint.

“Then why in the Hells are you beat to sh*t?” Karlach asks, either not realizing or not caring that you deliberately chose not to answer that question.

You level Karlach with a withering stare. “What, you’ve never had rough sex before?” you challenge.

Karlach returns your stare, her eyes dripping with skepticism. “Mate, there’s rough sex and then there’s”—she gestures in a vague sweeping motion across your entire body—“whatever happened to you.”

You bite the side of your tongue, barely restraining yoursel from telling Karlach to mind her business. The state of your body doesn’t concern her. You’re alive and standing, and that’s what matters. You’ve all suffered various cuts and bruises over the past three months. You’ve had worse. The scar on your chest proves it.

“It doesn’t matter.” You shake your head. “I’ll be right back with a lancet and a bottle.” Without another word, you turn on your heel and head towards the camp chest.

Karlach twists her upper body around to watch you go, shameless in her obvious staring. Wyll is more subtle, instead peering at your carefully beneath furrowed brows. The gentle flicker of the campfire across his face deepens the lines around his eyes. Wyll can only guess at what happened to you in the time you’ve been away. But the bruises on your body and the bloom of crimson red in your eye tell a harrowing tale. Whatever happened to you in the past hour couldn’t have been pleasant.

As soon as you’re out of earshot, Karlach turns to Wyll, leaning across the fire. “What’s up with that, do you think?” she whispers under her breath.

Wyll watches as you unlatch the camp chest, digging around the mess inside. “I can’t say for certain.” His eyes slowly drift to meet Karlach’s. “You’re the only one I’ve seen since you returned from Moonrise. What exactly was different from before?”

Karlach looks skyward, considering. Her only brush with your injuries was when she lifted you out of the boat. At that time, she only held you for a couple minutes before handing you over to Shadowheart’s care. What was different? You were cleaner, for one, your robe had been removed, leaving you in just your undershirt and trousers. If that were all, you should have looked healthier. But that didn’t account for the dirt and grass clumped in your hair, nor the sunkenness of your eyes.

“From what I remember, Halsin said it was a dislocated shoulder and a concussion. I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention because Shadowheart was already there to do her thing.” Wyll nods to signal that he’s listening. “But the bruise and the bloody eye are definitely new.”

Wyll’s mouth pulls into a thin line. Is rough sex truly a sufficient explanation? Wyll has no desire to interrogate you nor does he wish to drag your private affairs into the open. But you have a noted history of bending and molding the truth to fit your purposes, keeping information close to your chest and only letting it out piece by agonizing piece. The only reason they found out about your amnesia was because you yourself admitted to it in a fit of rage. If it hadn’t been for that slip of the tongue, would you all have carried on none the wiser?

Are you trying to pull the wool over their eyes again?

You return with a lancet stolen from the House of Healing. It’s since been boiled and sterilized under Halsin’s guidance, and now serves as an easy way to open a vein for the group’s resident vampire. Easier than trying to use the point of a dagger, anyhow. You sit yourself in the dirt beside Wyll, a glass bottle by your foot.

“Hold out your arm,” you order, holding your palm flat for him to rest on.

Wyll follows your direction, making a tight fist with his hand and laying his wrist in your palm. You hold his arm steady with one hand and use the other to prod at the crook of his elbow, searching for a good vein. Astarion is normally more than happy to drink from you alone, but on days where you’re too injured, it helps to have another option. It’s not often that Astarion takes it. For all Astarion’s whining, he rarely asks for anything.

The guilt you’ve pushed down suddenly surges inside you. You close your eyes against the rising tide, bile rising in your throat. You want nothing more that to just fall on the ground and bury your head in the dirt. Wyll and Karlach’s eyes burn your skin. Their stares pierce you through, unearthing the rot that courses through your veins. Can they see you for what you are? Can they see the dirt beneath your fingernails—woven in your hair—and know how you buried a man you want to adore?

You keep the gate of your teeth tightly shut, bone grinding against bone. You’ve made a terrible mistake—one you’re not sure you can undo.

A warm hand finds your knee. “Something troubles you,” Wyll says gently.

You flinch away from his touch, eyes flying open. “I’m fine,” you hiss, brandishing the lancet like a knife.

Wyll leans back slightly, allowing you your space. You turn your focus back to Wyll’s arm, and Wyll looks sidelong at Karlach who only offers a shrug back. Wyll settles back into a neutral stance, and eventually, you continue your search along his arm.

You find a ripe vein in the crook of his elbow, lifting the empty bottle and holding the rim flat against Wyll’s skin. Wyll purses his lips silently at your knowledge of his anatomy. You instinctively know where to find the best veins, and how to feel them beneath his skin. If you asked Wyll to do the same, his knowledge ends at being able to feel someone’s pulse.

A quick jab interrupts his thoughts as you pierce the skin of his arm. You remove the blade swiftly, and a fresh spring of blood bubbles to the surface. A babbling brook of crimson red flows gently down the inside of his elbow, seeking the ocean. You hold the bottle up to catch the blood, watching as the glass slowly, slowly fills with a wine dark red.

Karlach tilts her head, intrigued. “You know, you’re real good at that, Soldier,” Karlach hums, leaning back on her hands. “Ever think you mighta been a doctor in a past life?”

Your mouth twists into a bitter scowl. “Only in the way that Malus Thorm was a doctor.”

Your companions all watched in horror as Malus Thorm towered over the surgical theater, an undead amalgamation of metal and organic matter. He plucked out the eyes of the sorry bastard on the operating table, then you convinced him to sacrifice himself at Shar’s altar. A stunned, horrified silence filled the chamber afterward, interrupted only by the remaining nurses’ twitching and groaning. Everyone else was disgusted, but you were practically giddy. So much blood, so many organs to play with, all the tools of your trade that you’d missed so dearly. It felt like coming home.

You set aside the lancet to be cleaned later. “I’ve had a lot of hands-on experience with human anatomy,” you say simply.

Even Karlach understands what you aren’t saying.

She visibly grimaces, her nose scrunching in disgust. “Well, it certainly comes in handy either way,” she offers helpfully.

Sweet Karlach, mistaking the iron in your blood for a silver lining. “I suppose it does,” you murmur.

Wyll watches you carefully with a stony gaze. It’s funny, you think, that his false eye seems to pierce you through. Wyll has always had a softness about him—a gentleness that you sorely lack. It was easy to mistake that for weakness, once. But his stone eye is cold and unyielding, without a single trace of the warmth Wyll channels from Avernus itself. Wyll can be just as unyielding and stubborn as you. But he chooses his battles—he chooses when to dig in his heels and stand against the tide. He doesn’t let every wave batter against his shores.

His stone eye pierces you with its chill, but his good eye warms, regarding you fondly. Wyll’s kindness and ferocity are two sides of the same coin. He chooses to be kind and forgiving in spite of the world’s cruelty. It’s a choice that was stolen from you long before you woke.

“It’s funny,” Wyll hums, his eyes smoothly scanning the rest of camp. “The things our bodies remember.”

You follow his gaze, finding Shadowheart’s tent at the end of his gaze. The far-off scent of sweet orchids fills your lungs. Wisps of memory from earlier in the evening flicker at the edge of your consciousness—Shadowheart’s warm arms at your back, the end of her braid tickling your palm as she leaned over your bedside, light glinting of her silver hairpiece. You could so easily imagine curling the end of her braid around your hand and lifting it to your nose. If you inhaled, you knew you would smell apples rotting sweetly.

Shadowheart’s missing memories never stopped her from moving forward. Had she not admitted to the gaps in her memory, you wonder if you would have ever taken notice on your own. Her memories may have been wiped clean, but her body knows how to fight, how to hide, how to mend wounds beneath her gentle hands. She presents herself as hardened and unfeeling, but her touch is gentle as she wipes away all the aches and pains. She has the soul of a healer as much as she tries to hide it.

Wyll continues, “We all saw your thoughts—we all know just how little you truly remember,” he muses.

You tense at the reminder of your group’s understandable distrust of you upon entering Moonrise. You’re still waiting for the devil to collect its due over a tenday later. It doesn’t feel possible that your friends would truly accept your broken memory, or the brief flashes of violence they saw in your head. There has to be a line somewhere that even your friends can’t cross. You wonder if you crossed it tonight—if this is the thing that will finally wear their loyalty thin.

Instead of the horror and revulsion you expected, your friends stared at you in confusion after seeing your memory. They didn’t fear your violence nor your past, but instead felt compassion for a person that doesn’t exist. It doesn’t make sense. Does Wyll feel sorrow for his blade? Does Karlach apologize to her battlexe as is cleaves her enemies in two? Does Astarion mourn every arrow he looses from his bow?

You’re not like them. There is something wrong and broken in you that can never be fixed. How can they not see that?

Slowly, with all the speed of clouds moving across the sky, Wyll’s gaze moves towards Astarion’s tent next. The flap is tightly closed, and the gaudy, bright fabric flutters gently in the breeze. Has he already bedded down for the night? Is he simply lying motionless on his bedroll? Has he moved at all since entering his space? You hope that his tent can offer some measure of comfort, that safety will find him within its walls. You wish there was more you could do.

“Yet you remember this.” Wyll nods at the blood spilling from his arm. “You remember strategy, history, arcane theory…” You’ve spilled blood more times than you could ever hope to count. This might be one of the few times you’ve done so as a means of healing. “I imagine it’s the same for Shadowheart and Astarion. There are many things they’ve forgotten, but just as many that their bodies have held onto.”

You keep watching the bottle in your hand, dark, wine-red blood painting the walls of the bottle red. Is that why Astarion couldn’t tell you to stop? Because for two hundred years, that option wasn’t available? Your mouth suddenly dries, nausea rolling in like a powerful tide. You press your fingertips against your mouth as you fight to suppress a gag. It’s so plain to see in hindsight. You’re exactly the same—you’ve only ever been a weapon, and that’s all you’ll ever be.

But Astarion is so much more than just a body to fill your bed—you would be with him without any sex at all, without so much as touching if that’s what he wants. Your only desire is to be close to him, to care for him the way he deserves. You thought you were—that you could hold him without burning. You didn’t see the smoke until it slipped through your grasp.

Your heart aches for him. You exploited him for a moment of peace you didn’t deserve.

Wyll is right. Without your memory, your body only remembers violence. You only know how to ruin the things you hold in your hands. It’s what you were made for.

You shake your head ruefully. “Perhaps if my body remembered less I could actually be the leader you all deserve,” you spit.

Karlach and Wyll both pause. Slowly, Wyll’s eyes find you, searching your face carefully. Frustration and anger permanently etch themselves into your brow. But in tandem, your guilt is plain to see, evident in the way you physically shy away from Wyll’s scrutiny. You stare pointedly between your feet, unable to meet his gaze.

Karlach leans forward so she, too, can catch a glimpse of your shadowed face. “What are you talking about?” Karlach playfully nudges your shoulder. “You’re a great leader!”

You scoff bitterly. “Really? A good leader wouldn’t need to be rescued from their own incompetence.” Your lip curls back in clear disgust. “You all would have been better off without me.”

It’s so blatantly untrue that Karlach has to meet Wyll’s eyes over your head just to confirm she heard you correctly. The deep furrow stretched between Wyll’s horns tells her that, yes, you did indeed say that. All the levity leaves Karlach at once, her shoulders slumping and the light in her eyes dulling. It shouldn’t be a surprise, not after what Karlach heard when you shared your thoughts. But your confidence and determination makes it easy to forget the awful things she heard you say about yourself. Before your injuries you were so strong of heart and will that Karlach could even convince herself you’d been cured of that self-loathing. Maybe you were just having a particularly bad day, or the revelation about Ketheric bled back into the memory you shared with everyone.

But no, the self-hatred is still there, you’re just good at masking it—the same way you mask almost everything you feel.

“That’s not true,” Karlach says quietly. “Without you, Rolan might be dead.”

“So?” You spit. “I was dead weight. I could have gotten you all killed.”

Wyll sighs through his nose. You hold yourself to an impossible standard in hopes of proving yourself worthy, one no living person could ever hope to meet. You need to be extraordinary to feel worthwhile. But then, when you fail to reach a goal that no mortal could ever hope to achieve, you hold that up as proof that you’re worth less than everyone else. No matter how much evidence they present to the contrary, this is an argument no one can ever win. No one can convince you of your worth if you refuse to believe it.

But damn it all if Wyll isn’t going to try.

“My friend, every leader makes mistakes,” Wyll begins. “Even my father failed to see Thavius Kreeg’s trap and as a result became trapped in Avernus for months. Even he needed to be rescued from the Hells.”

You bite your tongue, holding back your opinion of Wyll’s father. It’s neither the time nor place to espouse all the way you despise a man you’ve never met.

“I can only imagine the chaos back in Baldur’s Gate when that happened,” Wyll hums. “But if my father trained his solders well, they’d know how to conduct themselves in his absence.”

Wyll’s lips curve into a gentle smile, as the memory of late summer evenings in Wyrm’s Rock stretch out before his eyes. As a young boy, he would sneak past the guards stationed at the entrance to the High Hall, and scurry to the upper floors. He would often find his father and the previous Grand Duke in Ulder Ravengard’s office. If Wyll pressed his ear to the door and listened closely, he could make out the faint murmur of the two men discussing the Fist’s movements. The shadows would grow long around them as Ulder Ravengard and Abdel Adrian discussed the city’s defenses well into the night.

Wyll remembers listening to Adrian’s wisdom, strategy and diplomacy, passed from him to his father and then from his father to him. Ulder Ravengard led his Fist with a firm hand and commanded respect through action. But Ulder Ravengard would not be the leader he is today if Gorion’s Ward hadn’t led him first.

“A good commander leads his men—a great one teaches them how to lead themselves,” Wyll finishes.

You raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Right. And at what point is a good leader supposed to get kidnapped and have their brain scrambled?”

An exasperated breath leaves Wyll’s nose. “You’ve been fighting every day for three months, non-stop. You’ve allowed everyone else rest besides yourself.” He shakes his head ruefully. “As strong-hearted as you are, time wears down even the tallest of mountains.”

How can you allow yourself to stop when the Urge nips at your heels? You’ve been outrunning a monster since the moment you woke. If there’s a goal ahead, an obstacle to overcome, you can ignore the riot beneath your skin for just a little while. Better if there are enemies to kill on the way. You can sate your ravenous blood, drop by drop, and stay in control. But no matter how much blood you spill or how many bones crunch between your fists it’s never long before that hunger returns—the whisper in the back of your mind telling you to slice open your wrist and let the fire within you burn the world to the ground.

You have to keep going. You cannot allow yourself to rest. It was so easy to lose yourself earlier. There’s no guarantee that the next time you’ll make it back.

You shake your head vehemently, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. “You don’t understand,” you hiss, the back of your eyes burning. “I can’t stop. If I do I’ll—”

Unravel at the seams. Forget again. Ruin everything.

Karlach gently moves a hand to hover over your shoulder, wanting to touch you, but unsure if her warmth would be welcome. “You’ll what, Soldier?”

“I’ll break.”

Roughly a pint of Wyll’s blood swirls in glass bottle held beneath his elbow. You grab a patch of gauze and press it firmly to Wyll’s wound, handing the blood over to Karlach. You press your lips tightly together, refusing to say another word and instead focusing all your attention on Wyll’s wound. Focus on him, focus on healing, focus on the bandage between your hands.

Wyll watches you carefully, eyes sharp. “What happened while you were gone with Astarion?” His eyes fall to the dark bruise on your neck. “Did he say something to you?”

Your lips curls back over your teeth, the fire in your eyes relighting in an instant. “He has nothing to do with this,” you growl. “He’s not the problem, I am.”

“You’ve never been a problem,” Wyll snaps back, his own stubborn anger flint sparking off the steel edge of your fury.

You fist the bandage tightly in your hands. “Oh really?” You glance over your shoulder at Karlach. “So when I nearly killed the only mechanic capable of fixing your engine, that was fine? No hard feelings?”

You look back at Wyll with a sneer. “Or when I dropped a building on Astarion, no objections?” A dark laugh bubbles out of your throat, edged with hysteria. “Oh, and don’t tell me you’ve forgotten everyone’s favorite—when I disemboweled an innocent woman in the middle of camp. You’re really going to claim none of that was a problem?”

Wyll nearly throws up his hands in frustration. Every conversation with you eventually circles back around to this, this self-flagellation that you refuse to let go. “It would be hypocritical of me to expect you to be free of demons when I invited one into camp,” Wyll shoots back.

You shake your head. What you’ve invited into camp is so much worse. You pull the bandage taut around his arm. A small dot of crimson bleeds through the snow white gauze.

“We all have our issues, Solider.” Karlach finally lays her hand on your shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “But you’ve helped us with ours. We can help you with yours, too.”

That dot of blood grows and grows, and you feel the sticky warmth between your fingers, the cloying smell of copper, digging your thumbs into the incision and pulling his flesh apart, breaking his bones between—

You jerk your hands back to your chest, the bandage on Wyll’s arm unraveling. You stare, wild-eyed at the rivulets of blood trickling down Wyll’s forearm. You curl one hand over the other and pin them against your breastbone, clutching frantically at your collar.

“Soldier?” Karlach places her free hand on your other shoulder, physically holding you up. “What’s wrong?” she asks urgently, here eyes darting over and around the campfire, searching for the cause of such a violent reaction.

You tense beneath her hands and shake your head. “You shouldn’t touch me,” you say quietly. “You shouldn’t be near me.”

“I—okay…” Karlach hesitates, conflicted by the abject misery in your voice.

But you told her to stop touching you, so she stops. You asked for space, so she scoots away, as much as her palms tingle to hold you close. As soon as she lets you go, your whole body begins to shake.

Your lips press firmly together with a wordless whine. You prop your elbows on your knees and fist your hands in your hair, hiding yourself from the world. If you just make yourself small enough, perhaps you can disappear, and none of this will matter anymore. You’ve reached a breaking point, the end of the downward spiral you’ve been on since the very first moment you opened your eyes.

Wyll quickly ties off the bandage around his elbow himself. “We’re here for you. If you need something you need only ask,” he rushes out, desperately trying to reach you through the despair threatening to swallow you whole.

A manic laugh escapes your lips. You briefly entertain the idea of asking Wyll to kill you, too, but quickly dismiss it. It would only hurt Astarion further. You shake your head miserably. “You can’t help me.”

“What makes you say that?” Karlach’s throat tightens, salt burning in her eyes. “There has to be something we can do.” She looks to Wyll desperately, hoping he’ll have some sage advice to make all of this better.

How long has it been since you nearly killed Isobel? An hour? Less? And already the Urge trembles at your fingertips, bidding for control. Is this how it’s going to be? Constantly balancing on the knife’s edge, plunging it into your chest the moment you stumble?

You can’t go on like this. You’ve exhausted every option at your disposal and even still you nearly ended Isobel’s life. You managed to avoid disaster, but already the undertow tugs at your ankle.

“You have been helping me,” you admit. “If it weren’t for all of you I would have given up long ago.” You dig your nails into your scalp, panting through your teeth. “But it’s not working anymore. I’m going to ruin everything and I can’t stop.”

“That’s not true,” Karlach says softly. She squeezes her own knees tight, struggling to keep her hands to herself. “I mean look at us; I used to burn everything I touched, we spent a month knowing Gale might blow up at any point, your boyfriend literally needs to feed off us to survive. But we made it work, yeah? If we can do it, so can—”

“I asked Astarion to kill me.”

The world quiets.

The breath stills in Wyll’s and Karlach’s lungs, the ever-present wail of the wind over the Shadowlands pauses. For one moment, between one breath and the next, everything is at peace. If you could just stay here, forever trapped in this moment, then nothing could ever hurt you. More importantly, you would never hurt anyone else, either.

But time moves forward whether you want it to or not.

Your admission snatches Karlach’s voice from her throat and violently smothers it. Karlach’s mouth hangs open, parted around words that refuse to come. Wyll’s entire body goes rigid, his posture pulled suddenly straight—instinctively preparing for an assault. He stares at you, unable to look away, as you shrink within yourself—as if you could simply disappear if you make yourself small enough. As if disappearing is what you want

The pieces come together slowly. Your pallid skin, Astarion’s unnatural silence, the bruise painting your throat a sickly blue. A horrifying picture begins to resolve in Karlach’s and Wyll’s minds.

“... and what did Fangs say?” Karlach asks, the pit of dread in her stomach telling her she already knows the answer.

Your lips press firmly together in a thin line, and that in itself is answer enough.

It’s difficult for either of them to wrap their minds around. There’s a hundred questions dancing on the tip of Karlach’s tongue. To her, Astarion is willful and stubborn—if he’s asked to do something even remotely distasteful, he makes his displeasure well known to anyone in hearing distance. It feels impossible to imagine him doing anything he didn’t fully approve of.

But Karlach remembers well the wild look in Astarion’s eyes when he was separated from you. It’s a look she’ll never forget. Prim, proper, uncaring Astarion lost all reason and began to act out of pure desperation. He put his life on the line and quite literally took a leap of faith. The Astarion she met three months ago would never do something so foolish. Even the Astarion of today would ruthlessly mock anyone foolish enough to do what he did earlier.

It’s difficult to imagine Astarion indulging your morbid fantasy after working so hard to keep you alive. But then again, when it comes to you, Astarion seems to lose all sense. You’re the party’s face for a reason, and it’s not because of your sunny disposition. They’ve all watched as you talked circles around three undead horrors, allowing them just enough rope to hang themselves with. Karlach’s pretty sure you could convince her of almost anything. Astarion may be more stubborn, but he’s also besotted.

Karlach glances back at Astarion’s tent over her shoulder, then the bottle of still-warm blood in her hands. She turns back to Wyll, whose pain and shock shows clearly in the sharp downturn of his lips. Karlach tips her head back towards Astarion’s tent and holds up the bottle of blood. Wyll nods in understanding.

Karlach reluctantly pulls away, watching you warily all the while. “This isn’t over, yeah? I’m not letting you just brush this off like you always do.” She tips her head in Wyll’s direction. “But I think I should go check on Fangs. Wouldn’t want the Blade’s blood to get cold on him.”

A soft breath escapes through your nose, a faint echo of a laugh. “Please.” You don’t want Astarion to be alone, even though you think you need to stay away.

Karlach gets up slowly. As she does, Wyll smoothly slides in to take her place. He presses his palms together, clasped between his knees as if to keep them from instinctively reaching out. Wyll’s good eye is red—just like yours, just like Astarion. But the softness in his gaze doesn’t call to mind visions of flayed skin and wriggling organs. Instead you see a field of vibrant poppies swaying gently in the spring breeze. He sits for a long quiet moment beside you, watching your shoulders shake against the chill.

It’s no secret how much you crave touch. Every spare moment you lean into someone’s shoulder near the campfire, or twirl Astarion’s hair around your fingers. You let yourself fall easily into Karlach’s arms as her skin burns gently throughout the night. Shadowheart’s long, dark hair spills through your fingers as you carefully braid it—you wipe the stains from beneath her eyes when her incurable wound brings her to her knees.

When you lean against someone or they wrap you in their arms, your whole body melts. So why are you denying yourself that comfort now?

“Would you like me to hold you?” Wyll finally asks, unable to watch you suffer alone anymore.

You want to be held more than anything. You want to know that your flesh is whole and unbroken, that you’re still here in this body and in this moment, that you haven’t lost yourself beneath the rising waves. But your blood feels so volatile—one spark and it will ignite.

You shake your head, gritting your teeth. “You shouldn’t,” you gasp miserably.

“That isn’t what I asked,” Wyll says firmly.

You hesitate. “Of course I want it,” you hiss through your teeth.

That’s all Wyll needs to hear. He places a gentle hand between your shoulderblades, and rubs in slow circles. Karlach’s heavy footsteps grow faint as she walks away. Eventually the only sounds are yours and Wyll’s breaths accompanied by the crackle of the campfire.

You don’t say anything, bent over with your elbows on your knees, head hung low between your shoulders. The past hour has been a blur—your mind struggles to wrap around everything that’s happened, all the emotions and thoughts that have run their course through you. Whatever took hold of you when you saw Isobel poisoned the well of your thoughts. All your actions before and after warp around that one moment in time—so intense and powerful that the very foundation of who you are cracked beneath the pressure.

You didn’t know it could be like that. You didn’t know it was still possible for you to feel complete. Your body feels—somehow—emptier than it did before, now that you know how it felt to be whole. The hollow void inside you has ached sinced the moment you woke, but now you know the exact weight and shape of the puzzle pieces that used to fill your ribcage. You were able to unstick the shards of glass from your lungs and reform them into a bloody mosaic. Now, the glass has shattered again, and opened new wounds along the walls of your chest cavity.

Wyll lets out a heavy sigh. “I suppose my first question is why you would ask for someone to…” He trails off, unable to make his lips form around the truth of what you’ve done.

You shrug listlessly. “I mean, isn’t it obvious?” A half-formed laugh rakes across the inside of your throat. “I wanted to die.”

Wyll visibly flinches at hearing the words spoken so plainly. “Yet here you are,” he murmurs. “So you also wanted to come back.”

A long breath escapes your nose. “I couldn’t abandon all of you.”

Wyll waits for more, for you to say that it was a lapse in judgment, a poor alternative to a sleeping draught, hells, even just idle curiosity would be better than leaving it there. But no sound breaks the silence.

Wyll swallows the knot in his throat. “Is that truly the only reason you want to live?”

You pause for a long time, so long that Wyll begins to think you may have dozed off. But after a minute of tension, you speak again, and your words shatter the night’s silence. “What other reason would there be?”

What does Wyll even say to that? He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the argument he knows is coming. They have no idea when you were born, but you can’t be older than a hundred. You have so many more years stretching out ahead of you—a vibrant, full life waiting to be lived. You’ve only seen the sun set over the Emerald Grove and the mountain pass where you found Rosymorn Monastery. You still have yet to see sunlight shine across the Sea of Swords, glittering like a thousand sapphires. You have yet to climb the steps of High Hall and gaze out over the whole of the Gate. There are so many places you haven’t been, so many wonders you haven’t seen. How can you think that what’s right in front of you is the only thing worth living for?

“Every person you meet will have a different answer,” Wyll murmurs quietly, squeezing your shoulder. “Some people live to serve. Others seek out the world’s beauty. Many find meaning in the mundane—in the taste of good food and the pleasure of good company.”

All of those are things you cannot have. You’ve already been down this road before. You tried to find meaning and purpose in your allies and it led you here. How can you find any joy in the world at all when your very touch corrupts anything you hold?

You open one eye, peering at Wyll on the edge of your peripheral vision. “Then why do you want to live?” you ask with an edge of bitterness.

The answer comes easily, one that Wyll has held close since he was seventeen and his father cast him from their home. “I am needed as long as there are still people I can save.” His chest swells with pride involuntarily, and he presses his closed fist to his heart in a familiar salute.

You let your eye fall closed again, a wave of exhaustion coursing through you. “How is that reason any different from mine?” you laugh morosely. “We both want to live for other people.”

That gives Wyll pause. He won’t deny that there’s some truth to your words. Ever since he was a child and his father told him of duty and justice, Wyll has pledged his life to the people of Baldur’s Gate. He took on the burdens that others could not, he became strong so that people could choose to live mundane, happy lives, so that families could stay together, and the world might be a better place.

“I don’t solely want to live for others,” he insists. “I believe there is a lot of good to be done on the Sword Coast and not enough hands to do it. I can still make the world a kinder place.”

A humorless breath leaves your nose. “A kinder place for who?” you ask dryly. “When you’re slaying elementals in the wilds or hunting devils through Avernus, do you think you’ll get to enjoy any of the peace you’ve won?”

Wyll remains quiet for a long moment, hands fisting on his knees. You’ve supplanted the despair in your eyes with a temperamental spark, challenging him to prove you wrong. Wyll can’t decide whether he’s more relieved or frustrated at your sudden show of obstinance.

“One day I’ll set down my sword,” he says simply. “Then I can enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

You open both eyes and tilt your head to level Wyll with a doubtful glare. “Will you?” you ask flatly. “Or will you keep fighting well into your twilight years and go out with a blade in your gut?” Wyll’s mouth tightens at the corners. “Be honest with yourself. I think I’ve gotten to know you fairly well over the past three months, and I know where I’d place my money.”

Wyll’s mouth twists sharply, indignation burning in his good eye. He knows exactly what you’re doing—turning the spotlight on him to deflect from your own problems. Whenever someone tries to chisel at the cracks in your stone façade, your first line of defense is to hold up a mirror, reflecting your friends’ flaws back at them. You’re alarmingly perceptive and insightful when it comes to your allies, yet fail to examine any of your own motivations.

“That’s a question for the future.” Your tongue isn’t the only one made of silver, and Wyll’s deflects just as easily. “We’re talking about what happened tonight.”

You upper lips curls back in a bitter scowl. “Fine,” you hiss.

You sit up slowly from your hunched over position, hands dangling limply between your legs. You find the campfire with your eyes, its embers burning low, flecks of gold-orange-red reflect in your stare. Wyll’s stony gaze prickles the skin of your cheek, his attention steadfast and unwavering. You can barely stand it. You want to crawl into a hole and never come out, to hide away from the world, and all the horrific things you’ve done—all the horrific things you’re going to do. You don’t want to sit here and admit your greatest shame to the man who believed in you when you didn’t deserve it.

There’s a long pause where the bitterness slowly fades from your expression, the lines on your face softening to the more familiar blankness. Instinctively, you touch your fingers to the space above your heart, expecting to hear the familiar crinkle of parchment—of a story penned by a child that thought you a hero many months ago. But your palm only finds the soft cotton of your undershirt and cold, scar-riddled skin. You glance down.

Right. You keep Mirkon’s story tucked in your robe. You clutch your shirt in your fist, feeling strangely exposed without the comforting texture beneath your hand. Wyll, of course, understands what you’re looking for. He clasps his hand over yours, his palm warm as he holds you against his side.

“Why did you believe in me?” you ask quietly, staring down at your joined hands over your heart.

Wyll smooths his thumb over the ridges of your knuckles. “At the time, I thought I understood that you were struggling to break free of your upbringing—the life you led in Menzoberranzan.” Wyll turns his gaze skyward for a moment, contemplative. “I suppose now I know that’s not the case.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “for letting you believe a lie.”

Wyll shrugs. “It hardly matters now. Whatever demons plagued you, you overcame them and that’s what matters,” he says, clear pride in his voice.

You wish so badly to be the person he thinks you are. “I didn’t overcome anything, Wyll,” you whimper. “I just got better at hiding it.”

You failed him. Wyll believed in you in spite of all the reasons you gave him not to. He gave you so many chances to change, to become a better version of yourself. But you couldn’t do it. No matter how much you tried. All Wyll’s belief did for you was prolong the inevitable.

Wyll says nothing, only continues to hold you close.

“What did you see in me that made you think I deserved a chance?” Your voice cracks.

You remember who you were back then—cold, bitter, volatile. The only thing resembling emotion that crossed your face was frigid disdain for everyone in your path. They were all beneath you—obstacles to be overcome. You needed the other people infected with the mindflayer tadpole for protection and only that. They served no other purpose. If you had ever had any emotions, they’d been carved out. You were empty and unfeeling and everything was easier.

Until Wyll took you aside and told you that you could change—that you could decide for yourself the life you wanted. You looked at your bloodied hands and Alfira’s corpse, torn open at your feet, and asked yourself: is this what I want? You barely knew what it meant to want something. But you cast your gaze around camp, at the six people that have been thrust into this strange journey alongside you, and thought: I don’t want to do this alone.

That was where the struggle against your aching blood truly began, and it’s persisted ever since.

Wyll squeezes the hand over your rotten heart. “I saw someone with a future stretching out before them, given the chance to build something new,” he says, voice kind but firm—just the way it was the first night he tried to connect with you. Just the way it’s always been.

“Is that what you saw in me?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “Or is that what you wanted to see in me?”

“No,” Wyll says, voice short and commanding. “I know what I saw. You need only look around to see it for yourself.” He casts his gaze across the tents encircling the campfire, the people he once considered strangers now closer than his only family. “You have built something here—something to be proud of.”

You open your eyes and follow his gaze—Lae’zel, Halsin, Gale, Shadowheart, Karlach, Astarion—they mean everything to you. It’s still true that you can’t take on the Absolute alone, but more than that you don’t want to. You want to stay with them, every day, for as long as you can. You want warm nights of food, and drink, and dancing around the campfire. You want ripples of laughter as you swap jokes during long hikes on the road. You want to be held, just like this.

But you think you may have worn out the clock for as long as you can.

“What if you couldn’t save people anymore?” you ask softly, not daring to meet Wyll’s eyes. “What if being near you put people in danger?”

Wyll glances at you, trying to read your face. It’s difficult, sometimes, to understand when the words you say are intended as a confession and when you’re deflecting. From your tone of voice and the way you won’t meet his gaze, Wyll thinks this might be the former.

“In a way, I already do, don’t I?” he asks. “It certainly isn’t safe being in contact with Mizora, even indirectly.”

You sigh in frustration, looking down at your lap for a moment. “Alright, let me be clearer, then.” This time when you look up, you do meet his eyes—your own vacant, all the emotion carefully driven out. “What if, at any moment, Mizora could appear without warning and kill anyone near you?”

Wyll reels back at the sudden vivid imagery. Even the mere thought sickens him to the core. There have been times where he’s worried about just that—times where Mizora has whispered in his ear when she felt he was skirting the rules of their contract. He’s fairly certain Mizora wouldn’t—she would more likely hold the possibility over his head to strongarm him into another deal. But the idea of watching it unfold in reality terrifies him.

“I suppose I would try to find a solution as quickly as possible,” Wyll says simply, his lips pressed into a thin line.

You nod stiffly. “That’s more or less what I expected.” You slip your hand from beneath Wyll’s and squeeze both of your knees tightly. You take a deep, steadying breath and close your eyes. “I wasn’t thinking clearly when I asked Astarion to… to kill me.” You bite the inside of your cheek, bone cutting through flesh. “But it’s a solution.”

A shockwave shudders through the whole of Wyll’s body as his heart shatters. He remembers the first days of your journey, the untamed, emotionless drow he met back then—every bit the villain he read of in his stories. But he watched you carefully—at first keeping a wary eye on your movements—and realized there was far, far more beneath the surface than you let on. What he—and the others—first mistook as callous and emotionless was a defensive wall you forced yourself behind.

You took care of your allies wordlessly, without even acknowledging the aid you offered. You showed your care in harpy feathers left on Wyll’s bedroll, pelts of animals Lae’zel had never felt left outside her tent, physically putting yourself between the drow you met in the Underdark and the rest of your allies. Your heart has an immense capacity for empathy and compassion. Your loyalty and devotion could put the paladins of Baldur’s Gate to shame. You feel greatly and deeply, but you either refuse to let it show or simply don’t know how.

Wyll cares for you just as deeply—how could he not? You ran into a burning building on his command without a thought. You never shied away after his transformation. When you saw the first opportunity to negotiate with Mizora on his behalf you seized it, something he never would have dared on his own.

He loves you—deeply and truly. This force beyond your control won’t change that. Precious little could.

“Do you think your life isn’t precious?” Wyll knows the answer—he bore witness to endless stream of self-loathing that runs through your head.

You blink at him, stunned. “What?” you ask, thrown off-guard by the question.

Wyll wraps his other arm around your front to knit his fingers together on your shoulder. “Do you think we care for you any less than you do for us?”

You fall into his arms, ducking your head into his embrace. Both of your hands reach up to clutch the arm over your chest. “I don’t deserve it,” you murmur miserably against his skin.

“I understand feeling unworthy.”

A life raised by Ulder Ravengard? Of course he knows unworthiness. He will forever be unworthy in the eyes of the person he loves and respects above all else—and that is a truth he has spent all of his adulthood trying to overcome.

Wyll rests his cheek atop your head. “But it isn’t your place to tell others not to love you.”

Your breath stutters in your lungs. Love. If you barely understand what it means to want then the concept of love is entirely alien. But the word holds weight. It means something to hear Wyll say it. It brings burning, molten tears to your eyes that you bury in the fabric of Wyll’s shirt.

“Your life may not be precious to you, but it is to me,” Wyll echoes the words you said to Gale in what feels like another lifetime. “I have no intention of letting you go that easily.”

Your eyes burn with the weight of all your failures. “Why did you make me care so much?” you whimper into Wyll’s shoulder. “Everything was so much easier when I didn’t care.”

You were made to slaughter the world—to walk its surface and leave the very ground beneath your feet sundered. Whoever used to own you wielded your body as a blade and carved out your heart. What use does a weapon have for joy or compassion? Why would a monster find beauty in a world that was never meant for them? Why were you left with this wretched, inescapable yearning for things you can only burn?

Wyll sighs, his arms the only thing holding you together as you crumble apart. “I don’t think there was ever a time you didn’t care,” he murmurs, cheek pressed against the top of your head. “I think you cared a great deal—you just didn’t know how.”

Somehow, a beating heart still hides within your chest—rotten, calcified, and fetid, but alive all the same. It’s a part of yourself that your old life failed to kill. A part that struggles, and aches, and burns with every breath you draw. Did you wake up on the nautiloid looking for a place to belong, waiting for someone to awaken this long-buried agony? Or was it something that grew from your ashes—something new springing forth from fertile earth?

When Wyll took your hand and promised you a future—a life that you could make your own—what choice did you have but to yearn for it? When a child looked at you and saw a hero, how were you supposed to want to be anything else? When Astarion held you and called you a kindred spirit, how could you do anything but fight for survival?

Whether you’ve always held this capacity to care since the moment you were forged or if it grew there anew—that longing is woven into your flesh, now. There’s no way to unwind it from your bones. You cannot rid yourself of this ache through any means other than death. Perhaps not even then.

Emptiness was easier. Death was easier.

“It still hurts,” you croak against Wyll’s chest. “No matter what I do, it hurts.”

Wyll’s own throat tightens, your own despair bleeding into his. He isn’t sure whether it’s his tadpole siphoning off some of the overwhelming ache in your chest, or simply the burden of watching a dear friend fall apart in his grasp.

“How many times have you promised to shoulder our pain for us?” Wyll asks, squeezing you tight.

You’ve stood against the will of several gods, an archdevil, and a Vampire Lord. Is it any wonder that the weight is too much for one person to carry? Wyll understands that there is a darker force at play—something inside you that poisons your mind. He isn’t sure what exactly it is that forces your hand, whether it’s an affliction of the mind or a result of the wounds your body suffered. But no matter the source, it’s not a weight you should bear alone.

“Everyone in this camp would do the same for you,” Wyll vows. “It’s a heavy weight you carry—but you don’t have to bear it alone.”

For all your middling strength, you try to carry the entire world on your shoulders—the safety of your friends, the will of the gods, and the burden of your bloody past. Is it any wonder that you’ve finally crumbled beneath the weight? But it’s your sun-warmed iron will that’s given Wyll and the others the strength to keep going when their lives fell apart. The bonds you’ve made between your allies have been forged in fire, solid and unyielding even as the world spins out of control.

You have every right to lean on that bond the same way Wyll and the others have leaned on you. “There’s no joy in watching you suffer for us,” he says against the crown of your head. “Let us take care of you.”

When he pleads with you so sweetly, what else can you do but give in?

“Okay,” you murmur, curling tightly against his side. “Okay.”

Karlach quietly takes a seat in front of Astarion’s tent, cross-legged on the ground. She raps her knuckles loudly on the table near the flap, a sound that’s become a substitute for knocking on a door.

“Fangs, you still up?” she asks quietly at the shuttered tent flap. “I have some blood for you, if you’re up for eating.”

Karlach waits in silence for a response, expecting a familiar voice to either invite her in or tell her to leave it outside the tent. But a few moments pass without response. She glances at the bottle in her hands, still warm from Wyll’s veins, now heated by Karlach’s skin. It’d be a shame to let it go cold and force poor Astarion to drink it chilled. Everything’s better with a warm meal, especially for Astarion who can’t produce his own heat.

Karlach raps her knuckles on the table again, a bit louder. “Fangs? It’s still warm, if you want it.”

This time, there’s a faint rustling sound inside the tent, before the flap begins to roll up. Astarion raises it enough to leave a gap big enough for him to crawl through before tying it off. Karlach isn’t entirely sure what she expected to see inside. She supposes she’d been prepared for crying, anger, most likely Astarion having slipped back into his usual mask, all loose and flirty.

Instead she finds Astarion resting on his side—knees curled up but not quite in the fetal position—a ratty, dirt-smeared blanket covering his body, and a single lumpy pillow beneath his head. Astarion stares out blankly through the tent flap, almost completely expressionless. The red rimming his eyes and nose stick out clearly on his pale skin, but all his tears seem to have long dried.

Karlach wants nothing more than to give him a big hug and keep him safe in her arms, but she knows it would be a huge overstep. Karlach waits another few moments for Astarion to speak, but he makes no move to even acknowledge Karlach’s presence. Carefully, Karlach leans forward to place the bottle on the ground just inside Astarion’s tent. Once she does, Astarion slowly reaches out to grab it then bundles it against his chest.

Karlach smiles sadly. “So… Soldier told us a little bit of what happened,” Karlach begins.

Immediately, Astarion’s whole body stiffens, his shoulders squaring.

“Don’t worry! You don’t have to say anything,” Karlach says quickly, holding up both hands, palm facing out. “I just thought I’d come offer some company in case you didn’t want to be alone.”

Astarion relaxes, if only slightly. He pushes himself up on his elbow to sip the bottle of blood Karlach brought him. After a sip, he settles back onto his side, eyes glassing over again.

“Um, so I guess… do you want me to stay?” Karlach asks.

Astarion briefly glances at her before his eyes fall. He shrugs.

“Okay. Do you want me to go?” Karlach offers, trying to get closer to something resembling a direct answer.

She gets one, when Astarion stiffens again, looks at the bottle in his hand, then shakes his head once.

Karlach smiles slightly, glad to have helped just a little bit. “Okay, then! I can sit here for a bit.”

They sit in companionable silence for a minute or two, Astarion slowly sipping his blood while Karlach’s eyes roam Astarion’s tent. He has a lot of knickknacks, not that Karlach herself is any better. But Astarion’s crap must be a pain to lug around. There’s the stone table, the stool, the giant mirror. Why does Astarion have a mirror, anyway?

“So… how does Wyll’s blood taste?” Karlach finally asks, needing to fill the empty air.

Astarion gives her a strange look. Karlach smiles and holds up a hand, wiggling her fingers. “C’mon, out of five?”

Astarion considers for a moment before flashing three fingers. “Okay, okay, not bad then. What about Soldier?”

Astarion immediately flashes a five without hesitation. “Alright, I see. How do you think mine tastes?” Karlach laughs.

Astarion narrows his eyes, takes an idle sip of Wyll’s blood, then purses his lips in deep contemplation. Briefly, he even leans forward to sniff the air before finally considering the question. Eventually he flashes a tentative four fingers.

Karlach beams. “Thanks for stroking my ego, Fangs,” she laughs.

A ghost of a smile curls at the corner of Astarion’s mouth as Karlach’s laughter fades. Her presence… it helps. All he could do for the past few minutes was lay on his bedroll in complete silence, staring at the ceiling. He would switch violently between being completely removed from his body and shaking uncontrollably as he relived one of Cazador’s tortures. With Karlach here, he’s kept tethered to his body, unable to fully leave. But he’s also safe from the violence of his past.

He’s grateful that she hasn’t asked him about what happened. But it weighs on him even still. She must think him a real bastard. He wasn’t the one who died, so why is he completely shattered while his lover—the one he hurt—is fully functioning?

Why should he care what Karlach or anyone else thinks of him? It doesn’t matter—you like him regardless, and you’ll make them cooperate with him no matter how much he gets on their nerves. They need him to survive and that should be good enough. He thinks of the book—The Tharchiate Codex—and the lengths that everyone has gone to keep him safe. Your group cares about him, for more than what he has on offer. And despite himself, Astarion cares about them, too.

Astarion sets aside the bottle of blood, suddenly too nauseous to drink, and slumps over onto his back. He nervously fists a hand in the old blanket covering him and pulls it up to his chin. Even centuries later, Astarion can still smell the grave dirt worn between its threads. It was one of the few things buried with him when he awoke in that coffin—before crawling up through the dirt. This blanket and the clothes on his back were proof that someone must have cared about him, once. They cared enough to dress him in fine clothes and wrap his body in silk. They were some of the last people to care about him.

He hid The Tharchiate Codex and The Necromancy of Thay in the corner of his tent, bundled inside a heavy blanket. Those tomes are proof that someone cares for him now.

Astarion throws an arm over his eyes. “I wasn’t there,” Astarion croaks.

Karlach immediately stops her fidgeting and gives Astarion her full attention. All bravado and affected disinterest has been stripped from his voice, leaving only the fear that perpetually simmers below Astarion’s skin. He’s never dared to be this vulnerable in front of Karlach. She holds her breath, worried that one wrong move will cause Astarion to withdraw back into himself, tuck all the guilt and weakness he feels deep inside him, and Karlach will never be able to draw it out again.

He needs this. Astarion wouldn’t open up to her if he didn’t.

Astarion clutches the blanket beneath his chin. “I was trapped in the past and I just… did what I was told,” Astarion admits quietly. “I didn’t think about it.”

A long silence stretches between them as Karlach carefully considers the words she wants to say next. For a decade she, too, did what she was told, no matter how gruesome or unsavory. She didn’t have a choice but to follow orders, bound to Zariel by her mechanical heart. At first, it was torture, fighting in the Blood War, cutting down soldiers who likewise, never had a choice. Karlach was just a pawn in Zariel’s plans, fighting against other pawns on the behalf of archdevils.

It was agony, killing people no matter how much they begged for mercy. It was easier to just stop thinking entirely.

“I think… I get it, in a way,” she admits. “It’s the same for me when I rage, yeah?”

There was a time when Karlach didn’t hold so much fury inside her. She was just a common foot soldier with no formal training—taught only by a life in the backstreets of Baldur’s Gate. She was tall and broad-shouldered, but other than that, there was little remarkable about her. She was just another bodyguard standing at the sidelines, keeping a close eye on her surroundings while Gortash tended to his duties.

But then he sold her to Zariel. There had been so much anger and despair inside her that if she didn’t find some way to manage it, she would go mad. So she turned that anger into a weapon—brandished it against every devil in her path. When the rage consumed her and her mechanical heart poured fire into her veins, she could forget everything she lost. There was nothing else but her burning skin, the axe in her hands, and an endless horde of demons to slaughter.

She would kill and kill and kill until her rage burned out and every muscle in her body ached. At that point, exhaustion would take over. She would return to the barracks and find the nearest flat surface to pass out on. She didn’t give herself time to think about her family, Gortash, or Baldur’s Gate. She kept herself furious and exhausted so that there would simply be no space for anything else.

“All you have to do is point me at the nearest baddie, and I can just turn my brain off.” Karlach leans back on her hands. “Even though I’m not in Avernus anymore, I still fight the same way.”

Astarion moves his arm slightly to peek at Karlach with one eye. Briefly, an understanding passes between them. They’ve both always understood that their circ*mstances are similar—forced to use their bodies on someone else’s behalf. But it’s the first time either of them has admitted it out loud—the first time Astarion has looked at Karlach and thought she might truly understand what it means to be a passenger in your own flesh.

Karlach smiles privately to herself, eyes falling to her lap. “I mean, you remember those fake paladins of Tyr, right?”

A breath of laughter leaves Astarion’s nose. “I doubt I could ever forget.” It had been the first time Karlach had truly impressed him—the way she tore madly through the tollhouse, smashing anything she could get her hands on and burning the rest to ash. A sick, twisted envy slithered through his veins, watching her reduce her would-be captors to cinders. He couldn’t help but imagine how he would burn down the Szarr Palace given the chance.

Melancholy crowds the edges of Karlach’s smile. “Well, it’s like that. I just started destroying everything.” She shrugs listlessly. “I don’t even remember any of it. It just felt like I would burn up if I didn’t do something.”

Astarion swallows thickly, seeing far too much of himself in Karlach’s admission. He feels most at ease when someone else makes his decisions for him, when he can follow orders knowing the consequences will be on your head. So far, every time he’s tried to make a decision on his own, it’s come back to bite him in the arse. First when he tried to drink your blood, then when he decided to manipulate your feelings, and finally when he tried to put his foot down, and force you to take a break.

He can only ever look at what’s right in front of him and act based on the terror crackling beneath his skin. He was hungry so he fed. He needed protection so he used you. You needed rest so he tried to force your hand. He never thought any farther than the present—he never considered what he’d do in the future. Now the future has arrived, and the threads of all the lies he’s woven are strangling him, keeping him from saying the things he desperately wants to.

Astarion closes his eyes. “I… I’ve made a horrible mess of things,” he finally admits quietly. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

Karlach purses her lips. “Well, it seems like you both regret what happened. I think if you just talk it out, it should be okay, yeah?”

Astarion shakes his head miserably. “Not… not just that,” he says glumly. “From the very beginning, I…” Astarion covers his face again with his arm, hiding. “I haven’t been honest. I-I don’t know if I can make it right.”

Karlach thinks Astarion is giving himself far too much credit. Everyone in camp knew he was laying it on thick from the very beginning. When he tried to flirt with you, it was like his entire personality shifted. He went from the prickly, abrasive bastard they traveled with every day to some caricature of a suave, mysterious casanova. The way he acts around you now is dead giveaway, even if his earlier persona wasn’t.

But Astarion is disheartened enough at the moment. Karlach isn’t going to tell him that they all knew he was full of sh*t months ago.

“I mean, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” she asks, earning a wordless grumble from Astarion. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be okay. You’re both smitten with each other.”

Astarion knows that. But is caring for each other truly enough when neither of you even know how?

“You think some silly little butterflies in my stomach are enough to fix the mess I’ve made?” he spits harshly.

Karlach tilts her head. “No,” she says simply. “But you want to make things right, don’t you?”

Astarion exhales through his nose. “I-I suppose. I just don’t know how,” he admits quietly.

Karlach considers him for a moment, the vulnerable man laying on his bedroll, admitting his faults. Seeking advice for a problem he doesn’t know how to handle. Karlach can’t help the swell of pride in her chest. It feels something like a miracle, to see two hundred years of learned behavior begin to unwind itself over just a few short months—to begin to see the man buried beneath six feet of dirt, awash in sunlight once more.

A warm smile curls on Karlach’s lips. “You’ve already come a long way, y’know.” She tries to push the pride out of her voice, knowing Astarion might draw back upon hearing it. “I think you should just keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

Astarion moves his arm to shoot her a caustic glare. “What I’ve been doing got my lover killed, so pardon me for doubting your assessment.”

Karlach levels him with a point look. “Yeah, and the first time you were a real arse about it, so I think this is an improvement.”

The first time, because he already killed you once before.

Astarion rolls back onto his side, using his pillow to shield half his face from view. “And perhaps the next time I get my lover killed I’ll be even better.” He closes his eyes tightly. “You know, everyone that’s ever cared about me ends up dead?” He swallows around the sudden tightening of his throat. “What does that say about me?”

Karlach glances over her shoulder, where Wyll holds you bundled tightly in his arms. “Soldier looks pretty spry for a dead person.” That earns a breath of a chuckle from Astarion. “And that’s not true. There are six people in this camp that care about you and none of us have died.”

“Yet.”

Karlach clicks her tongue. “I mean, that’s not really fair is it? Everyone dies eventually. You can’t blame yourself for a death that hasn’t even happened yet.”

Astarion presses his lips tightly together. She has a point and he knows it, but he petulantly refuses to admit it aloud. Instead he just sulks, silently pressing himself deeper into his sheets, his burial shroud tucked tightly around him. A long moment of silence passes, where Karlach looks over him, bundled carefully in one of the few places he’s ever been safe.

Karlach sighs softly. “I get it, y’know?” A somber smile spreads across her lips, eyes hooded. “There were lots of decent folk in Avernus who were in the same position I was.” Karlach’s eyes fall, their amber flame dulling slightly. “I never let myself get close. Not only because of”—Karlach gestures at the bright glow of the engine beneath her sternum—“but I knew they would probably end up dead. It was easier to just stay angry than try to deal with… any of that.”

Astarion opens his eyes to watch her for a long moment. A familiar bitterness slithers around his heart, burning hot envy poisoning his veins. He’s spent the past three months trying to untangle the knot of emotion and twisted logic around his heart. After two hundred years of either being told how to feel or training himself to feel nothing at all, he can barely even identify the constant ache in his chest much less put it into words. Yet here Karlach is, doing just that, so easily and succinctly. When she speaks a sudden weight lifts from his chest, as he thinks, oh, that’s what’s been hurting all this time. It’s maddening to think Karlach somehow knows what he feels better than himself.

Part of him wants to throw the blood bottle at her and tell her to get the hells out of his tent. But another part still doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.

Karlach is far too kind—too understanding. There must be a limit somewhere to the amount of grace one person can grant. But Astarion has yet to find it—instead Karlach shows her compassion freely and vibrantly. She smiles so brightly, even in the face of death. Astarion wishes he could be that carefree.

“How is it so easy for you?” Astarion hisses, burying his face in his pillow. “Aren’t you afraid of being stabbed in the back again?”

“I mean, yeah.” Karlach picks at a loose thread on her trousers. “It’s a scary thing to trust again after being betrayed by someone I thought the world of.”

She has to pause, her throat and chest suddenly tight with an emotion she so rarely lets herself feel. He mouth tightens at the corners, her teeth clenched tightly together. She won’t cry over that bastard. He doesn’t deserve it. It’s so much easier for her to be angry, to rage about how Gortash stabbed her in the back, than to acknowledge just how much it hurt—how much it still hurts.

After a moment, the feeling passes, and she can speak without the threat of tears. “But the first thing that happened after I met you guys was Wyll taking the fall for me.”

It had been awful at the time, watching someone else hurt on her behalf. Wyll may have chased her through Avernus, but it was plain to see he was a good bloke. She understood why he thought her a monster—she’d done any number of horrific things on Zariel’s behalf. She had more innocent blood on her hands than she cared to acknowledge. But you and Wyll still backed down in spite of that and gave her a chance—Wyll knowing the consequences that would come for him.

She hated seeing Mizora punish Wyll on her behalf, much as she hated seeing much of anything Mizora did. But there was also a sense of awe inside her, when Wyll bore his punishment without a word of scorn towards her. Wow, he really did all that for me?

Karlach shrugs. “Hard not to give you all the benefit of the doubt after that.”

Astarion stays quiet, thinking once more of all the things you’ve done for him—all the trials you’ve fought and won on his behalf. He knows you care about him—he knows that. He cares about you, too. But is that truly enough? After the events of today, can he truly delude himself into thinking he’s what you need?

“Do you truly think it’s enough to just want to change?” Astarion asks, his tone mocking even as he begs Karlach to prove herself right. “Wanting freedom never did anything good for me before.”

“Well, no, just wanting it isn’t enough,” Karlach says, considering. “When you jumped into that crack in the wall today on your own, weren’t you scared?”

Astarion pauses. Jumping into the bowels of Moonrise after you feels like it happened a lifetime ago, even though it’s only been a few hours. He tries to remember what he felt back then, tries to tap into the unbearable itch beneath his skin that forced him to go after you. Was he scared? Yes—scared, angry, panicked.

“I… I suppose I was,” Astarion admits.

But he wasn’t afraid of following you down—he’d been prepared to accept whatever fate lay in store for him at the bottom. He was afraid of losing you for good, of having to continue on without you by his side.

Karlach nods, having expected that answer. “But you went down there anyway.” She meets Astarion’s eyes with a knowing gaze. He feels impossibly exposed beneath her eyes, like she’s peeling back the layers of his armor one by one. “I think you just need to want something more than you’re afraid of it.”

Karlach looks away, back over her shoulder, eyes smoothing over you and Wyll, then each of the tents set up by your companions. “I was scared to let all of you in, y’know?” she admits. “But I’m glad I did.” She turns back to Astarion with a smile bright enough to light up the sky. “You all are the best friends I’ve ever had.”

Astarion’s chest tightens beneath that sunny gaze. It’s the same mix of fear and elation he felt waking up on that beach, bathed in sunlight for the first time in two hundred years. He’s suddenly struck with the realization of just how much has changed, of how different his life is today from the one he led only a few short months ago.

He’s never had someone to sit with him through his misery before, much less talk about it openly. The closest he ever had before was the silent companionship of his siblings, offered only in their lowest moments. Reaching out for comfort from one of them was just as likely to end with claws at his throat as it was to end with a soft hand holding his. He only dared to seek out his siblings at his lowest lows, when it felt like he simply couldn’t keep going anymore. And after it was all over, they would return to the way things were, brutal and devious, constantly undercutting each other for a scrap of Cazador’s favor.

This is different. Karlach brought him warm blood, she sat with him in silence, and listened to him without judgment. Karlach isn’t going to wield his vulnerability as a weapon come morning. She’s offered him hers in turn, let him see into the intricate valves of her mechanical heart, knowing it meant giving him the power to hurt her.

He thinks of the two tomes hidden in the corner of his tent and all the work that went into unlocking the secrets he’d sought for decades. He thinks of all the times Karlach has taken a blow in his stead, all the laughter they’ve shared over these months. Karlach trusts him to treat her heart with the care it deserves and he… he trusts her, too.

Slowly, Astarion slides a hand out from his nest of blankets, resting on the ground, palm up. “I never got to touch you after you got that engine of yours fixed.”

At first Karlach tilts her head and thinks to point out that’s because he kept her at arms’ length. But then it clicks, and she realizes exactly what it is he’s asking for. Her chest is always burning hot thanks to the engine firing beneath her skin. But the warmth that spreads through her veins is gentle—sunlight cresting off ocean waves. Karlach leans forward and slowly curls her hand around Astarion’s.

A shiver runs up the length of Astarion’s arm at the sudden warmth of Karlach’s skin. Everyone is warm to him, but Karlach is burning. It feels so… nice. Part of him wants to pull her into his bedroll and spread himself along the length of her back like a lizard warming itself on a rock. It would be far too much for him, but the thought remains.

Astarion squeezes her hand. “You know, I’ve held more people than I can count. An infinite parade of lovers.” His voice shakes and he tries to pretend it didn’t. “But a friend? I can’t think of a single one.”

Karlach smiles down at him and squeezes his hand back. “Well, you’ve stumbled your way into six of them.” It’s the same for her. It’s been so long since she had someone she could truly rely on. “And whatever happens with that lover of yours, you’ll still have us.”

It’s so strange. Astarion bedded you in the first place because he never imagined the others would tolerate him without your support. Perhaps that was true, once. But somewhere along the way, the bonds you’d forged between each of your friends became his as well. It exists outside of you, now. It’s something wholly his own. They’re no longer your friends and allies—they’re his as well.

He closes his eyes, hand still in Karlach’s, and trusts his friend to watch over him while he rests.

There’s a strange tension in the air around camp the next morning. Even though only a handful of people are fully aware of the state you and Astarion returned in last night, there’s still a sense of unease. Everyone can seemingly tell that something happened, even if they can’t determine exactly what.

All evidence of the previous night has been washed away. A quick rub down with a wet cloth cleaned the dirt and grime from your hair and a healing potion took care of any lingering scrapes or bruises. Now, the only hint that anything it wrong with you at all are the perpetual dark circles beneath your eyes. But that’s certainly nothing new.

Perhaps what’s most telling is that you slept in far past when Lae’zel would normally expect you awake. Both she and Gale were already awake by the time you rose, and they saw you and Wyll emerge from his tent together. You sit by the campfire and sorted through your supplies as you do every morning, and Wyll sits beside you the whole while. Astarion’s tent stays firmly closed all through breakfast.

There’s a careful energy between Wyll and Karlach as they sit beside you, one that the rest of camp can’t help but notice. Shadowheart and Gale exchange confused glances, Lae’zel watches you with narrowed eyes, and Halsin occasionally throws surreptitious glances towards Astarion’s tent while keeping Arabella entertained.

The hours pass as everyone eats breakfast, and readies their supplies for the day. No one moves to don their armor, as you still have yet to slip into your robe, even well into mid-morning. You normally would have announced the day’s plans to the group by now, if not set off already. But you remain inscrutably silent on the topic, and Astarion remains mysteriously absent. The unusual delay set the whole of camp on edge.

“So,” Gale finally says, daring to break the palpable silence. “What adventure are we going on today?”

At first, you don’t even acknowledge Gale with a glance, your eyes closed as you lean into Wyll’s shoulder. Gale doesn’t think you’re trancing—you’ve never tranced in plain sight before—but even if you were, you should still be able to hear someone speaking to you. But your eyes remain closed, your breath slow.

A long breath escapes Wyll’s nose as he gently rubs your back. “For now, we’re resting. Yesterday was difficult.”

Gale’s eyes dart between you and Wyll, his mouth twisted into a sharp frown. “Did something happen?” He glances over his shoulder towards Astarion’s tent, which remains firmly closed. “We’ve had our share of difficult days, but usually there’s a bit of warning if we’re not to set before midday.”

Wyll glances down at you, giving you a chance to respond. When you don’t, he steps in on your behalf. “That’s a topic of discussion for later.”

Wyll has no intention of letting you skirt the truth with your allies as you have been. Perhaps you need not tell the full story, and perhaps not to everyone. But the group needs to come up with a plan moving forward—a way to keep you safe from yourself. Still, you should be part of that discussion. You’ve had enough control wrested away from you.

Gale arches a dark eyebrow. “So something did happen?”

Wyll levels him with a flat look. “Later, Gale.”

It’s a few minutes later that, Astarion finally emerges from his tent. He first peeks through the tent flap, pinpointing the location of everyone in camp. Once he’s located everyone and determined that no one has eyes on his tent, he creeps out of his tent with the same stealth he uses in battle.

He’s taken a long while to put himself back together after the events of the previous night. His messy curls are once again slicked back with pomade, he’s darkened his brows and lashes carefully, then dabbed familiar perfume on his wrists and neck. He feels better, now, than he did last night, much less exposed with his vain comforts settled back where they belonged. He feels… well, not ready for the conversation he knows he needs to have with you, but as prepared as he could be.

The light is low outside his tent, as it always was in the Shadowlands. But he still finds himself blinking, the daylight whiter than the flickering candles in his tent. When his vision finally resolves, he sees the familiar sight of you, Wyll, and Karlach sitting by the campfire. Everyone else has since returned to their own tents, trying and failing to pretend the strange pall over camp isn’t there.

He steels himself to bear the weight of your friends’ gazes as he quietly steps into the center of camp. He’s silent as the grave, but if anyone looks in his direction, he’ll stand out clearly against the dark sky.

Karlach and Wyll both fail to spot him until he’s a scant few steps away. Astarion clears his throat. “Good morning, Karlach… Wyll,” he says stiffly.

Karlach jumps with a start, suddenly hearing Astarion so close. Her head whips around, eyes wide. But her expression quickly shifts into one of overjoyed relief as she sees him standing, clean and put back together after yesterday’s events.

“Morning, Fangs! Decided to get some beauty sleep?” she teases.

“Well.” Astarion coughs awkwardly into his fist. “it took hours to get the guts out of my hair. I couldn’t very well walk out here smelling like yesterday’s dinner.”

Wyll’s nose wrinkles in disgust.

You open your eyes slowly to a familiar, welcome sight. “I’m… glad you took time for yourself,” you say quietly.

Astarion nods, stiffly crossing his arms over his chest. You sit up with a sigh, detaching yourself from Wyll’s embrace for the first time that morning. You wish you could say you’ve taken enough time. But though you’re mostly put back together, your entire body still hums like an exposed nerve. Unfortunately, that feeling has waxed and waned throughout the night, but shows no sign of leaving any time soon. You don’t know when the tension will settle down, if it ever will, and you need to speak to Astarion now.

“Yes, I…” Astarion clears his throat. “Is… now a good time to talk?” he asks almost sheepishly.

Karlach quickly averts her eyes, focusing intently on the flagon of coffee in her hand. Wyll makes no such effort, instead openly watching you and Astarion. You take a deep breath, lungs expanding within your chest.

“Yes, I don’t think we’ll find a better one.” You shift onto your knees, preparing yourself to stand.

“One moment,” Wyll calls. On instinct you turn to face him. Carefully, Wyll places a hand on his blade and makes no move to hide the rune his fingers trace in the air. “Stay alive until you get back to camp,” he says pointedly, touching a hand to your shoulder.

You feel the energy flowing from his palm beneath your skin, and how your willpower shudders beneath its weight. Astarion covers his mouth with a hand to conceal his snickering laughter. It takes a moment for you to fully understand what just happened.

You gape at Wyll. “Did you just cast Suggestion on me?” you ask incredulously, keeping your voice low to avoid detection.

Wyll shrugs unapologetically. “I could call Shadowheart over here to cast Death Ward, but I thought you’d like this better.”

A frustrated sigh escapes through your nose. On one hand, you can hardly blame Wyll. Given recent events, his concern is entirely warranted, even if you have no intention of repeating yesterday’s actions. On the other hand, you’re offended on principle.

Wyll’s eyes soften in sympathy, and if you were stronger you’d consider punching that pitying look off his face. “It’ll drop once the both of you get back,” he promises. “I just don’t feel right sending you off with so little supervision, but I know you want privacy.”

You scowl bitterly. “So I need to be supervised now?” you grumble, despite knowing you’d do the same thing in his position. In fact, you’d probably do far worse.

“For now,” Wyll says evenly. “Until we’ve come up with a proper plan to keep you safe.”

Astarion raises an eyebrow, leveling you with a knowing look. “You can hardly blame the man, dear. You’ve been alive less than twelve hours.”

You push yourself unsteadily to your feet, cursing under your breath. “I know, I know,” you concede. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

A small puff of laughter leaves Astarion’s lips before he gestures for you to lead the way. As you walk out of camp side-by-side, the genial air slowly fades and a tense silence falls over you both. You and Astarion walk in tense silence past the edge of camp. On the fringes of Isobel’s ward, there’s no need to bring the lantern. The air is cool and gentle, mud squelching beneath your heels as you walk along the bank of the Chionthar. You try to think of something to break the silence, but nothing comes to mind. The longer the silence draws out, the harder it is to imagine raising your voice.

So you walk, away from the others, searching for a quiet place to speak. A little past the edge of camp—well out of earshot, but close enough to call for help—you happen upon a moss-covered stone, weathered so as to be nearly flat on top. A few gnarled trees stoop low, dry bushes crackling beneath your feet. Astarion pulls himself onto the stone ledge, facing out towards the dark waters of the Chionthar. You sit yourself beside him, leaving a good arms’ length between your bodies. Your toes just barely touch the ground, legs swinging idly in the air.

The air is quiet—strangely still after everything that’s happened in the past day. Only twenty-four hours ago you woke and gathered Astarion, Gale, Karlach, and Halsin before setting off to search the Shadowlands for Thaniel’s missing half. Instead you ran into Rolan on the banks of the Chionthar and everything spiraled from there.

The memories of that morning are hazy and dreamlike, like the wisps of scattered recollections you see in your dreams. It feels like another lifetime that you stood proud before your friends, ready to carve a path through the dark. In a way, you suppose it was another lifetime, considering you died somewhere in between then and now.

You awoke on the nautiloid alone, abandoned—a ruined husk of everything you once were. There was only a yawning void within your hollowed out chest. You hungered for everything and anything. The only thing that could sate the ache inside you was to slaughter everything until the whole of the world was as empty as the space between your lungs. No matter how much you fed that hunger, it only grew. More bloodshed, more slaughter. You had nothing to call your own, you own body alien, a slave to this unquenchable hunger.

Waking to Astarion’s embrace was a far kinder rebirth. He pressed his body along the length of yours, as close as possible, then even closer still, as if he could burrow into the space between your ribs. He was already there, you thought—a piece of him took root within your heart and blossomed anew. Astarion planted seeds within your chest months ago, when he offered you his companionship, when he didn’t shy away from your darkness, when he accepted each and every wretched piece of you that came to light. Now a garden blooms inside you—life born where once there was only death.

But the momentary peace rebirth granted you shattered Astarion anew. You used him as an escape, to find momentary peace from the endless battle that rages inside you. You thought you understood the relationship you had as an even exchange—you gave him sex, and he gave you his companionship. But it turns out after all this time, Astarion couldn’t turn you down if he wanted to. You finally asked him for more than he could give and he fractured in front of your eyes.

You care for Astarion—deeply, truly. But even so, you hurt him in a way you’re not sure you can mend.

The Chionthar flows gently towards the sea, its waters dark and inscrutable beneath the perpetual gray sky. The air smells of moss and earthen soil; you catch a faint wisp of the familiar bergamot in Astarion’s perfume. The whole world seems to quiet and still—the unending race towards oblivion pausing for one moment as Astarion gathers his thoughts.

A long sigh escapes through Astarion’s nose. “I suppose you should start from the beginning.” He faces resolutely forward, watching the river.

If he looks at you, he fears he’ll break.

You fold your hands together on your lap, eyes turned downward. “Well, three months ago I woke up on the nautiloid,” you begin.

Astarion rolls his eyes, a breath of laughter leaving his lips despite himself. “You just can’t help yourself from being an ass, can you?”

The sound of his laughter, however slight, eases some of the tension in your shoulders. You feel more at ease, knowing Astarion is in a place to laugh. “It’s part of my charm.”

“I suppose it is.” Astarion shakes his head slowly. “Now, explain yourself starting from why you approached that crack in the wall.”

You close your eyes, steeling yourself for the words you know you need to say. After everything that transpired the previous day, you owe him an explanation. You don’t want to put words to the demons that have plagued you all this time, but Astarion deserves it. After everything you’ve put him through, he deserves to know why.

“I’m losing my mind,” you breathe out, throat tight.

Astarion raises an eyebrow, finally glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. He finds you turned inward, trying to make yourself look as small as possible. “No, really? I hadn’t noticed,” he deadpans.

The corner of your mouth briefly twitches in an echo of a smirk, before dulling once more. “I know, I know. But I think… I think it’s far worse than you all realize,” you admit quietly.

Astarion turns his head to eye you openly, searching the tension in your face and finding fear for the first time in his memory. “What exactly do you mean?” he asks warily.

“I—” You swallow down the stone in your throat, forcing your voice through your lips. “I hear things. I see things,” you finally admit. “At first, I was certain it was all in my head, but now I’m not so sure.”

You think of the blood on your hands when you killed Sceleritas, the crack in the wall, the undulating pulsating flesh that pulled you down into the depths of Moonrise. Those were real, but does that mean your memory is an accurate reflection of what happened? Did you really kill Sceleritas only to have him dissolve into mist in your hands? Did you really hear the beast within Moonrise speaking to you?

You shake your head, a shudder running through your body. “I don’t know which possibility is more terrifying.”

Astarion scoffs. “We’ve all seen and heard things.” The Dream Guardian for one—they were all convinced someone was guarding them, but until crossing into the Astral Prism on Vlaakith’s orders, Astarion hadn’t been convinced that the figure wasn’t some shared hallucination. “We have mindflayer tadpoles in our heads, remember?”

Sometimes it’s difficult to sort through their thoughts. When six people are thinking too loudly, the thoughts collide and tangle together, until it becomes nearly impossible to unwind them. Astarion sits in front of his tent, reading a book, but he feels the caustic burn of Gale’s alchemy on his fingertips. Shadowheart will be praying to her goddess, but she hears the song stuck in Karlach’s head. Lae’zel oils her armor, only to taste Wyll’s dinner on her tongue. It can be nearly impossible to determine what feelings are truly theirs and which have been projected into the ether.

You shake your head. “It’s different,” you insist. “Ever since we entered Moonrise the”—you swallow, glass lining the sides of your throat—“the walls have been speaking to me.”

“The—what?” Astarion blinks, stunned into silence.

Astarion is a difficult man to rattle, having borne witness to more horror that the average mind can comprehend. But this admission does just that, leaving him in stunned silence.

“Ever since that horrid audience in Ketheric Thorm’s throne room.”

Trying to recall the memory cleaves your mind apart. You remember standing there, frozen in place by Ketheric Thorm’s weighted stare. You remember slicing through Ketheric’s jugular, tasting acrid blood on your tongue. You remember sparing a group of goblins out of pure spite. You remember being forced to your knees, Ketheric’s boot heavy between your shoulderblades. They’re two separate memories from two separate lives, but they knot and tangle together until you would need to excise the memory in its entirety to separate them.

“The walls—or rather, I suppose the… creature within the walls has been calling to me. It speaks to me like it knows me, like I—” You choke, your voice suddenly cutting off as your throat squeezes tight.

Astarion isn’t sure how much he should press. Part of him worries that too much will lead to another breakdown, and you’ll slip through his fingers once again, leaving him with only mist to hold. But this is the most honest you’ve ever been, and he needs to know why everything turned out like this—why the both of you ended up here, flayed and gutted, despite all the care you have for each other.

“Like you…?” Astarion prompts tentatively.

“Like I abandoned it,” you finish hoarsely.

Astarion thinks back to the events just before you ran headfirst into danger. He tried to press you to take a break, to rest and let your friends shoulder your burdens, the way you’ve shouldered all of theirs. He’d expected resistance, but the thought of leaving your allies without your strength sent you into a panic worse than any Astarion had seen from you.

“That’s why you threw yourself into the lion’s den?” he asks incredulously.

You cross your arms over your chest, holding yourself in a facsimile of a hug, and you nod. “I needed to know what happened. I needed to know why I ended up on the nautiloid.” You close your eyes tight. “My old life is right here—so why am I not a part of it?”

Astarion curls his hands into fists, nails biting into the meat of his palms. “You’d turn your back on us”—me—“so easily?” he spits viciously. “One deranged madman remembers you and you’re willing to sign up with the Absolute?”

Indignant anger surges to life inside you. How can he not get it? How can he accuse you of wanting to leave when you’ve done everything in your power to stay?

“Of course not!” you snap. “That’s exactly what I don’t want, I—” You pause for a moment to breathe, letting the righteous fury work its way through you. “I lost everything,” you gasp, the words bursting out of you.

Now that you’ve had a taste of the power you once held—the darkness that used to hum at your fingertips—you know more than ever what that means. You used to feel the thread of every life as it snapped short, you used to taste every drop of blood a blade had ever spilled, you used to draw power from the very ether itself, as the echo of every murder the air had ever tasted lived on through your blood.

In a land like this, where so much innocent blood had been spilt? You could sunder the world with that kind of power. In that moment in front of Isobel, you felt the whole of the Shadowlands stretching out from beneath your feet, your consciousness thrumming through the bloodsoaked earth. Every single soul in these lands rested in your palms, and you need only close your fist to snuff them out.

“My past, my self, my purpose.” Your nails dig into your shoulders, cutting into the skin. “If I don’t know what mistakes cost me everything before, how can I be sure I’m not walking the same path?”

You used to be something, someone, you used to be whole. You used to have something important—something you desperately wanted to keep, just as you now want to hold onto your friends. You can’t allow yourself to make the same mistakes again. You can’t lose them like you lost everything else.

“I don’t want to leave you,” you breathe. “I don’t want to abandon you all.”

Astarion watches you, face carefully blank. The fear in your eyes shimmers like never before. Even still, your face is a stony mask, mouth pulled carefully taught, eyebrows drawn slightly together. He felt your emotions, he knows how they ravage you, so strong and intense that it’s all you can do to keep them bottled inside. How is it that you manage to look composed even as your mind falls apart?

“What is dying, then, if not abandonment?” Astarion asks bitterly, anger simmering in his eyes.

Your gaze falls, eyes hooded. “I never intended for it to be permanent,” you whisper meekly.

It’s easier to let the fury run its course through his body, to let your guilt fuel the resentment he feels towards you, than to acknowledge the terror that cut him to the bone when he saw you, dead by his hand. No amount of scrubbing will erase the memory of your tender neck crunching between his hands, nor will any song drown out the echo of your final gasps for air. Every time he meets your eyes, he sees them vacant and dull in his mind.

“And if it had been? What was your plan, then?” Astarion hisses. “Relying on a resurrection spell was a gamble and you know it.”

Has he not done enough to show his care for you? Is it not obvious in his actions? The favor he shows you is shared with no one else at camp. You have to know the care he holds for you—you forced your way into his heart, slithered in between the bars of his ribcage and sunk your fangs into the dead muscle. Now his heart pulses with every wave of poison you inject into his veins. That poison warms him to a near fever pitch, loosens his tongue and his smile, until he’s telling you, brazenly, that he cares about you, that he worries for your health, that you’re the sunlight bursting through centuries of shadow.

Worse still, is the fact that he means every damn word.

“Did you even consider how I’d feel?” Astarion asks bitterly.

After all this time, how can you be so careless with your own life? All his efforts to take care of you amount to nothing if you refuse to do your part.

“Did you think about what it would do to me to see you like that?” Astarion’s voice breaks.

No one ever gave a damn about what Astarion wanted. They only ever cared for how they could wring pleasure and pain from his body, bend him and break him down. It never mattered that the hands roaming his body made his skin turn itself inside out, it didn’t matter that he didn’t want to kill you, that your life was far too heavy a burden to bear. He’d thought you were different, that you cared about him in a way no one else has. But no, you’d simply been using him for a different purpose—a noose instead of a sex doll.

He runs a hand down his face, surreptitiously wiping away the tears gathering on his lashes. “Did you even consider for a moment how I would feel if you were gone and I was the one who—” He chokes on his own voice, and he hates the weakness.

You hadn’t. The only thought in your mind was the knife’s edge carving into your feet. Blood spilled across rusted iron as you balanced over a yawning abyss—an abyss from which you couldn’t return. You just wanted it to stop hurting for a little while.

“Just… just tell me why you asked me to kill you,” Astarion begs, searching for some thread of reason in your madness. “Explain it to me so I understand.”

You stare down at your hands, clutching the fabric of your trousers. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Try.”

You swallow with a slow nod.

As awful as it is, you owe Astarion some honesty. He’s more than earned it. “Because…” You swallow thickly. “Because I was going to do something terrible if you didn’t.”

Astarion’s mouth draws tight. “And putting that responsibility on me wasn’t terrible enough?” he snaps caustically.

You shrink in on yourself, shame evident on your face. At the very least, Astarion takes comfort in the fact that you realize your mistake. He sighs. “What was so terrible that it was worth dying over?”

You close your eyes, the endless pit of shame within you opening up, consuming you down to the marrow. Where do you even begin to unravel the tangled web of your psyche? Which thread do you pull on first?

“Alfira. The bard,” you breathe out, tangling both your hands in your hair. “I was going to… again.”

Astarion eyes you cautiously. “What exactly do you mean?”

“This… this fiend follows me everywhere and tells me to do terrible things.”

Astarion shakes off his stupor. “What kind of fiend?” he asks incredulously. “Something crossed over from the Hells? Something of Raphael’s?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. He’s… my old butler. Or at least that’s what he claims to be.”

“Butler?” Astarion exclaims. “Darling, that’s—”

“I know,” you sigh. “I know it’s absurd but I can’t change what I’ve seen and heard. I recognize that he may very well be a figment of my broken mind, but whether he’s real or not his words hold sway.” You press your lips tightly together.

Astarion see the stiff set of your shoulders, the way you’ve drawn in on yourself, and decides it doesn’t matter how absurd your claims may be. “What do you mean?”

A violent shudder ripples through you. “He-he ordered me to kill Isobel,” you say quietly. “I did my best to stay away, but tonight she found me.”

Astarion remembers now—he saw you and Isobel together, both of you tense. He hadn’t taken notice of anything more than that, too focused on your presence. He called you over and you broke away from Isobel without hesitation. He didn’t care what the two of you were talking about—only that he could easily swoop in and steal you away.

“I tried so hard to resist but it was unbearable,” you breathe. “I… I couldn’t keep it together. If it hadn’t been for you…” You trail off into heavy silence.

Astarion can imagine immediately what would have happened. Last Light Inn would have fallen and all the people you’ve saved would fall with it. Astarion certainly doesn’t care for the refugees who refuse to defend themselves—but he’d be extremely pissed off if they died after all the work your group has done to keep them safe.

“I just…” You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms. “I just needed it all to stop. Just for a little while.”

You said something similar when he drained your blood. You just wanted to rest. It seems Astarion has become your favorite blade to hurt yourself with.

“So you thought to use me as a rope to hang yourself from?” he asks sharply. “I’ve been used by thousands of people over the years, but this might be the first time someone has used me to commit suicide.”

Your shoulders hunch. “I’m sorry,” you murmur.

The edge of Astarion’s anger dissipates with a heavy sigh. “I suppose I’m not in any position to criticize you.” Astarion looks away, eyes downcast. “I was using you, too.”

You open one eye partially to look at him curiously. Astarion sighs. He promised that if you made it out of Moonrise alive he’d tell you the truth. Here the both of you are. He knows it’s time to fulfill his promise.

“I had a plan,” he sighs, tentatively meeting your eyes as he speaks. “It was nice and simple. I needed someone to protect me, and two hundred years of charming people has taught me there’s only one way to do that.”

Astarion squeezes himself tightly. “All I needed to do was seduce you, sleep with you, then manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me.” Nervous laughter trembles in his voice.

You stare at him, mouth slightly parted. “Astarion, I…” You close your eyes and take a moment to gather your thoughts. “Astarion, you were always safe with me.”

A heavy sigh escapes through Astarion’s nose. “I know that now. But back then I couldn’t imagine that someone would ever keep a vampire around for its personality.” He never imagined that anyone would want him for more than his body.

He closes his eyes, his laugh lines sharpened by the dim light. “But with you it was different than all the other people who’ve used me. Being with you was… was fun. You cared about what I wanted.”

You blink at him, stunned. “Of course I care, Starlight,” you murmur, echoing his own words back at him. “I’d do anything for you. All you ever need to do is ask.”

Astarion dares to meet your eyes, his brows drawn together, gaze pleading. “I… I want this”—he gestures between the two of you—“us to be something real.”

Tentatively, you reach out to take his hand, the first touch you’ve offered since he resurrected you. Astarion watches your movement carefully, without pulling away. You hand carefully curls around his and you squeeze.

“I don’t know what it means to have something real,” you say quietly. Astarion instinctively stiffens his whole body, bracing himself for rejection. “But I want you. I want to be with you.” You lace your fingers with his, watching how your hands slot together perfectly.

Astarion swallows heavily. “I… I want that, too,” he admits quietly. “But…but the only way I know how to be with someone is…” His face twists in bitter disgust, tears welling along his bottom lashes. “...by offering the only thing I’ve had the past two hundred years.”

He gestures weakly towards himself, puffing out his chest in a mockery of the proud stance he always wears, putting himself on display even as his nose and cheeks grow ruddy with tears. You see now that all that pride and bluster is another mask—the man in front of you has lain them all down, set them aside so you can see him for what he truly is. Astarion thinks himself weak and inadequate, but all you see beside you is a radiant star of morning—brighter than daylight.

“But the only times I’ve ever been close to someone was—was to lure them back, for him.”

Him. Astarion has never shied away from saying Cazador’s name, spitting it out of his mouth like venom, like the very feel of his tongue curling around the familiar sound burned. Over two hundred years, Astarion so rarely called his Master by name, rarer still without punishment. The only times he was permitted to were in polite company, among people who would balk at the reminder that they were in the company of a slave and not a young nobleman. Astarion would hide the vitriol he felt behind a placid mask, forced to regale his mark with tales of his Master’s wit and compassion. That was its own kind of torture.

Beyond Cazador’s influence, Astarion has been free to spit the man’s name with all the hatred and disdain he feels. There’s no compulsion in his chest forcing him to rein in his tongue, nor piercing eyes observing his every move. He’s free to be as candid and crass as he wants when speaking of the man that owned him for two centuries. It’s such a small thing—but being able to put his anger on display, to rage at the gods and the sky, and lash out without fear of bloody retribution has been one of the many, many freedoms that most take for granted.

But in this moment, he can’t bring himself to say the man’s name. Him, he says, with shameful unease shimmering in his eyes. He hates this—hates having to admit just how much control he has over Astarion. What he has with you is different from all the others he’s laid with over the years—what he has with you is real, even if it started as a lie. He wants so badly to care for you the way you deserve, to give you the attention and affection he’s given to so many nameless faces.

His years of slavery shackle his heart—turn his tongue to lead. He doesn’t want to admit that Cazador still controls him—that he poisoned the affection Astarion has for you before you even met. Astarion doesn’t want to admit how Cazador has ruined him, stolen any hope of a future. Astarion has given his body to so many others—people that meant nothing to him, people he despised. He should be able to give it to you just as easily, someone he actually cares for.

But he can’t. He doesn’t want revulsion to curdle the feelings he has for you.

“Even though what I have with you is different, any kind of intimacy is… tainted.” Astarion steels his jaw, a long breath leaving his nose. “It still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing.”

You stare down at your clasped hands, guilt a heavy stone in your throat. “I don’t want you to feel that way when we’re together,” you say softly. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself for me.”

Astarion closes his eyes, the tears on his lashes finally spilling over, glimmering as they smear kohl down his cheeks. “I don’t know how else to be with someone,” he says brokenly. “No matter how much I’d like to.”

He opens his eyes once more, gazing at you miserably. “I wanted to be close to you last night, after everything that happened,” he admits, holding back just how terrified he was. “But I didn’t… I only know one way to be close to someone.”

You hold his gaze, your face the same unmoving visage Astarion’s come to cherish. But where once there was cold disdain and apathy, he sees and endless well of compassion—the mountain’s face finally worn to the quick, leaving all your tenderness on display.

“Starlight, you didn’t need to have sex with me to ask for comfort,” you say, your voice pleading with him to believe you.

His response is immediate and scathing. “For how long?”

Everything he’s lived through over the past two hundred years tells him that isn’t the way a partnership works. Astarion never learned how to be a good companion or ally, how to provide support—all he knows is how to use his body. What would you possibly gain from a relationship where he can’t offer the very thing that drew you in? Right now, you think you’ll be content, but Astarion knows better.

You tilt your head slightly, brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

He watches you warily from beneath his lashes. “How long would that be enough to make you happy?” He braces himself for rejection as you realize just how damaged he truly is.

“Forever,” you say sternly, voice unwavering in the face of Astarion’s doubt. “I don’t need sex to enjoy being with you.”

Astarion scoffs. “Oh, spare me the martyr act—no one would be happy in a sexless relationship.” He rolls his eyes. “What would be the point?”

You narrow your eyes at him slightly, feeling like you’ve circled back to ground you’ve already tread. “Comfort? Companionship?” you offer incredulously. “Astarion, we’ve been sharing a tent for the better part of a month without sex.”

“Well, yes,” he concedes. “But that’s—I…” Astarion fumbles his words, his free hand circling in the air, searching for the right thing to say.

For the first time during this conversation, Astarion looks completely lost. Everything he’s lived through these past two hundred years tells him that what you’re suggesting is impossible. Who could be happy making that kind of sacrifice? Especially for him, who has little else to offer. After a moment he forcefully shuts his mouth, locking eyes with you as he does. A long, exhausted breath escapes through his nose, his entire body deflating as it does. Resignation and defeat slowly darken his eyes. He slumps forward, resting an elbow on his knee.

He eyes you carefully through his lashes. “Isn’t that disappointing?” he finally settles on, voice uncharacteristically meek.

You tilt your head, blinking at him owlishly. “No,” you say. “Has it been for you?”

The corners of Astarion’s mouth pull down sharply. “Yes?” he ventures, then pauses. “No? I—I’m not sure.”

He should want to have sex with you. You’re supposed to want that with someone you care about. On some level, he does. But those desires are intertwined with the revulsion he’s forcefully buried for two-hundred years, his own expectations, and the deep, paralyzing fear that without his body, he has nothing left to offer.

He can’t help but recall your conversation in Moonrise. “Did I want it because failure meant another year locked inside a dusty tomb? Or did I want it because I enjoyed it?”

Does he want to have sex with you because it’s what he’s been doing for two hundred years? Because it’s what’s expected of him? Because he can’t imagine you staying for anything else? All those things are true. But beneath that, does he want sex for himself? Did he ever?

He doesn’t know. There’s no way for him to know.

You sigh heavily. You wish you’d understood this months ago—or even just last night—you wish you could have spared Astarion a lot of pain.

“Little Star, I only ever wanted to be with you,” you say softly. “Whether that meant sex, or resting by your side, or just—just this.” You raise your joined hands slightly before lowering them back onto the rock’s face. “It never mattered.”

Astarion narrows his eyes at you, startled. “It never—?” he scoffs incredulously. “Are you claiming you didn’t want to have sex with me?”

After all the work he put into seducing you? The lines he ran through in his head? The detailed logging of your preferences and desires? Only for you to tell him now it was all for nothing?

“Of course I did,” you assure him. “I thought it’s what you wanted.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why should that matt—” He catches himself at the last second, swallowing his voice down before it can escape.

But it’s too late—you heard enough. “Of course it matters. Of course I care what you want.” Your brows draw together, sorrow pooling in your eyes as you watch Astarion’s face. “Is that… is that why you couldn’t tell me no?”

Shame flushes high on Astarion’s cheeks, Wyll’s blood simmering just below the surface. “That’s… that’s part of it,” he admits. “In all honesty, I don’t fully… remember what happened.”

Everything between Gale handing him the book and Astarion seeing you dead on the ground is a knotted, fraying mess of sensation. One moment he was reading in his tent, then the next he was in the graveyard, then he was having sex with a man who’s been dead for over a century and a half. The grit of dirt under his nails was from the graveyard, he knows that. But are the words he remembers hot against his neck yours or a ghost’s? He remembers the weight of you in his arms—did that really happen, or is he confusing last night for the first time you slept together?

Astarion rubs the back of his neck with a sigh. Gods, he hasn’t even told anyone what he learned about his scars. He will, soon, but that isn’t a conversation he’s ready to have at the moment. This one between the both of you has been building for far, far longer. He won’t be able to open up about what he learned until he knows where the both of you stand.

“It never mattered before,” he says quietly. “No matter how I felt or what I wanted…” Astarion shakes his head and his next words escape as a bitter laugh. “I’ve forced myself through thousands of little moments of disgust. It should be easy by now.”

He meets your gaze, his own hollowed out and broken down after centuries behind a mask he never asked to wear. “I care about you far more than I cared about any of them.” A sigh born from two hundred years of torment escapes his lips. “And that’s precisely why I can’t anymore.”

Astarion wipes at his eye, catching a tear on his thumb before it can fall. “I—I’ve been thinking like a slave for so long, but you…” He swallows. “You’ve made me want to be… more than a thing to be used.”

You gently squeeze his hand. “You’re so much more than that. Anyone in camp would agree.”

He recognizes the resolve in your voice—it’s the iron will that found six disparate strangers and joined their lives together forevermore. You looked upon the burning wreckage of the nautiloid and built a home in its shadow. Those otherworldly scarlet eyes pierced each of them to the bone and looked upon their wounded hearts. In each of them you found something worth saving and you drew it into the light of day. You turned back the clock on years of injustice and abuse and gave them a second chance to grow.

“I don’t want you to hurt. Especially not because you think it will make me happy,” you say softly.

Your eyes mirror the ache inside him. Compassion echoes through his dead, empty shell, leaving warmth in its wake. How is it possible for a corpse to feel empathy? How can a cold, dead creature feel anything at all? It’s just one more of the miracles that follows in your footsteps. Impossible things fall in your footsteps.

“I don’t want you to hurt, either,” Astarion repeats back. “I can’t watch you self-destruct the way I did yesterday.”

You draw in a sharp breath of frigid air—it spreads through your veins with a dreadful chill. Your instinct is to shrink back. This part of you wasn’t meant for Astarion’s eyes. You’ve done everything you can to keep this hurt locked tight in the cage around your heart. Nothing was supposed to be able to get out. Nobody was supposed to see how your fragile stone carapace threatens to crumble inward, sucked into the cavernous void between your lungs. But, you suppose if you didn’t want anyone to see how thin the razor’s edge is, you shouldn’t have invited Astarion to impale you on it.

You look away, lips pressed firmly together. The Chionthar laps gently at the riverbank. Were you back in the Grove, there would be birdsong heralding the morning light, the skitter of squirrels up into the boughs of pine trees stretching towards the sky, and maybe even the low snuffle of boars in the underbrush. There would be life—beautiful and vibrant. But here, there isn’t. The world is perfectly still, the barren landscape awaiting your every breath.

“What else am I supposed to do?” you ask softly.

The fragility of a voice that gave Astarion his strength nearly breaks him.

Astarion stares down at your joined hands. “I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know what we’re doing.”

He wishes he had an answer. He wishes this was easier. None of the storybooks ever mentioned just how messy and agonizing it could be to care for another person. Did Lolth ever ask Corellon how to resist the darkness in her heart? Did Corellon ever tell Lolth that he didn’t know how to love her? Was love the thing that ruined them, or did it fail to save something that was already broken?

He doesn’t have an answer.

Astarion carefully lays his free hand over yours, clasping your hand between both of his “I can’t be the blade you break yourself on anymore.” As always, his hands are cool, slowly growing warm against your skin. “But I’d like… to be there for you, if you’ll let me.” His fingertips slide across the mountains of your knuckles before finding a home in the valleys between your fingers.

You look back at your clasped hands. He has beautiful hands. You could watch the curl of his elegant fingers for hours. Sometimes you do, as he cleans his daggers, or pulls back the string of his bow. In another life, he would have made an excellent pianist—those long fingers dancing across ivory white keys. Perhaps one day you’ll have to lend him Alfira’s lute, and watch his fingers pluck the strings the way you’d pluck out his eyes before strumming chords on his optic nerve, following the thread to the root of his brain and—

“Gods damn it,” you hiss, shielding your eyes with your free hand to hide from Astarion’s sight.

Astarion nearly slips away at the sudden, bitter curse. It’s not the reaction he wants from opening his heart. But despite your sudden anger, your hand squeezes his almost painfully tight. He hesitates, but then carefully reaches up to touch your elbow with the back of his fingers.

“My love?” he breathes, his voice as featherlight as the brush of his fingertips. “You don’t need to hide. Not from me.”

With gentle pressure, he slowly guides your arm down, his hand moving up to clasp yours as it falls. And when it does he sees… tears. He nearly startles at the sight. The tracks shimmer on your cheeks like the surface of the Chionthar. He had seen you grow emotional the day before, tears beginning to bead along your lashline. That had been startling enough. But this is the first time he’s seen you cry. No matter how much pain you’ve been in, or how exhausted, you’ve never once even come close.

You keep your eyes firmly shut, unable to look Astarion in the eye. “Star, you don’t… you don’t understand…”

He searches your face, desperate. “I don’t understand what?” he begs with you to just be honest with him, to tell him what it is that troubles you so he can try and fix it.

“I’m dangerous,” you gasp. “I’ll hurt you.”

“Darling, I’m a vampire,” he can’t help but deadpan.

Your lip trembles as you shake your head. He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. Your thoughts are completely outside your control, and your tether on your body is only marginally more secure. Visions of gore and slaughter haunt you at every turn, following you from your reverie into the day. At any moment, you can lose yourself, trapped in a daydream of violence and there’s no way to force yourself out. There’s no way to empty your head of all thoughts, no way to keep them from targeting the people you want to protect. Anything and everything is rife with possibility in your violent daydreams.

You very nearly killed Isobel. You wanted to kill Astarion while he was inside you. If you hadn’t asked him to kill you first, would your hands have tightened around his throat instead? How long before that becomes a reality?

“Starlight, I’m not in control,” you gasp. “My head is… it’s vile.”

Astarion smooths a thumb over the ridge of your knuckles. “It can’t be that bad. I happen to quite like your head.”

“You’ll hate me,” your voice breaks.

Despite himself, Astarion can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Darling, I just confessed to manipulating you for protection and you’re worried that I’ll hate you?”

Even still, the tears don’t stop. “There’s something wrong in me,” you gasp. “I can’t get close to anyone without… without…” Your breath hitches.

Astarion dips down, trying to catch your gaze, but you screw your eyes shut instead, unable to look at him. “Without what?”

“This… this bloodlust… this insatiable hunger.” You hang your head, your wrist limp in Astarion’s grasp. “It’s not just Alfira, or Isobel, or Rolan, or Dammon.” You hiss through gritted teeth, hot tears stinging your cheeks. “It’s everyone. It doesn’t matter how much I care about someone, I still—”

It takes a moment for Astarion to fully understand what it is you’re trying to say. The realization dawns over him slowly as he watches you shake apart in his grasp. You hang your head, refusing to meet his eyes. Crystalline tears drip from the tip of your nose and shatter on the rock face below. After three months of standing firm against your vile blood, exhaustion has finally worn away the last remnants of your will. The spiderweb cracks in your stone armor spread, snapping violently across the mountain’s face. Everything around you crumbles into dust. Astarion watches as the mountain crumbles into the sea.

What’s left behind is just you. Broken, weak, hollow you.

“Everyone,” Astarion repeats, voice carefully flat. “Even me.”

For the first time, Astarion gazes upon you with all your masks worn away. Without the stone to keep you together, you collapse inward. Perhaps, with enough force you could grind down your bones and disappear.

You duck your head into your chest, shame darkening your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you gasp. “I’m sorry, I don’t want these thoughts but I can’t…” A wordless groan leaves your mouth. “I can’t make it stop.”

Astarion watches you in silence, his eyes following the hitch of your shoulders, your lungs fluttering like wings beating against the bars of their cage.. Your hands are still warm against his palms, and his fingers smooth gently over the pulse point on your wrist. His fingertips smooth over rough, uneven scars—new ones, if he’s not mistaken. He finds your pulse point and feels your heart hammering forcefully beneath your skin. Even at your wrist, it feels like your blood might just burst through your skin. He holds your hand tight in his grasp. He won’t let go of you that easily.

You shatter in front of his eyes—leaving him with diamond dust on his palms.

You’re such a fool.

Astarion closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “Did you really think I wouldn’t understand being forced to want things that repulse you?” he asks evenly.

You blink up at him through tearstained lashes, catching sight of his blurred face before your eyes dart away. “It’s not the same,” you sniff. “No one’s forcing me to do anything. It’s all… it’s all me.”

As if that makes a difference. When you know nothing but servitude, where does obedience end and wanting begin? “I only know one way to be close to someone. Do you really think I went two hundred years without trying to find some form of comfort?” He repeats his words from earlier, slowly, quietly, each word a struggle to form on his tongue. “There were times I got on my back with no intention of luring anyone back because…” His throat tightens. “...because—”

I was lonely. I wanted a warm bath. I wanted someone to take care of me. I was miserable and didn’t know how else to get out of my head.

His tongue won’t curl around the words he wants to say. But you think you can guess what they’d be. “I don’t want to hurt you.” You dare to meet his piercing eyes—they cut through the center of your chest like a blade.

He raises an eyebrow slowly. “You’ve already hurt me.” You flinch violently, nearly ripping your hands from his grasp—he only manages to hold on because he prepared himself and held firm. “And I’ve hurt you, too.” Astarion sighs deeply, and gazes down at your joined hands. “Getting yourself killed isn’t going to keep me from getting hurt.”

Your hands shake in his grasp. “Then what do I do?” you ask desperately. “I don’t know how to keep going.”

“You take the hand that’s being offered, you stubborn, arrogant, bastard,” Astarion stresses, frustrated. “You’ve helped me more times than I can count, yet never allow me to return the favor.”

You look up to meet his eyes—he pleads with you to hear him this time, to accept the hand that wants to hold you. “You already have. Did you think you hadn’t?” you breathe. “You’ve done more for me than you can ever understand.”

Astarion blinks at you in surprise. “What?”

You swallow thickly around a confession that’s lingered in your heart nearly since the beginning. The devotion you feel towards Astarion didn’t come from nothing. You didn’t pick him out at random from all of your allies. You chose him because he understood you before you understood yourself. He gave you a purpose when you had nothing else. He stood by your side when you were empty, when you were violent, when you were confused and alone.

Every day, the affection you have for him has only grown. So much of yourself is built atop the foundation Astarion gave you and the things you learned from him. He was the first to call you a friend, before you even knew what the word meant. He didn’t shy away from you morbid interests or blood-stained hands. He was the first person to hold you in his arms, to touch you with a gentle hand.

“I was so empty when I woke on the nautiloid,” you gasp. “I didn’t feel anything. I wouldn’t have cared if you all died, if I turned into a mindflayer, if I just stopped existing. There was nothing inside me.”

In those first days, you wandered the woods aimlessly, gathering allies and following their lead without rhyme or reason. You didn’t remember who you were, where you had ended up, or why you were here. The only reason you knew that was strange at all was because everyone around you had names and pasts. So you simply pretended to fit in, picked a name, and let people assume your story. The things they assumed about you made as much sense as anything else, so you simply let them. It was easier that way, and you worried that revealing the truth might open you up to scrutiny or questions and you desperately didn’t want that. If they looked too close or pried too much, you feared the Urge would rear its ugly head.

“I had nothing. I was nothing.” You’re not sure if that’s changed—if you’ve truly filled all the empty space inside you or if you’ve simply learned how to pretend. “The only time I felt anything at all was when I had blood on my hands. I would feel whole for one moment, only for it to fade.”

Your grasp tightens on Astarion’s hand, needing him to ground you as the memories sweep you away. You thought the violent curdle of your blood was overwhelming then, but the intensity of those early Urges was but a sputtering flame compared to the firestorm that rages inside you now.

“But… I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone. You all made me feel something other than empty,” you gasp, turning to meet Astarion’s eyes. He watches you, backlit by the soft light of the Moonlantern in the distance. “I didn’t have a name, or a past, or a home, but I knew I wanted to stay with all of you.”

Your gaze falls to your joined hands. You move to knit your fingers together. His fit perfectly between yours, long and elegant as his thumb traces up the side of your palm.

“Do you understand?” you ask quietly, pleading with him to listen. “You taught me how to laugh, how to feel joy, how to be held by another person.” You squeeze his fingers between your knuckles. “No one ever touched me gently before you. If they did, I don’t remember it.”

Astarion draws in a shuddering breath, his gaze falling to your hands. “Darling, I… I don’t think you fully grasp what I said before.” He can’t bear to look at you. “All that banter? All the things I said to win you over? It was all…” His throat tightens around his voice, trying to haul it back and allow the truth to hide in silence. He forces each word through his teeth—he has to. He has to. “It was all a lie. I was manipulating you.”

Astarion hates his past self for putting him in this position, for giving you something to cherish so that his present self will have to shatter the illusion. The man you learned to care for isn’t real. Astarion crafted him from lies and two hundred years of practice. All those moments mean something to Astarion now, after he realized he was falling for you. But back then he only said the things that he knew would stir your heart.

Guilt shines in his eyes, in the full tears clinging to his lashes. You’ve never seen him like this—penitent. “No, I understand,” you insist. Astarion’s eyes dart to meet yours, shocked by your ease of acceptance. “It doesn’t matter to me. You wanted me to keep you safe, and I only ever wanted to be your shield.”

Astarion gazes at you, brows drawn together, the lines on his face deep and dark. “I don’t want a shield,” he spits. “Haven’t you been listening? I want you to stop destroying yourself for everyone—including me.”

The sharp gaze he levels you with pricks your skin like the edge of poisoned blade. You feel it in your veins—burning and heavy—as guilt taints your bloodstream. Astarion tears his eyes away, his dark lashes fanning against his pale cheeks as he watches your joined hands. He’s properly put together this morning—unlike most of the other times he’s opened his heart to you.

“After two-hundred years, I’d like to stop watching my lovers get hurt on my behalf,” he murmurs quietly. “I think I’ve earned that much.”

The guilt in your veins is a fullbody ache. “I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I should never have asked—”

Astarion squeezes your hands between both of his. “Please, stop.”

A heavy sigh escapes his lips. The betrayal and terror he felt when he realized what he’d done is something he will never forget. It still lingers inside him—an energy trapped between his ribs that simply won’t bleed out. But he’s a hypocrite—he’s been using you as a means to hurt himself for months. He just wants all of this to be over.

“I just… I just want to start over,” Astarion sighs. “We’ve both made a mess of this.”

You lips press together in a thin line and you watch Astarion for a long moment. After this confession, you’re more wary than ever of Astarion’s words. How are you to know that when his consent is genuine? All the times in the past where he agreed to something he didn’t want, should you have known? You feel like you should have. But you can’t go back and change your past choices. Moving forward, can you trust Astarion’s word?

You have to. It isn’t your place to tell Astarion what’s best for him. You have to trust that he’s being honest with you. You want to trust him—even if it takes time.

You close your eyes and nod. “Alright. I… I’d like that, too.” Astarion exhales a sigh of relief.

Slowly, Astarion raises the hand he laid over yours. He trails the backs of his fingers up the length of your arm. Fire ignites beneath the gentle scratch of his nails against your skin. You hold your breath the whole while—it feels like any movement might shatter the moment. This is familiar territory—Astarion’s hands have traversed every inch of your body. But never like this—never in daylight hours without the excuse of an injury to tend to. The curl of his fingers fits perfectly against your shoulder, his cool palm still traveling upwards. An involuntary shiver runs down your spine as his long fingers tangle in your unkempt hair. Unlike Astarion, you never fixed your hair for the day ahead. His palm finally comes to rest against your cheek, holding you steady.

You open your eyes, tears gathering on your lashes and find Astarion’s eyes gazing at you with unparalleled reverence. His red eyes shimmer like crystal, and part of you worries that the smallest breath of air might shatter them. You lean into him, lifting your hand to grasp his wrist. You feel the tendons in his hand stretching to curl around your scalp and the movement of his thumb as he tenderly traces the end of your eyebrow.

You force your mind to turn away—you want nothing more than to bask in this moment, to etch the feel of Astarion’s caress into your memory, to capture his visage in your mind’s eye. But you know yourself, and you know how dangerous your thoughts are when your feelings overflow. You imagine yourself as the Chionthar, everflowing just a few meters away. Let everything flow through you, without trying to grasp anything as it passes.

You wish you could care for Astarion without fearing yourself.

The only way you can care for something is by destroying anything that threatens it, whether that’s a goddes, a Vampire Lord, or a devil. You can only burn the things you hold in your hands—if you try to hold Astarion, he’ll burn with you. If you don’t bear the heat of the flames in his stead, then who will?

Your friends, your mind answers. A bittersweet joy follows on that thought’s heels. Your friends will keep him safe—they don’t need you anymore to tell them to do that. Astarion doesn’t need you anymore to guide him. Astarion may want you—he may think he wants you, but is that enough? Does his desire for you outweigh the danger you pose—not just to him, but to all your friends, to Isobel and Last Light Inn?

Why were you given this empty body, drained and hollowed out, if not to bleed it dry? To wring out every spell and bruise and broken bone that you can from a body living on borrowed time?

“Starlight, I don’t know how to care for another person without being their blade,” you breathe, tears stinging the chapped skin on your cheeks.

What purpose do you have, if not to bleed for the people you cherish? What are you living for, if not for your friends? You have nothing else. If you don’t suffer and die for your allies, are you not just biding your time until the Urge finally takes control? You came so unbearably close yesterday to a cliff from which you can’t return. If you languish and you rotten blood takes over, what will become of you then? Will you be forced to destroy everything that matters to you? To hold tight to what you desire and watch as it burns? To die in vainglory?

How much time can you carve out with Astarion until your rancid blood consumes you? You so desperately need a purpose—something worth dying for to stave off the Urge. You need to be used—you need to be owned.

You clutch Astarion’s hand against your face, leaning into his touch. “The only way I know how to care for someone is by letting them own me.”

You’re their leader. To you, that’s more than just a role. It’s who you are. Your friends are the ones who breathed life into an empty shell, that gave you hope and a home. Everything you are is built from the stones they laid for you where once there was nothing. They own you because they made you. What is a child’s purpose if not to serve their creator?

Astarion searches your face, the anguish clear in your eyes. You’re still fluttering aimlessly in the same cage he is. Astarion has only just managed to open the door, but you still haven’t recognized the gilded bars as a prison. You believe so wholly that your only purpose is as a tool—not in the same way Astarion did, but similar enough that Astarion feels foolish for being trapped so long. From the outside looking in, it’s so clear that you’re more than a weapon—you’re kind and compassionate, a wonderful friend, and lover, a soft heart that you refuse to admit is there.

Astarion wishes this were easy, that he could just take your hand and pull you to freedom. But he knows from experience that you would only return to the safety of your prison. The best he can do is stand outside and try to convince you to see the world the way it is.

Astarion scoots closer, just a few inches. “I’ve been owned for as long as I can remember,” he slips his hand from yours so he can settle it on your waist. “That’s not what I want for… for us.” He lets out a long breath. “You deserve better than that.”

You cover his hand on your waist with yours, palms tingling with the desire to reach for him. You want to pull him into an embrace, but you fear overstepping, pushing him too far. This is the first time he’s touched you without pretense or expectation. He’s touching you because he wants to touch you and you don’t want to ruin that for him

“What do you want?” you ask, with a weight heavier than you could possibly know.

Fear and uncertainty flicker in Astarion’s eyes. They dart to the sides, looking for an easy escape, suddenly too exposed and unmade by a question few people have ever asked. Even if they had, he’d never been able to answer truthfully. When he looks inward now to try and find an answer he finds… something and nothing all at once. Half-formed desires that shine and flicker out like fireflies. He wants a great many things—to keep waking in the sun, Cazador’s head on a pike, enough of your blood to fill a bathtub. But with you?

He wants… you. What more does he need to say?

For a moment you fear he’s about to withdraw, pull his hands back to his sides and curl in on himself. But instead he takes a deep breath and meets your eyes. “I… I’m not entirely sure.” He pauses a moment, his eyes traveling the length of your body—not with lust but tenderness. “I don't want a… a weapon or a shield. I just… I just want you by my side. Exactly like this.”

He hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering briefly down to your lips. He leans in, slowly, all while you hold your breath in anticipation. He rests his forehead against yours, never looking away even as your noses brush. His thumb smooths across the ridge of your cheekbone.

“Can I…?” His voice ghosts across your lips, a deep rumble through your bones.

You consider teasing him for a moment as he had you. But even if you can be an ass from time to time—you want him to have this. He’s more than earned it.

“Always,” you murmur, lips nearly brushing his.

He closes the gap, his lips cool as they move against yours. He’s far more tentative now than he was the previous night, testing the waters as he relearns the feel of your mouth. He knows what he’s doing—you’ve always known that. But here he’s slow and methodical, as if acting out movement he’s only ever read about. Without the heat of passion driving him and the mask cast away, he kisses you like a man learning to kiss for the first time. In a way, he is, if this is the first time he’s ever kissed someone of his own free will.

Your heart clenches painfully at that thought. Astarion has kissed thousands of people tens of thousands of times—so many times that he’s grown numb to it and he can go through the motions without any thought at all. Is that what this is, you wonder? Him, present while he kisses you, instead of instinctively leaving his body to act on its own? You lift your hand to gently cup around the back of his head. Your fingers card tenderly through his curls.

As you stroke through his hair, he whimpers—a sound you’ve never heard from him before and shyly licks against the seam of your mouth. You part your lips and he eagerly dives in leaning further against you, forcing you to lean backwards, clutching the back of his shirt to keep from toppling over. His own arm supports your lower back, pulling you into him. He whimpers again, and you meet the sound with one of your own. That earns a chest-rattling moan. You’re so happy, you feel lightheaded. Then you remember that while Astarion may not need to breathe, you do.

You pat his shoulder with the hand that was in his hair, patting again, firmer, when he doesn’t take the hint, then again, when he still keeps leaning into you. At that he finally pulls back, leaving you gasping for air. You pant, hot breath fanning against his cheeks. You open your eyes to meet his, pupils dark as he watches you. His lips are shiny and swollen, more flush than you’ve ever seen on his pale face. You can only imagine how messy you must look—out of breath, hair still undone.

Only a few seconds pass before you both burst into a fit of giggles. It’s a high, delighted sound from Astarion’s lips, replacing the birdsong missing over the Shadowlands. Astarion rests his forehead against your shoulder as his chest quakes with laughter. You return the hand to his hair, playing with his curls as you battle your own fit of laughter, holding him gently there, safe against your breast.

You’re two people, struggling to make sense of the world you’ve found yourself in, fighting for your lives against beasts and ancient curses alike, dead twice over but forced to keep going, coming off the most harrowing day of your journey to date. Yet here the both of you are, giggling like teenagers, high on laughter and life and this beautiful thing that’s blossomed between you where flowers were never supposed to grow.

Astarion pulls back to meet your eyes, face still lit up with a giddy smile. “Yes… yes, I want this,” he repeats.

You hold his cheek in your hand, still leaned back near to toppling over. You gaze up at him with all the warmth and life he’s given you—helplessly devoted, just as you have been since the day he told you to keep them alive. “I don’t know if I can care for you—for anyone—the way you want.” You don’t know how to keep your hands from burning without setting yourself alight. “But I want to try. For you, I’ll try.”

Astarion’s skin is cool, but there’s an unfamiliar warmth in his eyes as he leans into your palm. There are so many things he wants to say; that he’ll try to be the partner you deserve, that you make him want to be better than he believes himself capable of, that he cares about you more than he thought he could care for another person. You’ve changed him irrevocably. Now that he understands what it means to want someone, to be cared for, and treasured, he can never go back to the person he was.

Stranger still, he wouldn’t want to.

“I just want you,” he murmurs. “In whatever way that means, for as long as you’ll have me.” His eyes shine like the sky opening up to the sun after a month of darkness.

You hold his cheeks in your hands, his lips flush with borrowed blood. Your eyes roam his face, taking in the arch of his brow, the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose. You commit them to memory. You’ll remember this for the rest of your life—however long or short that may be.

“I want you until the world burns to ash,” you breathe.

He surges forward to kiss you again, arms tight around your waist. His kiss burns like wildfire, and wherever your hands touch, you try to douse the flames. If you’re fated to stay alive, then you’ll enjoy the burn for as long as you can.