Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Freedom tastes like ashes.

It's a flickering flame. When you think you're taking a step in its direction, you realise it's moved further away. We hope to reach the summit at the next turn, only to discover the ground is slipping beneath our feet. And as soon as our fingers brush against it, as our eyes catch a glimpse of it, the fire inside us can no longer burn: we were its fuel.

This was the conclusion reached by Sabrae after more than six months on the run in the Underdark. At that time, the ascent to the surface had sounded like a new beginning. A hope, for Durdyn and her, of living a life where their love would not be condemned. She remembered his astonished smile the day she had finally agreed to follow him. That sincere joy looked like a good omen.

Hope was not a common feeling in Menzoberranzan. The inhabitants of the Spiders City had hardly earned their reputation by showing benevolence. Lolth alone determined who deserved to live and who was destined for destruction. Which name won her favour, and which her torment. Sabrae had understood this from her earliest childhood. As the eldest daughter of the Fourth House, one of the city's highest institutions, she was destined to become a high priestess. An honour and an obligation for this matriarchal people. In due time, she was expected to take over the leadership of House Asenred, and to act for the well-being of her family.

Such was the lot of the dark elves. To live and die for Lolth, for her love, her power. The City Council never condemned mass murder, or the complete disappearance of another House, as long as it was done properly. No witnesses, no survivors: just a new favourite for the Mother of Lies. That was how Lolth nurtured ambition... and how her children climbed the ladder of their own imprisonment.

Yes, Sabrae was destined for greatness, but her heart decided otherwise. When she met Durdyn, a servant of her household, their love was obvious. Despite reason, safety and faith. In this world of darkness, he became the spark of goodness; in this society of murders, he gave her life. Alas, such an union was forbidden. It was customary for a future matriarch to satisfy her pleasure wherever and whenever she wished, but under no circumstances feelings were involved. So Durdyn and Sabrae began a hidden, secret passion. A forbidden act committed before the eyes of the Spider Queen, a snag in her web.

Until from two sinners came a third. When Sabrae heard about the baby, she feared the worst. But Durdyn... Durdyn had been overjoyed. A child, their child, to prove there was no flaw in their love. A little being they had to protect, keep away from Lolth and the other drows. "But where?" she exclaimed. "In the Underdark, at the mercy of the first monster that comes along?" "Higher up," Durdyn simply replied. Sabrae had thought him mad. The surface was the territory of the Fairies, the high elves who had banished them to the world below. It was said that their sun burnt the skin and melted the flesh. What redemption was there to be found ?

Yet she had surprised herself by accepting. By hoping. Overnight, they had fled Menzoberranzan and climbed the stalagmites of the Underdark. They had come across some terrifying creatures; an Aboleth had failed to complete their journey on the very first day, and they had to hide from the duergars several times. But they had reached their goal. The air was less humid and the temperature warmer. After months of pantalooning, a warm, golden glow had caressed their faces. The radiance of the surface, just a few hours' walk away!

The famous flame of freedom, just beyond their reach; the spark that became the pyre. That night, the soldiers of House Asenred finally caught up with them. With a few swipes of the sword, Sabrae's hopes died with her lover. The commander pushed Durdyn's corpse aside without taking his eyes off her. He seemed upset: after all, he had just wasted his best blade on a slave.

"No one escapes Lolth," he declared.

Sabrae ran as fast as she could. Her pregnancy, the journey and her grief were slowing her down, but unlike the drows in pursuit, she was not afraid of the glow spreading upstream. She reached the crevasse, widened it and pierced it with her fingernails. An arrow shot through her leg as she climbed towards the blinding light. Drunk with pain, she felt like a drowning woman braving the waves, a stiff rising from the grave. When her pursuer grazed her ankle, all he caught was rock.

She sprang up from beneath the earth, taking a long, almost burning breath. The sun dazzled her, but she was not consumed. Sabrae remained whole in this land her people cursed.

From then on, she hobbled along in search of shelter. By the time she caught sight of the colourful marquees, her contractions had already begun. She followed the melodious sound of a flute, which was soon replaced by a scream of terror. She fainted before she could see the musician's face.

And now she was waking up, the pain radiating from her body and the taste of ash in her mouth. The taste of freedom; the fire to which she was the fuel. "Hang on!" whispered a voice close to her. "I think we're losing her," said another. Sabrae looked up at the strange sight above her; a blue-black ceiling glowing with a thousand lights. If this was Heaven, then it was immense, frightening... magnificent.

A new cramp stiffened her legs, making her groan. The hand that gripped her was as trembling as her own. Sabrae's eyes lost themselves in the glow of a candle as her body relaxed, and released a new life. She heard crying.

The little creature was placed on her breast: it was a girl. Her grey eyes were still blind, but already wide awake.

A child of the sun... A dark elf born on the surface and fit to live there. Durdyn hadn't been wrong. Gathering the last of her strength, Sabrae looked steadfastly at the presence beside her:

"Her name is Nymuë."

Chapter Text

Nymuë knew this night would forever mark a change in her life. She guessed it as she finished packing her things. She could feel it in the air as she approached the south exit of Baldur's Gate. Tonight was the night of her rebirth.

When she woke up many hours later, the taste of blood in her mouth told her that she probably had been too optimistic.

The chamber in which she was confined had an organic architecture, a tangle of guts forming a floor, a roof and walls. The hybrid, alien construction was reminiscent of the stomach of a huge creature. She herself was shackled in a caisson just wide enough for her fingers to feel its chitinous surface.

The last few hours came flooding back. The evening hadn't started so badly: she had been walking through the city with her pack on, when the machine had appeared from the sky. It looked like a giant conch shell with tentacles. The 'thing' had spread its appendages across the streets, disintegrating civilians at the slightest touch. She had seen a guard soldier explode into a filament of dust. When the ship had destroyed the bell tower above the lower city, the crowd had panicked. Everyone ran towards the Wyrm's Rock fortress, where the reckless were already forcing their way through. As Nymuë reached the entrance, a tentacle hit her in the back. Her vision blurred, the bodies pressed against hers faded into the background... and led her here.

Oh, now that she was awake, the dark elf was all too aware of her situation. Many texts mentioned mind flayers, although those who survived the encounter were rare. This race of travellers moved from dimension to dimension, occasionally attacking the kingdoms they flew over... The illithids, as they were known, operated under the aegis of a collective consciousness, itself governed by its insatiable appetite for humanoid brains. Anguish gripped the young woman as she noted the presence of other caissons around her. Everything suggested that she had just been hunted. So she wasn't on a ship, but in a larder.

An opening unfolded on her right and, as if to confirm her fears, a mind flayer entered. It was tall, anthropoid to the face. From there, four purple tentacles replaced its chin, to accompany a prominent skull similar to an octopus. The creature had two yellow eyes, currently fixed on a tank in the centre of the room.

Larvae were splashing about on its surface. Nymuë watched the illithid dip its slender fingers into the pool. Almost lovingly, it selected a worm and let it move on its thumb. The caisson's shackles were loosened, allowing the captive to see the neighbouring compartment.

She wasn't the only one who had woken up: a woman was banging angrily on the walls of her cell. Her yellow skin and shrunken nose betrayed her githyanki origins, a species as rare as mind flayers. Nymuë had never come across this people of plunderers, travelling within the Astral Plane. By nature, the gith were the sworn enemies of the illithids, whom they chased down relentlessly. This one must have been hunting when the roles were reversed.

Their captor approached the githyanki, and allowed the thing to crawl laboriously across her cheek. Tiny appendages sank around her eyeball. The howl chilled Nymuë to the bone: she struggled and flailed, to no avail. The illithid was already advancing with a second tadpole. When it leaned towards her, the young woman shook her head. She could see the parasite's tiny teeth and hear its ravenous squeaking. An overwhelming force contracted the back of her neck and forced her to face it. The chaos of her world was reduced to two glowing pupils, quickly replaced by the worm's elongated canines. She felt its tentacles wrap around her eye...

Then everything went black.

It was the smell of burning that brought her out of coma this time. A few minutes must have passed at most, but the room was unrecognisable. There was a huge hole in the ceiling and flames were spreading through the antechamber. The compartment next to her was empty; there was no trace of the githyanki. The floor was shaking and the sounds of a struggle echoed. The Nautiloid had hit something, and whatever the origin of this sudden attack, it had created a shock powerful enough to weaken the walls of her caisson. With a flick of her shoulder, Nymuë pushed her way down to the sticky ground. This simple movement sent a shockwave through the back of her skull. A violent, undulating migraine. This evil was lurking in her head, digging furrows in her brain: the parasite. The dark elf's legs nearly gave out on her.

The opening to the outside revealed a blood-red sky and a devastated landscape. Nymuë was stunned to realise they had landed in the middle of a battlefield, and not just any : this was the description of the first stratum of the Hell, the territory of Avernus. A world of war, fire and blood. Dejected, the young woman brushed her temples, where was now home to an illithid tadpole. What had these creatures just done to her? What had they taken?

She tried to calm her growing anxiety, her heart racing. Limbo was clearly not the right place to have a panic attack, and this ship was threatening to collapse at any moment. She had to flee, return to Baldur's Gate and find a healer: it was as simple as that. Palpating her belt, the young woman felt the cold touch of a silver chain, as well as the weight of the dagger hanging from its end. At least that should keep the mind flayers at bay.

Near her chamber, Nymuë saw an illithid corpse, the same one to whom she owed her cerebral roommate. Its violet skin was blackened, charred by the explosion. The dark elf drew renewed courage from the sight. These things could be killed; and if they were, then perhaps her escape plan wasn't so hopeless. The young woman rushed towards the only exit among the ruins. Dissected bodies lay on tables, next to brains stored in jars. The attack on Baldur's Gate didn't appear to be a first attempt: the equipment was sophisticated, the captives legion... All this just to feed?

She could hardly find an answer in the adjacent gallery, as its tip was ending by an outside passageway. As Nymuë stepped forward, a shadow almost as massive as the Nautiloïd passed over her: an authentic red dragon. That's what had attacked the ship; that's what she owed her miraculous escape to. Was there a reason for the creature to pursue the Nautiloid, or had it just landed on its territory? For the moment, the animal didn't seem interested in her, which was reassuring. She had to concentrate on her immediate survival.

When the young woman turned around, she realised this objective had already been compromised. The githyanki warrior - very much alive! - had emerged from the shadows. The blade of her sword brushed against her throat: "Abomination! This is your end!"

Nymuë raised her hands, but was unable to reply. A sudden numbness seized her as fleeting visions flashed through her mind: a dragon's wing, a silver sword... and a flash of her face, through the strange woman's eyes.

"Tsk'va!" the other passenger exclaimed. "You escaped enslavement? Vlaakith blesses me this day!"

"Who are you?" Nymuë hissed.

"Your only chance of survival."

The githyanki sheathed her weapon, looking towards the front of the Nautiloïd: "We must find the helm to take control of that ship. We'll adress the matter of this... infection once we reach the Material Plane. I assume you know how to defend yourself?" she added, examining her dagger.

The dark elf nodded: "My name is Nymuë."

"It doesn't matter. To the helm!"

Holding back an acerbic remark, the young woman set off after her new ally. Together, they climbed the sides of the ship, having to take cover several times to escape the explosions. Arriving at the other end of the Nautiloid, the two survivors entered an antechamber, similar to the one they had been imprisoned. Two men were lying on examination tables, staring blankly; a woman nearby appeared to have passed out in her caisson. But the fourth prisoner was perfectly conscious: she was banging on the walls of her prison with desesperate energy. When she saw the survivors, she called out to them:

"You! Get me out of this damn thing!"

"We have no time for stragglers," the gihyanki objected.

She seemed ready to set off again, but Nymuë hesitated. In the prisoner's place, she would have begged all the gods in existence to come to her aid... And any help she could get was welcome. The stranger's compartment was different from the one in which she had been locked up. A luminous console was connected to it by pipes, an assembly too complex for her understanding. However, she was surprised to feel the sparkles of her magic: the device was sealed with runes. If she was to believe their description, their counter-spell was hardly complex.

Dancing her fingers gracefully, the young woman traced a line of symbols on the control panel. The arcane glyphs etched themselves into the device, then a pocket opened in its centre. When Nymuë touched it, something inside her jerked in response. The parasite recognised the device. Its touch was both uncomfortable and familiar, imbuing her with a strange feeling of... authority. Without really knowing why, the dark elf commanded the machine to free her prisoner, and it obeyed.

Nymuë shuddered. Their infection was already allowing them to communicate with illithid machineries... How long before other side effects appeared? She turned her gaze to the survivor, not sure she wanted to know the answer. The stranger was a half elf with dark hair and lovely green eyes. Nevertheless, they crinkled as she stared at her saviours.

"I was beginning to think this was going to be my coffin. Thank you. I'm…"

Once again, their tadpoles established a link: through her eyes, Nymuë felt a mixture of gratitude and wariness. The latter seemed to be directed at the gith warrior. "You keep dangerous company," she hissed.

"As I should," the dark elf soothed. "Dangerous people can be incredibly effective when it comes to fighting."

"Looks like there's plenty of it ahead. My name is Shadowheart."

"Nymuë."

"Enough of this chatter", the warrior interrupted. "We need to go to the helm!"

The newcomer, Shadowheart, turned her back to them. She vigorously searched her caisson, while the dark elf moved towards the remaining prisoners. The fainting human had escaped the illithid experiments. Nymuë placed her hand on the console connected to her prison.

The result this time was of a completely different nature. Thick smoke billowed from the captive, making her seethe from within. She struggled in vain, meeting only the solid wall of her caisson. Her lips gave a faint gurgling sound, before four tentacles appeared. Nymuë held back a scream as a newborn illithid emerged from the carcass of the stranger.

"That's our fate if we're not purified," the githyanki coldly analysed. "Convinced?"

The flayer's eyes stared hungrily at her. Whoever that woman had been, she'd disappeared in a split second, at the pull of a lever. Nymuë felt sorry... and frightened. There was no justification for this ending.

The sound of fighting distracted her from the creature. The helm was now very close. The inhabitants of Avernus had boarded the ship, and two mind flayers were battling with cambions. These devils, armed to the teeth, had eliminated three of the tentacled monsters. One of the illithids wrapped its appendix around its opponent, putting itself within range of a spear. When both collapsed, the last flayer addressed the newcomers: "Slaves. Connect the nerves to the transponder. We must escape. Now."

"Do it," the githyanki urged. "We'll deal with the ghaik after we've escaped!"

Nymuë grabbed her chained dagger. She made her way through the imps, piercing their wings so that Shadowheart and the warrior could finish them off on the ground. To their left, the illithid was fighting the remaining devil. The flapping wings of a red dragon shook the ship.

"Hurry!" the githyanki shouted. "Before it strikes!"

A strangled scream told them the flayer had just finished off its adversary. With him, the respite granted to the fugitives disappeared.

Fear gave Nymuë renewed energy and she rushed towards the transponder. Shadowheart and the warrior confronted the monster, the former with flames, the latter with sword.

Unfortunately for the dark elf, the illithid engine was a collection of sprawling nerves, with no connection to each other. Was even one leading back to the Material Plane? The creature was very close now, she could feel it. Making out two detached central nerves, the young woman risked everything. She grabbed them, joined them together. A brief pressure on the device caused the ship to swerve. The three women leapt forward as the red sky of Avernus disappeared before their eyes. A flood of stars accompanied the Nautiloid's fall through the Planes. Nymuë felt herself hurtling downwards.

She clung to the console with all her might, narrowly avoiding a clawed hand. The mind flayer was upon her. She wanted to step back and grab her weapon, but a crack in the wall sent her over the edge. The dark elf saw the moon glinting in the darkness, and the ground towards which she was heading at full speed.

She continued to fall.

Chapter Text

"Get up."

Nymuë opened her eyes. Images raced through her mind: the Nautiloid was crashing down, taking her with it; the claws of a mind flayer were closing on her face; the tentacles of a tadpole were wrapping around her eye... She searched for her weapon, but found nothing but sand. The salty air caressed her face, the seagulls's cries mingled with the waves... And the flames engulfed the remains of the illithid ship.

She had survived. All that remained of the crash was wreckage and charred bodies, yet she herself was... unharmed? No wounds, no bruises... nothing. It was incredible. No: impossible.

A brief twitch told her that her parasite had also survived, which was less good news. If this thing had anything to do with her miraculous reception, then it was a safe bet to say it didn't want to be separated from its host... Yet another bad sign.

For the moment, Nymuë did not have the luxury of worrying. She had to find shelter in this field of ruins, and she had no idea where to begin with.

"Step one," she decided, "is to search for any survivors." She was already struggling to realise her own survival, but who knows? Perhaps the parasite was capable to overcome gravity...

It only took few steps to spot a figure among the rubble. The young woman was delighted to recognise Shadowheart, the half elf rescued during their escape. She was lying down, her eyes closed, but also unscratched. In the daylight, Nymuë could make out more clearly her dark blue robes, completing a chain mail. An insignia was repeated on the carefully embroidered garment: a simple black circle, surrounded by silver. If this was a religious symbol, the medical knowledge of a priestess was more than welcome.

Something else caught the dark elf's eye. A small polyhedral object, which the sleeping beauty was clutching tightly in her hand. It must have been important for Shadowheart to have clung to it despite her fall. An enchanted artefact, perhaps? The engraved runes were from a language unknown to her. Nymuë couldn't sense any magic at work, yet the device undoubtedly exuded... something.

She shook Shadowheart's shoulder briefly, and her green pupils flickered before identifying her: "You're alive!" she exclaimed. "I'm alive! How is that possible?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Nymuë sincerely replied.

"I remember the ship. I remember falling... then nothing."

Her story mirrored hers. The mystery remained, meaning that the how of their situation would have to wait. The real question now...

"What's next?"

"We need food," Shadowheart listed. "Shelter. And most importantly, a healer. We may have escaped, but we still have those little monsters in our heads."

"Us?" the dark elf raised. "You want us to stay together?"

This was unusual, although understandable. In a crisis, the chances of survival were always greater within a community. Nymuë was simply more used to going it alone.

"We don't stand a chance alone," her companion continued. "And we both know what's at stakes. I can't think of a better company."

"In that case, it's agreed," the young woman smiled. "Let's go."

"One last thing," Shadowheart hesitated. "I wanted to thank you again... for freeing me. It would have been all too easy for you to walk past my pod, but you didn't. I'll remember that."

The dark elf's smile widened. In the chaos of the last twenty-four hours, finding an ally was certainly the most positive thing that had happened to her.

She and Shadowheart explored the beach, looking for possible resources. They found several corpses; passengers less fortunate than themselves... but also fishermen. Poor buggers, obviously in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their macabre presence confirmed though there must be an encampment nearby. The easiest thing to do, the half elf decided, was to get some height to observe the area. At the rear of the Nautiloïd, a path overlooked the beach; they started there.

They walked through the wreckage of the illithid ship, spotting the bodies of mind flayers amongst the debris. It was a relief to know – in their current state – that these monsters had not survived. At the top of the cliff, the ocean stretched as far as the eye could see. The flora and fauna were typical of the Sword Coast, but this clue was like looking for a needle in a haystack. The survivors had no idea where they were, or even if there was a town in the area.

"Somebody help me! I need a hand!" a voice shouted.

Nymuë grabbed her chained dagger, and Shadowheart her mace. The sound was masculine, clearly not illithid. However, that didn't guarantee the absence of danger... She glanced at her companion, who nodded: they might as well go and see what it was all about.

At the bend of the path, they spotted a man. A high elf, judging by his lanky stature and pointed ears. He had the typical beauty of his species, although his skin was too pale, too livid. His hair, also white, was neatly trimmed. Even his clothes seemed well made, a purple doublet embroidered with gold and lace. A civilian?

"Quick!" he exclaimed as they approached. "I've seen one of those things cornered!"

Nymuë twitched; now that they were closer, she noticed the newcomer's blood-red irises. A surprising feature, supposed to be unique to her kind, as she recalled. The dark elf's eyes shifted from her interlocutor to examine the bushes nearby.

"There, in the grass," the stranger continued. "You can kill it, can't you? Like you killed the others?"

Given the choice, Nymuë really didn't want to kill anything. But if any illithid threat had survived the crash, it had to be eradicated to avoid infecting potential innocents. The presence of Shadowheart reassured her, and she moved towards the thicket. The chain of her dagger clanked between her fingers. She didn't know how many of them were in there...

As if in answer to her question, a boar emerged from the undergrowth. It was short of breath, its eyes wild... but clearly not a flayer. The animal scampered off, and the young woman thanked her lucky stars.

Until the edge of a knife met her throat.

"I saw you on the ship," the stranger hissed "Coming and going as you please. What have you, and your tentacled friends, do to me?"

Nymuë raised her hands in surrender. Cautiously dropping her dagger, she tried to twist her attacker's sword arm, but the elf had a firm grip. A civilian, she thought? Definitely not. The stranger drew his dagger closer: "Keep your distance," he snarled at Shadowheart. "This doesn't have to get messy."

"I need her alive," her ally retorted. "Hold that blade, or suffer the consequences."

"Sweet promises! As for you... where were we? Ah yes, the ship. You were inside, weren't you? Nod."

The dark elf complied grudgingly. This seemed to satisfy her assailant: "Right, now you're going to tell me exactly why you... Argh!"

The world began to turn, and Nymuë found herself once again seeing through eyes that weren't her own. She wandered through dark, crowded streets. She tried to hold on to this memory, but the image faded, replaced by the blinding light of the sun. With it came the fear.

"What was that?" the man spat. "What's going on?"

"The tadpole," the young woman articulated. "Those of the mind flayers... they connected us."

The grip on her neck disappeared. The stranger moved away, like an animal about to pounce.

"The worms...That explains things." His attitude suddenly changed. From threatening, his gestures and voice became gracious, as if he hadn't been so close to bleeding her to death the minute before.

"And to think I almost cut you open!" he exclaimed happily. "Apologies."

Nymuë rubbed her throat, noticing the dagger had left no scratches. It wasn't the first time someone tried to intimidate her, but this casual behaviour was something new. She decided to be cautious: "Apology accepted. I might have done the same had the roles been reversed."

"Take it for granted." However, her interlocutor seemed delighted:

"A kindred spirit," he cooed. "My name is Astarion, and I was in Baldur's Gate when those beasts catched me."

"Nymuë," she introduced herself.

"Shadowheart," the relevant added.

"A pleasure. So... do you know anything about these worms?"

The fleeting image of the newborn illithid crossed Nymuë's mind. The half elf's scowl told her that she was thinking the same thing: "Yes, unfortunately. They're going to turn us into mind flayers."

Astarion lost his splendour. His laugh was both incredulous and bitter: "Of course this is going to turn me into a monster. But... it hasn't happened yet. If we can find an expert... someone who can control these things... it might still be time."

Nymuë reflected. She didn't trust this Astarion; a blade to the throat was hardly the best of introductions. That said, he was a survivor, a victim of a parasite just like Shadowheart and her. They weren't going to abandon him to his fate, were they? She and the priestess glanced at each other. Nymuë saw her own doubts reflected. Even if her survival instinct was to protest, the young woman could imagine that some people would adopt a belligerent attitude towards strangers after what they had survived.

So be it. The pale elf would be given the benefit of the doubt, as long as he pointed his weapon at something other than her jugular.

"You should come with us," she said. "Together, our chances of survival are greater than on our own."

"Hmm"... Astarion mused. "You know, I was ready to continue alone... But maybe sticking with the herd isn't such a bad idea. And you seem to be a useful person to know. Alright, I accept."

With a most exaggerated bow, he followed them as they decided to leave the area around the Nautiloïd. They came across a number of traps: the hypothesi village was confirmed. As they tracked the trail of decoys, they heard voices. A man and a woman were arguing a little further on:

"Zorru was right. Yellow as a toad, and twice as ugly!"

"This thing is dangerous. Leave it to the goblins to kill."

Nymuë spotted a couple of tieflings, hunters by the look of them. They were standing in front of a wooden cage, held aloft by pulleys. A sophisticated trap for a civilian camp... not designed to catch food, but to keep intruders away. Inside, the dark elf recognised the githyanki warrior.

"I suppose a bad penny always turns up," Shadowheart grumbled.

"Do you know this creature?"Astarion asked.

"She helped us escape from the ship. She seems to know these illithid parasites..."

"You're not seriously thinking about it!"

Shrugging her shoulders, Nymuë simply stepped out from behind the bush. She heard her companions join her, as well as the priestess railing bitterly. The githyanki's eyes pierced her to. She didn't open her mouth, but the young woman heard her voice : "Get rid of them," she ordered. Another surprise from their parasite... one that Nymuë hardly had time to experience, as the tieflings spotted them:

"By the Hell!" the woman cried. "Underelf."

"Draw your weapon, Nymessa," her comrade commanded, doing so as he spoke.

The dark elf held back a grin. Of course. She was no longer in Baldur's Gate, where she understood the habits and customs. In the heart of the city, Nymuë knew which districts to avoid, and which individuals not to annoy. She wasn't surprised. When she had decided to leave, Revan had warned her. But anticipating the animosity of strangers, and experiencing it were two different things entirely. No matter...

"Go away now, if you're clever," she ordered in her sharpest tone.

If this duo were part of the cantonment they were trying to locate, the future looked bleak. Nymuë felt the stares of her companions behind her back and swallowed. Were they beginning to realise that they had formed a bad alliance?

The elder of the two tieflings gauged her, then sheathed his weapon. "Come, Nymessa. Let's go."

They fled westwards. As soon as they were gone, the githyanki called out to her vehemently: "Stop dawdling! Get me down!"

"The magic word?" Nymuë asked.

A slight cough told her that Shadowheart was hiding - without much effort - a sneer. The warrior stared at her with murderous intent: "Never."

The dark elf rolled her eyes. Humour was not her strong point, alright. She twirled her dagger and, with childlike simplicity, threw her chain at the pulley holding the wooden cage. The cell collapsed, taking her prisoner with it, but the fall was short-lived. Their new friend rose to her feet with all the dignity she could muster.

"I see the tadpole hasn't completely boggled all your senses. But the longer we wait, the more it consumes. My people know the cure for this infection. I must find a creche. You will join me."

"Oh, really?" Shadowheart intervened. "The last I heard, your people were flying around the sky on red dragons. You're the ones who set fire on the ship!"

"What exactly is a creche? " Nymuë asked.

"Many things. A hatchery, a training ground, a shelter. The githyanki protocol is clear: if you're infected by a ghaik tadpole, you must seek a ghustil to be purified."

The dark elf tilted her head thoughtfully. If all the githyankis were like this one, the idea wasn't the most attractive. However, it was their only lead at the moment...

"I suppose that's a solution worth considering..." she thought aloud. "Why don't you come with us? We'll see if we can locate this, um, creche."

"It shouldn't be far. The horned ones mentioned a camp. Someone there... Zorru... saw githyankis. You chose wisely, and made yourself an ally in creche K'liir," the warrior said proudly. "Few people know such fortune. Call me Lae'zel."

"I trust your judgement," Shadowheart hissed. "But I won't trust her. Not until I've gotten the measure of her."

"You've got a sharp tongue, elf. Too bad your mind doesn't proof its equal."

"Half elf. A subtlety lost on a creature like you..."

Holding back a sigh, Nymuë turned to Astarion. He hadn't said a word, but hardly seemed hostile to their new ally. In fact, he looked rather amused by the verbal exchanges between the two women.

"Very good," the dark elf mused. "So we have an irascible githyanki warrior and a haughty priestess. A high elf who's quicker with his dagger than he is at easing tensions. And me, in the middle of it all."

That was promising.

Chapter Text

After finding Lae'zel, the group finished searching the area around the Nautiloid. They found some supplies and canvas to build a shelter... but no other passengers. When they left, the day was drawing to a close and the sun was slowly beginning its long descent.

"We should set up camp for the night," Shadowheart suggested. "We don't want to get lost in the dark."

"Afraid of nocturnal predators?" Astarion ironised.

"I hope they find you more appetising than me..."

"There's no question of stopping," Lae'zel roared. "Do you think the mind flayers are resting? That the parasite is tired?"

"What I'm saying is curing our tadpole won't be a problem if we get our throats slit on the way home. We know which direction the tieflings went, so we have an idea of where they are. We might as well get our strength back before going there."

"And if you change during the night? I would have no hesitation to end your life."

"It's great to see that we share at least one opinion."

"Enough," Nymuë sighed. "By bickering like this, you're the ones risking signalling our position from miles around."

"What have you decided?" Shadowheart asked.

The dark elf gave her a stunned look. Now it was up to her? How convenient! She stared at the githyanki warrior, as motionless as a statue, at the priestess with her hands firmly on her hips, and at the high elf admiring his manicure. Perhaps... perhaps a break was indeed necessary, if only to ease tensions. They wouldn't survive long if they couldn't make the simplest of decisions together. "I vote for the campfire," she announced. "Let's find some shelter and settle in for the night."

Lae'zel let out an irritated throaty noise, while Shadowheart nodded with satisfaction. They soon located an old ruin on the cliffs, offering them cover and a view of the surroundings. A well, still filled with clear water, gave them a chance to clean up. Nymuë sighed with relief as she wiped away the blood accumulated over the last few hours.

She looked at her reflection with a curious eye. It gave her the image of azure skin, very pale compared to the rest of her kind; the result of a lifetime spent on the surface. She also saw white hair, cut short, and grey eyes, another sign of her existence outside the Underdark. How much longer would this face would be hers? Before it became distorted, replaced by tentacles, and her hair fell out in fistfuls... Nymuë frowned. They were going to find a cure, it had to be. The alternative was putting her nerves to the test.

Abandoning her morbid thoughts, the dark elf set about putting up her tent. She saw Astarion looking at her quizzically.

"Haven't you ever been camping?"

"I prefer taverns," he replied. "Lying directly on the floor is... something new for me."

Patiently, she explained how to arrange a shelter. At first, the high elf seemed incensed by this manual activity, but willingly complied. Shadowheart and Lae'zel gathered food. Their feast consisted of a piece of bread with dried meat. With a wave of his hand, Astarion refused his own ration.

"If your legs refuse to carry you afterwards, we will abandon you," Lae'zel retorted. "I'm not going to waste time lugging you around."

"It's a shame," he lamented. "You'd make a wonderful mule."

"You told us you came from Baldur's Gate, Astarion," Nymuë quickly intervened. "That's also where I live."

"Is that so? We're clearly not moving in the same circles."

The dark elf held back a snort.

"You don't seem comfortable in the open air," Shadowheart continued. "What is your function within the city?"

"Oh, I'm a magistrate. There's not much to say, it's rather tedious..."

Nymuë wrinkled her nose: magistrate? If Astarion was into politics, then she may as well pretend to be countess of Waterdeep. Revan had made her memorise the names of all the city's patriars. His tutor's work required the utmost discretion, and when he took Nymuë with him, he expected her not to annoy the wrong person. Since when did a man of letters play the dagger the way he did? "To each their own," she thought. She had no advantage interfering in other people's affairs... and it wasn't as if they had to be friends to travel together.

"And you, Nymuë?" the priestess asked. "What are you doing in Baldur's Gate?"

"I was a travelling artist for a long time," the dark elf said. "I went to Baldur's Gate when I was a teenager, and did a series of small jobs here and there to save money."

The perfect balance. Neither entirely wrong, nor entirely right.

"You don't have an instrument," Astarion remarked. "Failed artists are legion..."

"As much as crooked politicians. I haven't practised my art for a long time... I guess I didn't get the chance."

Her body stiffened as she fought against the usual images. There was no point in dredging up the past. "What's that strange object you're carrying?" she asked Shadowheart instead.

"There's nothing to tell," she said. "Nothing that concerns you, anyway. Just forget you've ever saw it."

"Probably a compact, so she can powder her pretty nose," Lae'zel hissed.

"I'd talk about your nose, but it doesn't exist. What I can tell, is that I too am trying to reach Baldur's Gate. I have contacts there that I need to find. As soon as possible."

"I suppose, Lae'zel, you're not inclined to tell us much about yourself?" Nymuë asked. "I'd never seen a githyanki before."

"Tchk. No wonder. They'd have cut you from navel to neck."

The rest of the meal was silent. The atmosphere was tense... and anxious. Beneath their bravado, her new comrades must have been just as worried as she was. Nymuë remembered the last time she had camped in these conditions, on the ground and with the sky as her only witness. It seemed like another life. Everything was so different back then: her companions, herself...

She wished them a good night before heading for her tent. Lae'zel seemed determined to take the first watch. Shadowheart isolated herself in a corner on her knees, almost in prayer. As for Astarion, he simply vanished into thin air. "Let's just hope he doesn't kill anyone on the way," Nymuë sighed. She lay back on her bunk, remembering the attack on the Nautiloid. Who would have thought, at the dawn of her new life, that she would have found herself in such a mess? And in the company of perfect lunatics, to add a point. She prayed that the parasite would not disturb her sleep.

Instead, her memories visited her.

The cacophony outside was deafening. Tonight again, the circus had been full.

"A success!" Lady Seri applauded. "A huge success! I'm proud of you, my children. Brindille, don't look so glum next time. I mean, no more than usual. Aktas, it's unbelievable that with two brains you've forgotten half your act. Make an effort, will you?"

She wandered among them, correcting one mistake or another. Lady Seri had always been picky about their show. Their phantasmagoria was the very heart of The Shining Star, the highlight of the spectacle : that's why, come wind or snow, the stands were always full. The freak show. Oh, of course, that wasn't how the matron called her favourite attraction. 'The Exotic Parade' sounded more elegant! A gathering of irregular, abnormal individuals. Something to distract the common people from their hard work. To take them away from their problems for a night, and find catharsis. After all, doesn't the man who is drowning in debt from morning till night become a king when he watches more ridiculous than him? Doesn't the woman who beats her children have a clear conscience when the curtain rises on genuine abominations? Who would question them when faced with a two-headed orc, or a Kobold dressed like an aristocrat? And then, of course, there was her. The drow. 'The jewel of the crown' Lady Seri had once whispered to her, holding her close to her heart. Creatures so rare to find on the surface! Both feared and hated. "Oh my beautiful one," she had said. "If you only knew how much they will pay to hate you." "I don't want to be hated," Nymuë had replied. Lady Seri had suspended her movements, and her smile had froze. "Can't I just play my music?" The matron had laughed herself to tears. Who on earth would come for that?

Nymuë knew the circumstances of her birth. Lady Seri had often told her: "A dark elf decided to barge into my tent! She ruined the whole show. I would have chased her away, but my good heart got the better of me. As if that wasn't enough, she died in childbirth, leaving us with a newborn to take care of. We, travelling artists, hardly ever bring up children. I'm not a wet nurse! But Rivlo, my late husband, had a fine nose. A drow, if it doesn't kill you, is worth money! That's what he wisely told me. And you, my darling, were too valuable to leave in the first ditch that came along."

Who her mother had been and where she had come from were questions Nymuë had stopped asking herself a long time ago. Before she died, she had left no name or explanation. Just a pendant representing a spider, a large 'A' between its eight legs. The first letter of her name? A gift from a loved one? She had no idea. Sometimes she dreamt that her mother had stumbled across someone else than these troubadours... Or that Lady Seri did actually preferred the first ditch that came along. But the fact remains that she loved playing her music. When her bow glided over the strings, she felt her existence slipping away. It was as if she were getting rid of her skin and making way for another part of herself.

The young woman removed her red contacts and placed them on her dressing table. Another gift from her benefactress: she felt it was important for the spectators to see in Nymuë what they had paid for. And they had emptied their purse for a drow. Which meant she had to wear the red eyes typical of her species. It happened that some dark elves were born without the sign of Lolth, the goddess reigning over the Underdark; but then again, who would come for that?

Next to her, Brindille was struggling to remove the detritus clung to his scales. The audience often vilified them at one point or another during their performance. "It's all part of the show," Lady Seri said. It was not good for the viewers to be shy.

Nymuë had tried to leave, of course. Several times, she attempted to rebel against her fate. Lady Seri didn't punish her, put her in irons or even starve her. No, each time, she held her back with a simple question: "And where will you go, treasure?" What fate awaited a dark elf outside this tent? Who would take her in, or have pity on her? Nymuë had believed there were places where people would be benevolent. That outside the Shining Star, she could be accepted and integrated. One day, she went to the neighbouring village, her heart full of revolt. Lady Seri was wrong, the 'Exotic Parade' wasn't the best situation for her !

She returned the next day with blood all down her arms and face. At the mere sight of her, the inhabitants had armed themselves with stones and pitchforks. Lady Seri hugged her: "I told you, my angel, the outside world is cruel. It doesn't see you as I do." Nymuë never tried to escape again.

The sound of horses drew her out of her gloomy thoughts. Lady Seri stopped twirling among them to go outside. A cart had stopped in the middle of the circus, driven by Tim, the Shining Star's personal steed.

"Oh-oh!" the matron exclaimed with delight. "Tell me I've got a bargain, Tim. If I ever get stuck with a so-called flying goblin again, I no longer answer for anything."

"Not this time, ma'am!" Tim replied with a toothless smile. "I checked it myself. This fairy is the real thing!"

"Show her to me. Children!" she shouted to the performers. "Come and welcome our new recruit."

The doors of the caravan opened as Tim gently unloaded its content. The newcomer was the height of an eight-year-old child, with a round face and delicate features. Her large green eyes gleamed with a feverish glow, half-concealed under badly-combed red locks.

But the undeniable eye-catcher was the pair of wings on her back. They were almost as big as her, and covered in patterns reminiscent of butterflies. The emerald of the forest crossed with the gold of the sun: a resplendent combination, making you forget the mud of her hair or the anguish of her expression.

"Move!" Tim growled.

The little girl fell at Lady Seri's feet. She took hold of her chin to examine it from every angle: "Yes, she'll do. She'll make a wonderful member of 'The Exotic Parade', won't she? It's not every day you come across an inhabitant of Faerie. What's your name, my dove?"

The child jumped out of the way, terrified, and ran towards the caravan. Brindille and Aktas stepped aside, but Nymuë remained motionless, as if numb. In slow speed, she saw the little creature clinging to her waist.

"Well, that's a way to behave!" Lady Seri snapped. "Is this how you thank those who give you a home, young lady? Did I make a mistake when I snatched you from the black market?"

The little girl whimpered and Nymuë gently came to stand beside her. Two green eyes observed her with curiosity. One hand touched her bluish skin. "That's lovely," the fairy whispered.

"What's your name?"

The rest of the group had gathered around them. The child continued her examination, gazing raptly at the glow of the candles on her azure skin. Her gaze finally met hers, and she gave a shy smile:

"My name is Elyon. And you're a snowflower."

Chapter Text

It had been ages since Nymuë had dreamt of Elyon. After fifteen years of wandering around Baldur's Gate, her time in the circus seemed like another life. One she didn't particularly want to remember.

The young woman finished packing her personal belongings. The sun had recently risen, and Lae'zel made a point to wake them up at dawn.

In truth, the dark elf was perhaps more troubled than she wished to admit by this dream. Nothing good could happen if her memories decided to revisit her. As every time she remembered the little green eyes fairy, a mixture of tenderness and sadness invaded her. What would Elyon have thought of the strange company by her side? Perhaps she would have been fascinated by Astarion's ruby irises, or have swooned with admiration at Shadowheart's understated elegance. And the githyanki? No doubt she would have found her 'very funny'.

This fine team had more pressing issues than her nostalgic echoes, though. Today, they had to find a healer. The dark elf had felt no fever, no pain during the night, except for her unwanted dreams. If the multiple details provided by Lae'zel about the illithid transformation were true, the first symptoms should have already occurred. Luck was therefore on their side... Or they had just obtained a reprieve.

Nymuë glanced at her comrades. The priestess and the gith seemed to be in good shape (too much in fact, given their outbursts of voice), but Astarion was showing signs of fatigue. The features of his face – naturally pale – were hollow, his eyes almost haggard. The young woman remembered he hadn't dined... Although he told them he had eaten this morning, when he returned from his night walk. Was he brooding over something? Could it be connected to their tadpole? She decided to keep an eye on him discreetly over the next few hours. All they had to do was hoping to find a remedy quickly.

Once the camp was disassembled, the group resumed its search where it had left off the day before. They advanced in a westerly direction, on the trail of the two tieflings. It didn't take long for them to spot a huge stone gate, partially covered with vegetation. A platform was used to accommodate archers, and it was a sentry they saw first. The place was suspiciously well guarded, for a simple village...

"No one is allowed to enter, Zevlor's order!"

The security guard - a middle-aged tiefling- was addressing a group of humans whose leader made a series of abrupt and nervous gestures. "Open the bloody gate!" he shouted. "These goblins will be on us any second!"

Goblins, so close to an armed encampment? Nymuë was uneasy. These creatures were adept at plundering, but they neither had the intelligence nor the organization for this magnitude.

Another tiefling joined his compatriot. He looked older, and was dressed in red and gold armour.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Goblins are at our tails! Open the door, Zevlor, now!"

"You have brought goblins here? Where is the druid?"

A mournful growl answered him. A few meters away, a worg appeared. The animal was almost two meters long and wolf-like; when it saw its prey cornered, it licked its lips. Half a dozen goblins followed him at a run.

"By the Nine Hells!" Zevlor exclaimed. "Open the door!"

The tiefling watcher rushed to the crank; alas, the goblins had caught up and two of them bent their bows. "For the Absolute !" their leader cried; the arrows hit their target. The sentry fell heavily to the ground, as did the door he had tried to lift. The humans drew their weapons and formed a line. They had no way out, only three of them against twice as many opponents.

Nymuë glanced at her companions; Shadowheart and Astarion were clearly reluctant to join a fight that wasn't theirs. Lae'zel, on the other hand, was boiling to throw herself into a bloody battle. The dark elf shook her head: whatever this encampment contains, they needed help. And without their intervention, these people would be massacred. It was worth the risk.

Twirling her chained dagger, the young woman rushed after the gith warrior. With a sigh, Astarion and Shadowheart also plunged into the fray. The goblin forces were already storming the three humans, and their intercession caught them from behind.

They split in two, divided between their prey and the newcomers. Astarion aimed at the few creatures remained behind. With the help of the human leader, Lae'zel pinced the worg. As for Nymuë, she pirouetted, dragging her chained knife with her. It made a steel path around her, slashing the skin and piercing the leather. Deftly, she threw it around a goblin ankle and pulled, leaving the creature at the mercy of their new allies.

The dark elf sensed a presence behind her as a creature ran in her direction; Shadowheart's flames ignited him before he brought down his blade.

Soon, their attackers were overwhelmed. Whatever the three fugitives had done, the goblins only sent a small squad after them. Nymuë's attention turned to the survivors, as Lae'zel finished off their last enemy. What had caused such disparate beasts to hunt them down?

"It was the last of them," Zevlor shouted. "All of you inside, more may follow!"

He activated the crank and the stone door rose to clear the way. The leader of the mercenaries rushed inside, without even a sign of gratitude towards his saviours. "This is promising," Nymuë thought.

"That Zevlor looks like the leader," Shadowheart whispered. "We should ask him if the camp has a healer."

"No, we need to know where that 'Zorru' is," Lae'zel said. "A healer will be of no use against our parasites, only a creche can save us!"

"You don't know that," the priestess retorted. "And I have more faith in a healer than in your kind."

"If there's a healer, he must have been desperate to come here," Astarion disdainfully exclaimed. "That, a camp?"

Nymuë could not prove him wrong. As the stone entrance closed behind them, the companions advanced into what looked more like a rabbit hole than a cantonment. An excavation brought together merchants and dwellings. Wagons, on all sides, gathered food and clothes. A few armed tieflings were making rounds, but the clumsiness of their movements indicated they weren't warriors. The dark elf spotted some of them giving her nervous looks; she tried to keep a low profile.

Lae'zel was already marching towards the famous Zevlor. His imposing build and well-maintained armour marked him as the only experienced fighter among the tiefling guard. No wonder that he was at the helm of this distressing herd.

He didn't seem inclined to devote time to them, however. With clenched fists, he steeled his nerves so as not to throw himself at the mercenaries chief: "Aradin, you fool! There are children here!" he yelled.

"We were running for our lives," the human defended himself. "And we can't say you were in a hurry!"

"You led them to us and let them seize the druid too. Unbelievable!"

"What druid?" Lae'zel asked.

The two men immediately turned to her. They appraised of these unknown saviours, hesitating as to their answer. "Halsin," Aradin finally spat. "The druid chief of this miserable village. We lost sight of him in the ruins, a few days' walk away. It was swarming with goblins."

"He trusted you," Zevlor said.

"No one forced him to go with us, he insisted. And when things started to turn sour, he couldn't keep up. As simple as that."

"By the gods, you're a coward!"

Aradin rolled his shoulders, a nervous twitch in his eyelid. Nymuë had a hunch that they hadn't landed in a haven of peace. "From what I know," she intervened coldly, "rag-picker fights don't bring the deads back to life."

"You're right," Zevlor squeaked. "There are too many things at stake."

"Worried about breaking a nail, you and the friendly drow?" Aradin provoked.

"Enough. There's no point in bickering: the goblins found us. Now, my people will have to flee as quickly as possible."

"That's your problem," the mercenary grumbled, gesturing quickly to his troops. Without another word, they took their leave.

"If he'd been as angry with the goblins as he was in this childish argument, we wouldn't have needed to intervene," Shadowheart whispered.

"So other goblins can show up at any time?" Astarion pestered. "Wonderful."

"Forget about this," Zevlor told them. "Aradin is an idiot, but that's no excuse. I shouldn't have stooped to his level. I never thought I'd say this to a drow but... Thank you for your help. To all of you. My name is Zevlor."

Nymuë's acerbic expression made him realise his blunder: "Far be it from me to insult you. Your people are in constant infighting, and you are so rare... I didn't know you sometimes cared about strangers."

The young woman saw the curious look of her comrades. She couldn't contradict Zevlor; the talent of her peers to tear each other apart was unparalleled. Some hoped for a better status, while others wished to gain the favor of the subterranean goddess, Lolth... The bloody nature of the dark elves had haunted Nymuë all her life. That's what earned her a place in the 'Exotic Parade' to begin with; why it was rare for her to be welcomed with open arms.

"Have those goblins launched many attacks like this one?" she asked, in order to divert the conversation.

"The Emerald Grove has been attacked by several types of monsters, and the druids accuse us 'strangers' of luring them here. Whatever the reasons you're visiting, I advise you to act quickly. They decided to chase everyone out. No one is welcome anymore."

"What do you mean ?" Shadowheart asked.

"They have started a ritual to cut the Grove off from the outside world. In a few days, this place will be covered with thorns. No one will enter or leave. So we can't stay... But we'll be slaughtered if we leave. We are no fighters."

"I suppose there's no way to negotiate with these druids?" Nymuë asked.

"I've tried, but Kagha -their new first druid - won't even receive me."

Nymuë felt a slight pressure on her arm, as Astarion whispered: "It's not our problem. Don't play the hero, we have other worries on our hands." The young woman grimaced; she sincerely sympathised with Zevlor and his people. Being judged for having a demonic ancestry was as stupid as being condemned for being born drow. But the parasite in her head didn't care about discrimination issues in Faerun. If it woke up, it would go after anyone who stood in its way.

"Know that my heart goes out to you," she murmured. "But our time is short. We're looking for a healer."

"Did the goblins hurt you?" Zevlor worried. "The druid Halsin is reknown for his skills, but he hasn't returned from Aradin's expedition. If it's not too serious, you can always ask to his apprentice, Nettie. You will find her with the other druids, inside the Grove."

"Thank you. We also heard about a certain Zorru... Is he part of your group?"

"I know Zorru," the tiefling chief confirmed. "What's your business with him?"

"He knows where my people are," Lae'zel replied dryly.

"We just want to ask him some questions," the dark elf reassured. "So our friend here can trace other githyankis in the area. Once done, we'll meet Nettie."

"The last time I saw him, he was near the cadet training area, further into the caves. I hope you get what you're looking for. If you'll excuse me, I better help get my people moving."

With a final nod, Zevlor walked away. The companions went deep into the cave serving as a refuge for the tieflings. Some platforms accommodated families or stands intended for supplies. A large area had been marked out with ropes to organise what looked like a training ground. A few young tieflings, armed with sticks, were practising on mannequins.

"How do we proceed?" Nymuë asked to her comrades.

"We should take advantage of this temporary shelter to buy some food and medicinal herbs," Shadowheart suggested. "If the meeting with Nettie doesn't go as planned, who knows how long it will be before we stumble upon another inhabited place."

"Waste your time if you want," Lae'zel hissed. "I'm looking for the horned one."

"Let's make two teams then," Astarion proposed.

Not surprisingly, the gith warrior and the priestess refused to work together. It was decided that Nymuë would accompany Lae'zel to meet Zorru, while Shadowheart and Astarion would scour the available resources. They agreed to meet an hour later at the Grove entrance. Astarion seemed particularly dissatisfied; the dark elf heard him mumble that he was going to miss 'all the fun'.

She and Lae'zel headed to the training ground. The young tieflings handled their weapons with difficulty, barely having the strength to lift their staff to perform a parry. The gith warrior cursed: "All githyanki know how to wield a sword before they're six, and must have made their first victim by their tenth birthday. On the other hand, these tieflings prove fragile. I really want to end their miseries myself."

"Calm yourself. They're survivors, not soldiers."

"I fail to see the distinction."

"That's part of the problem," Nymuë sighed, without answering. She hadn't yet decided if she liked the githyanki warrior's bite, or if she found it problematic. One of the reasons that had pushed her to accompany her.

A tiefling stood slightly back from the cadets' practice, busy making an inventory of several supply boxes. When he turned to them, he gave a terrified expression: "By... by Mordai's eyes! Another one? Has not my friend's blood been enough? Come to rip me off in two?"

Nymuë shook her head: that answered her questions about other githyankis. Where the young lords of Faerun were educated on which fork to grasp depending on the progress of their meal, the gith learned which orifice was the most convenient to pass their sword through. Classic.

"In creche K'liir, formal greeting begins with a bow," Lae'zel commanded, her arms crossed.

Zorru glanced at Nymuë. His trembling increased when he noticed she was a dark elf; the idea of a diplomatic approach was receding by the second.

"She just wants to ask you a few questions. She won't hurt you, will she, Lae'zel?"

Her companion gave her an angry look while the tiefling relaxed slightly. Nymuë tried an experiment. Focusing on her parasite, she sought to communicate with her comrade's. Lae'zel's tadpole immediately answered the call, as the dark elf telepathically said : "When we'll approach the githyanki creche, we'll do as you command. In the meantime, my world, my rules. You don't cut people in half, or even in three. The strangers on our way reveal much less information once they're dead."

"Tchk. Your softness will cause our ruin. As for you," the warrior spat at Zorru, "you have seen another gith. Where?"

"On the road to Baldur's Gate, near the mou... mountain pass. He saw us before we saw him. He pierced... Yul's belly. It came out to the other side."

"No twisting ? Kin must have been in a hurry. The map, now! Show me."

Zorru complied, pointing to an area a few days' walk away. Combining this with the information offered by Zevlor and Aradin, Nymuë deduced the mountain pass must be a little further up than the goblins's ruins. Which meant they had to get past these creatures first... Lae'zel had come to the same conclusion, but the prospect of hard fighting didn't seem to worry her. On the contrary, her scowl was more relaxed, her brows less furrowed. If Nymuë was feeling bold, she could almost have suggested she was glowing.

"Stand up," the warrior ordered. "You may keep your inners."

Zorru didn't need to be told twice. Without asking for anything else, he ran to the other end of the cave, occasionally glancing in terror behind him.

"The locals prove particulary complient," Lae'zel said. "A useful trait."

"We'll see if you think the same when he comes back with his friends," Nymuë retorted. "I'm not against a little armed questioning. But perhaps it would be good to choose our targets more wisely. The goblins on our way, for example, seem like a great option."

"Why not crush those too weak to face you?" her comrade asked. "When a shell is so thin, it doesn't take much to crack it."

"It's the first time you've landed in Faerun, isn't it?"

The warrior didn't answer, instead giving her another wicked glance. Nymuë studied her: the githyanki's defiance, as well as her continual aggressiveness... It reminded her of the members of the 'Exotic Parade' she had grown up with. During the first performances of new artists, Lady Seri always doubled her number of mercenaries. In case there're accidents, both on public and stage side. When they were alone, without options, forced to walk in a hostile environment, people were often seized with terror, or quick to violence.

Was this how Lae'zel saw their situation? An unknown land, a parasite ready to transform her into a monster... in a world she didn't know? In her place, maybe Nymuë would also want to join her family without wasting a single second... If she had a family to begin with.

"Very well," she said. "If there's a creche west of here, we better go there. Hoping a healer will help us by then."

"Purification cannot wait," Lae'zel agreed. "The zaith'isk will get us rid of the parasite."

"Let's join the others," the dark elf offered. "Before they started threatening anyone, too."

The warrior nodded and walked to the Grove entrance, Nymuë at her heels. The young woman watched her, thoughtful. The road ahead was going to be difficult, probably rich in diplomatic incidents. But she had made up her mind.

She liked her after all, this githyanki.

Chapter Text

The Emerald Grove was located inside old ruins, a few steps away from a cove surrounded by trees. It was a place dedicated to nature, quiet, peaceful... except for the angry crowd at its entrance. A dispute was raging between a group of tieflings and armed druids.

"Damn it," Nymuë complained. "What is it this time?"

"If I believe our luck so far, darling, I would say a catastrophe."

Astarion and Shadowheart were returning from their purchases. According to the priestess's sack, business had been fruitful.

"One could thought that a sacred grove would turn out to be less rich in tensions..." the dark elf sighed.

"Have you found Zorru?"

"The githyanki creche lies near the mountain pass, a few days from here. To get there, we have to go through the goblin camp."

"I really don't see why it's a problem," Lae'zel said. "If those creatures stand in our way, we will shed their blood."

"Four against a whole colony?" the high elf cried. "Has your parasite degraded your thinking abilities?"

"We haven't seen the local healer yet," Nymuë recalled. "Hopefully, this fight won't be a possibility."

"If we can access the said healer..." the priestess scoffed.

The companions approached the furious assembly. Two tieflings refugees, a man and a woman, had cut through the crowd: "Give my daughter back, right now!" the stranger screamed.

"She's a thief's Hell spawn," one of the druids lashed. "And you will wait for Kagha's judgment. Now, get back."

"Let me through, mragreshem, or I'll rip your damn throat out!"

When the woman stepped forward, a second druid – who had been silent until then – roared. Golden sparks enveloped his silhouette, his teeth lengthened, his skin covered in fur... until he became a gigantic bear. His fangs sent clear message to the fugitives: run away, or die.

"Oh," Astarion whispered. "I have to see that!"

The presence of the animal dissipated the refugees in a flash; only the man and woman who had spoken remained in the background, continuing to cast fierce glances in the Grove direction. The high elf let out a plaintive exclamation: "And I, who hoped to witness a show…"

"It's not too late," Nymuë replied coldly. "If sensationalism amuses you, you can always negotiate our passage with the bear."

"And endanger that face? Don't think about it. Oh no, you seem to be the most appropriate choice."

"In any case, they will love you more than the tieflings." Shadowheart suggested.

After a murderous look at Astarion - who answered with a smirk – Nymuë approached the druids. The bear immediately raised a clawed paw : "Back off," her colleague ordered. "We don't tolerate drows in here."

"Without our intervention, there would be no 'here' by now," Lae'zel retorted. "And tell your beast to be quiet."

"Not a step further. Force my hand, and I'll show you its claws!"

"One moment, Jeorna," the last druid interrupted.

She leaned over, letting him whisper something in her ear. Her eyebrows knitted in annoyance: "Are you sure? Why on earth would she let one of them pass?"

Her gaze on Nymuë was filled with disgust. The young woman felt a wave of anger: "Nothing you don't already know. Don't let yourself be intimidated," she recalled.

"Apparently, Kagha wants to see you," the druidess said. "You can pass. But a word of warning: at the slightest misstep…"

"You'll turn into a sow," Nymuë cut her off. "Yes, I have no doubt about that."

She passed without a second thought. She saw Shadowheart and Astarion squeeze back a grin, and the bursts of rage in her chest subsided.

The main part of the Grove consisted of a huge stone altar, surrounded by several statues. Each represented a different animal; one a bear, the other a deer... Druids were strategically placed in front of each effigy, melodically chanting an incantation. Swirls of green light radiated from a wooden relic at the center of the sacred circle. As she watched it, Nymuë felt as if she could hear the wind blowing in her ears, the rustling of leaves accompanied by the smell of grass and earth. How sad that this ceremony was meant to cut off this asylum from the outside world.

"A ritual like this must require a lot of energy, days of enchantments and prayers," Shadowheart observed. "Hopefully, we won't be locked in the middle of a druidic circle in the coming hours."

The dark elf nodded, distracted. Above the voices of the druids, another echoed, constrating with the serenity of the place. It was furious, chaotic, accompanied by an instrument whose strings were plucked without gentleness.

Nymuë headed towards the source of the noise, her companions at her heels. A little higher up, a tieffling was growling in frustration on a lute. She had a rather pleasant vocal, but her composition lacked harmony. She interrupted her verses, changed her words, made her instrument squeak on notes that were too low or too high for her arietta.

"Dance upon the stars tonight.

Smile and pain will fade away.

Words of mine will change… No... become... Damn it!"

"What are you singing?" Nymuë asked softly.

The woman gasped. She had brown hair with purple highlights, a shade that went nicely with her violet skin. She was wearing the typical troubadour dress, with bright colours and bells to wow the crowds. However, the artistic masterpiece didn't seem to be making much headway: "This, a song?" she replied. "A banshee would do better. I can't... Nothing fits, you know?"

As far as she could remember, Nymuë had never composed her own songs. Oh, she'd had fun writing scores here and there, but it wasn't as if her appearances on stage gave her the opportunity to play anything. Elyon often said that was the saddest part of the whole thing. She crouched down in front of the tiefling: "Your name?" she asked.

"Alfira," the other smiled sadly. "But I doubt you'll find that name among the famous bards."

"Start by placing your fingers correctly, Alfira. You don't need to hold your handle so firmly, you won't be sweeping the floor with your lute. As for your left hand, you'll torture your wrist if you keep it at this angle."

"You're an artist, too?" the young woman wondered. "Oh! We could make a duo! I'm sure that inspiration will come more easily with a fellow musician!"

"No !" Nymuë exclaimed. "I mean... It's your song. Let's focus instead on what you want to convey."

She took a long breath, aware of Alfira's surprised look, as well as the presence of her companions behind her. She wasn't ready. Not today, not now. She was already surprised that she'd managed to cast a few minor spells since her escape from the Nautiloïd. She was neither a sorceress nor a magician: her powers came from her art, and without practice, they would died.

In all the time she hadn't touched an instrument, they should have been buried six feet under.

"First things first," she continued more delicately. "What is your song about?"

"Lihala," the bard whispered. "My teacher. She loved dancing, but had two left feet. I remember of waking up one night on the road, and seeing her dancing beneath the stars... A huge smile on her face. Thinking of it now... my heart hurts. And my words just seem to crumble, like ash."

She paused, her eyes wide. Seizing her lute, she composed a simple chord.

"Words of mine will turn to ash,

When you call the last light down…

That's perfect!"

"Go on," the dark elf encouraged her. "What would you like to say to your teacher if she were there?"

"That... that it's OK. That all will be OK? And thank you… For everything!

Moon...

Moon reminds me of your grace.

All the love I can't repay.

Rest and know that I will pray,

Farewell my dear old friend."

Alfira's fingers slid over the lute of their own accord. Her lullaby slowly turned into sobs, until the tears took over from the humming. "Sorry," she whispered.

Nymuë stood up and applauded. Surprisingly, she heard Shadowheart join her enthusiastically, while Astarion and Lae'zel allowed themselves an appreciative nod.

"It was beautiful," the dark elf murmured. "Don't be ashamed to shed a few tears."

"Thank you," Alfira smiled. "That's the first time I've performed since Lihala died... She was playing her lute and we... We didn't hear the gnolls coming. There was so much blood... I can still smell it."

Nymuë stiffened, assailed by images of the past. The buzz of the audience. Green eyes full of fear. Blood as a stage carpet.

"Your teacher would probably be very proud of you today," she said with difficulty.

"Ha! She'd yelled at me for that clumsy verse. And made me play until my fingers were raw... And that's exactly what I'm going to do. Finish The Weepind dawn, for her. I still have a long way to go but... Thank you. I needed that. Wait..."

Alfira stood up and rummaged among the boxes and cushions around her. She walked over to Nymuë, holding a violin. Its wood was of a colour the young woman had never seen before; grey, with almost silvery glints. A blue feather hung around the handle.

"I know a fellow bard when I see one," the tiefling said. "And I want you to accept this. Its owner was with us when... Let's just say he doesn't use it anymore. I trust you know how to play it?"

Nymuë took the instrument and admired it without a word. It was a fine piece of work, far more elegant than the one she had owned in the days of The Shining Star. Her fingers slid along the bow, making the strings squeak with a calculated gesture. Soon, however, the usual signs appeared. Her hand trembled, her breathing quickened. The object seemed to weigh heavier than a stone.

Alfira looked at her hopefully: "I know how to play it," the dark elf confirmed. "Thank you very much for this gift. I will try to do it justice."

The bard smiled and helped Nymuë hang the violin behind her back. Nodding to the adventurers, she returned to her composition.

"That was... interesting," Astarion said. "Your reaction, I mean. I hope we will be treated to a recital?"

"No humming during morning training," Lae'zel warned.

"What morning training?" Shadowheart asked.

"The one that starts tomorrow."

And the warrior made her way to the druid quarters, followed by a chorus of general protests. The dark elf brushed the blue feather of her new instrument; perhaps this was the sign she had been waiting for, after all. She had left Baldur's Gate for this very reason: to start afresh, to reconnect with her music...

Her eyes fell on her arguing companions. She hastened to join them.

The druids lived inside ruins, in galleries beneath the very floor of the Grove. The interior was rather plain: a few stone tables, plants, shelves and wicker baskets containing food. This was the simplicity of nature lovers, who prefer to commune with the wild without being surrounded by frivolities.

Once again, the tranquility of the place was only apparent: the outbursts of an argument greeted the adventurers as soon as they passed through the main door.

"This is madness, Kagha. She's just a…"

"A what, Rath? A thief, a poison? A threat? I will imprison the devil. And I will cast out every strangers."

Kagha, the first druidess of the Grove, was a wood elf with bright red hair and green eyes. There was something ... poisonous about her, whether in her expression or in the tone of her voice. The man in front of her looked much older, with ebony skin and features marked by concern. Shadowheart discreetly pointed to a third individual. A child of around ten, huddled between the two adults. A huge viper was crawling nearby her, moving her head at the slightest movement. The animal was tense and alert: ready to strike at the first request.

"That explains the angry tieflings," Astarion said. "Is she the little thief?"

Nymuë clenched her fists; the whole situation cannot end well. Rath and Kagha continued: "Raph, lock her up," the first druidess ordered. "She remains here until the rite is complete. A piece of advice, devil: keep still. Tee-la is restless."

The snake hissed furiously, revealing its venom-soaked fangs. The child clung to Rath: "Please! I'm sorry, sorry !"

"Come, Kagha. We took back the idol. If Halsin…"

"Halsin isn't here!" his superior spat. "Keep his name off your tongue, unless Tee-la pierce it."

Nymuë then had an idea. A tremor gripped her parasite as she opened a connection with her comrades. The dark elf concentrated on the spark of her magic. For a long time now, she had only used it for minor spells, or to maintain the abilities that were essential to her day-to-day life. Fortunately, the cantrip she had in mind was one of her favourite tricks...

A fifth voice joined the circle of adventurers, unaware of their presence at the heart of her mind. A few steps away from them, Kagha's mouth remained closed, yet they heard her voice: "Halsin is gone," she whispered. "I am first druid now. He was a weak leader, but things will change: she promised me. I will take control and prove my authority."

Kagha's consciousness slipped from her dreams of grandeur to something resembling... fear. Whatever the new leader had planned, the other druids had no idea. Mentally, her thoughts went to a chest a few steps away, hidden in one of the rooms.

Nymuë stopped her spell. This was exactly what she was looking for. During her missions with Revan, she had learned that everyone had something to hide. It was often useful in negotiations to add a percentage of discretion to the secrets one held. "Knowledge is power," Revan used to say. This lesson had never failed her.

"Deceitful creature... " Astarion whispered.

The dark elf remained expressionless: "That should give us a leverage, if we can learn more."

"If you want to threaten that elf, there are simpler methods," Lae'zel said.

"Dear friend, the idea is to reveal your cards at the right time. Kagha is not our enemy yet. But if our healing is at stake between different conflicts, I like to have the winning hand."

"You know what?" Shadowheart said. "I think I'm starting to like you."

Nymuë smiled, before approaching the two druids in conversation: "I fear that you will compromise the harmony of this Grove by keeping a young tiefling within your walls. It is better to let her join her family, so that she will be proof of your grace when the time comes for the refugees to leave."

Kagha and Rath turned to their visitors, surprised. The first druidess stared attentively at them: "And to whom do I owe this advice?" she asked.

"To the saviours of your Grove," Astarion replied theatrically. "The same ones who took out a horde of goblins all by themselves."

"Compared to such creatures, a young tiefling won't be a problem," Shadowheart added. "Release her, then. We will make sure that she keeps to herself."

"Very well," the wood elf agreed. "It will be as you say. But if the child upsets us again, know that her faults will be yours. Ssifisv... Tee-la, to me."

The viper backed away slowly, almost in disappointment, and wrapped herself around her mistress's legs. The little tiefling only glanced briefly at her benefactors, before bounding off at full speed towards the exit.

"Thank you, Kagha," Rath sighed.

"Leave us," the first druidess commanded.

Her companion frowned. He duly took his leave though, while his superior examined Nymuë with relish: "A deep elf in our Grove, on this very day. A sign. Or rather, a gift. Who better to understand a watchul brood mother than a beloved child of Lolth?"

"Let's not jump to conclusions," the young woman said coldly. "I'm afraid I have no relationship with the Spider Queen."

"Indeed? I wouldn't have believed it. From what I've been told, you showed great potential at the Gate. Now that I've taken back the idol of Silvanus, the rite is resumed. I will seal the Grove, free from harm, free of intruders."

"Is that why you want to see us?" Shadowheart said wryly.

"Indeed. You've proved your worth against the goblins. The metal of skilled swords for hire. I want you to provide your services to the tiefling leader. Offer to guide the outlanders out of the Grove. I'm sure they'll reward you well. They've to be gone before the final prayer. If they are not... The viper must strike."

"I'm afraid you've misunderstood," Astorion said softly. "Refugees are absolutely not our problem. We want to meet your healer."

"Nettie is busy in the lower rooms. You are allowed to consult her, but if you can't help with the tieflings, you are invited to leave as soon as possible. It seems that these intruders will soon know the sting of my venom. Do we understand each other?"

"Absolutely," Nymuë replied, honeyed. "You have entirely... proved your authority."

With a sarcastic nod, the dark elf put and end to the conversation. She entered the caves. There were two rooms facing them: Kagha's chest, which she had found by rummaging in her thoughts, was on the left. As for Nettie…

"Let me guess," Lae'zel scoffed. "Are we going to split up again?"

"I think it's a great idea," Astarion agreed. "I'm leaving with our fantastic leader, while the rest of you will look for a cure."

Nymuë flinched: why on earth did he want to accompany her? A magistrate - if he really was one – didn't seem particularly suited to a possible burglary. But Shadowheart and Lae'zel agreed, and the group seperated. Glancing behind her, the dark elf notice that no one was paying attention to their comings and goings. Most of the druids were outside, taking part in the ritual.

Many animals roamed the cave however, an extension of their master's gaze. Nymuë skimmed along the walls, moving among the shadows. To her surprise, she found that she couldn't hear Astarion's footsteps: the elf was much quieter than she was, placing his feet carefully and extinguishing the torches as they passed. With a smile, he pointed to some canvas bags on top of a shelf. To the untrained eye, there was nothing suspicious about this arrangement. But for them who were specifically looking for a hiding place, it was relatively obvious. Nymuë climbed onto the piece of furniture and squinted: the chest was just behind it, perfectly accessible.

And perfectly locked.

"Damn it!" she cursed. "Of course ! Breaking the lock will alert all the druids around... "

"So little subtlety darling, it's appalling... Let's leave it to the professionals, shall we?"

"Are you going to… hook it?" Nymuë exclaimed.

"With pleasure," he replied with a charming smile.

They were interrupted by a noise not far off; someone approaching. Without hesitation, Nymuë made her way towards the entrance, looking as innocent as possible. The newcomer was a massive wolf. He saw the dark elf outside the room and growled.

"Hey handsome, you wouldn't happen to know where Nettie is, would you? All those caves look alike..."

The animal snorted with disdain. You'd think a creature accustomed to human presence would be friendlier... As he turned to leave, Nymuë felt a presence behind her: "Your acting is very modest. That's surprising for a thief..."

The young woman snorted. Astarion was standing beside her, victoriously brandishing a letter. Curiosity was stronger than annoyance, and the dark elf grabbed the paper to read its contents.

"Kagha,

Olodan has informed me of your progress. I am delighted that the Rite of Thorns has begun. Once condemned, the Emerald Grove will be the domain of the Shadow Druids and you will be its first druidess.

Archdruidess Aelis."

Nymuë's eyes widened. Oh-oh ! She knew that Kagha was involved in some dark business, but she certainly hadn't suspected that. The Shadow Druids were renowned for their… extreme views on life and death.

Where most druidic circles valued life in all its forms, the adepts of the shadows established a hierarchy. Some lives were worth preserving at the expense of others, which had to be sacrificed. What Kagha was planning was more than simply protecting the Grove; it was nothing less than a coup d'état.

The dark elf thoughtfully tucked the letter into her belongings. During the goblin attack, the mercenaries had mentioned the former leader of the Grove, a certain Halsin. If the Archdruid was still alive... And that their route would take them into the goblin camp... This could be an interesting piece of information to exploit. The young woman met her companion's scrutinizing gaze, and returned it: "I am no thief," she said calmly.

"No, indeed," he conceded. "A thief would have known how to pick such a simple lock. A spy, perhaps? You artists are admitted almost everywhere..."

"Do you know what surprises me?" she asked. "It's that a respectful lawman such as yourself is an expert in robbery."

He stared at her, calculating the benefits of an honest answer.

"You're an elf just like me, my dear. We have time to get bored. It would be a shame not to be... open-minded about the different opportunities. I'll pretend not to have noticed your predispositions, and you'll do the same for me? That way, we can avoid prying questions."

Nymuë thought for a moment. Her eyes gazed at Astarion, his sly smile, and measured manners. Not a magistrate, then. More like a cunning rogue, quick to devise stratagems. An interesting ally... as long as he didn't use his tricks against you. Even so, it was a talent they would need along the way.

"So be it," she said. "I ask for 50% of your loot for the group's mutual funds."

"15," he objected.

"40."

"35, and you break my heart in the process, darling."

Nymuë offered him her hand, which he shook hesitantly. Oh, Astarion was probably good, but she felt sorry all the same for the poor lad.

He was clearly no match to Revan.

Chapter Text

The Grove welcomed them that night. Morale was low, and each companion had isolated themselves in their tent. Nettie had no cure to offer them. The expert on the subject was her master, Halsin, but his knowledge had disappeared with him. The only salvation came in the form of a wyvern venom, quick and painless. Lae'zel had not appreciated the suggestion, and Nettie now lay unconscious in her own lab. From what Shadowheart had told them, the warrior had simply knocked her out.

Since then, they have been considering their options. The priestess thought there was a chance that Halsin was still alive in the goblin camp. However, this involved a lot of risk for little certainty, not to mention that they had no idea how numerous their ennemies were. The goblins who had attacked them today hadn't behaved as usual. They had been strategic and methodical; without their intervention, Aradin and his men wouldn't have survived. Such a disposition suggested a strong group.

On the other hand, the githyanki creche - whose success Lae'zel guaranteed - was only accessible if the goblin threat was averted. The confrontation seemed inevitable.

They were less destitute than the day before, with a better arsenal and reserves of medical supplies. But their attack would have to be well thought-out: they'd need to spy on the goblin camp, find a breach, and possibly create a diversion to draw the main troops away.

For the moment however, it was time to rest... and ask questions.

"What made you stop being a traveling artist?" Shadowheart said from her tent.

Nymuë grimaced. She had expected this subject to come up at some point. After their little meeting with Alfira, it was natural for her comrades to wonder. Their precarious situation meant they had to rely on each other, but she didn't feel in the mood to talk about her personal heartbreaks.

"It didn't pay well enough," she replied simply. "The city offers more stability. "

"You're causing quite a stir in society," Astarion said. "I've lost count of those reminding us that you were a drow, in case the evidence had escaped us. Was your audience as receptive?"

The high elf lay nonchalantly on his bunk. Nymuë remembered their recent 'agreement', justifying this anything but innocent question. The rogue was gathering information. An amicable settlement depended on the goodwill of the person you were dealing with, a risk few people were willing to take.

"Oh, I was a real star," she hissed. "But indeed, spectators weren't coming for my talents. I got an interesting offer that took me to Baldur's Gate, that's all."

"Do you miss playing music?" the priestess asked.

"Very much," Nymuë found herself replying. "It's been years since I've performed. For a bard... For those who, like me, practice magic through their art, this abstention can be complicated. This impacts our abilities to cast spells. If I feel ready enough to wield the bow again... I don't know how much the arcane will answer me."

"These skills could be useful in battle," Lae'zel growled as she sharpened her sword. "You should try to practice them. But no noise."

"Yes Nymuë," Shadowheart sighed, rolling her eyes. "Play an instrument, but in silence please."

The two women exchanged a few sharp remarks before retiring for the night. Nymuë stayed awake. As an elf, she could go several days without sleeping, provided she meditated. This might prevent her for having nightmares. As she settled down, she realised that she was far from being the only one to escape the welcoming arms of the night.

Astarion was still lying by the campfire, staring intently at the starry sky. She hesitated; ever since they met, the high elf had seemed to her like a snake charmer. He was both the piper and the animal, alternately seductive or threatening.

If Lae'zel and Shadowheart each had their own temper, Nymuë had been able to establish some sort of dynamic with her comrades. On the other hand, she didn't know where to stand with the rogue. She rose, and went to meet him: "It's quite a sight!" he greeted her. "The stars, I mean. I could take or leave your chin."

The young woman barely held back a sigh. She watched her companion attentively, whose sickly face seemed to have improved considerably. Once again, he had skipped dinner, preferring to 'take a walk' around the grounds. Nevertheless, he seemed more relaxed, almost serene, if not friendly. Determined to be cordial, Nymuë chose to ignore his reflection: "They are magnificent tonight," she nodded, looking at the sky.

"You can see them from Baldur's Gate of course, but not with such clarity. It got me thinking... Reflecting on what tomorrow might bring, when we'll arrive at this gith creche. Will we find out how to bring the worm under control? Will this... little adventure of ours be over?"

"Probably," Nymuë thought. "If we get through this, I don't think I'll go back to Baldur's Gate. Truth be told, I was about to leave when the mind flayers captured me. But nothing prevents us to travel together until our paths differ."

"Good," he whispered, getting up. "I don't want you to run off just yet."

Nymuë jumped; the rogue had suddenly – voluntarily – reduced the distance between them. His gestures were slow and studied: he was pulling out all the stops.

"You're quite the ally after all," he continued. "Traversing Avernus, surviving the crash… surviving everything that followed. I'm not easily impressed by people, but you're stronger that I gave you credit for."

"Tell me about it." Despite her frank amusement, the young woman felt slightly embarrassed by her partner's proximity. This was undoubtedly his intention; to disconcert her, and invade her personal space. Although aware of the banter, Nymuë couldn't hide her discomfort. It had been a long time since she had played the game of seduction, and she wasn't sure she wanted to try it with Astarion.

"I seek to survive, just like you," she replied calmly.

"Yes, we're more similar than I thought."

His eyes lingered on her face, occasionally descending to the nape of her neck. The dark elf shuddered; there was something in his gaze, a voracity more akin to a hungry animal than a seductive. He was really too close.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, as she stepped back.

"Hm?" he murmured. "Oh, I was leagues away. I just need to... get some air... Clear my head. I'll see you later I'm sure. Sleep tight."

He retired to his tent, all affectation gone. Disturbed, Nymuë went to her bunk, but this time she was sure that sleep would definitely not come.

The next day, the adventurers headed for the mountain pass. According to their map, they first had to follow a river near an ancient village. The place had been abandoned around a hundred years ago, leaving only ruins.

In this area they found evidence of their unfortunate accident with the Nautiloid; sections of vegetation were burnt away, and illithid debris - barely recognisable - was buried under clods of earth. The ship must have flown over the area when it crashed. Nymuë found it hard to believe that all this has already happened two days earlier.

They reached the bridge around midday, and stopped for lunch. The dark elf accompanied Shadowheart to fill their canteens at the river. She was still distracted by their rogue comrade, who was pacing back and forth. He had been fidgeting all morning, pretending not to be used to long country walks. When Lae'zel had recommended that he have a bite to eat, he had nodded, without touching his bowl... again.

Following her gaze, the priestess gave a small sneer: "Do you know what I think?" she said. "In my opinion, the magistrate is a picky eater, and doesn't appreciate rations of hard bread and dried meats. I'm sure he's found some more refined fare at the Grove, and is slipping away to feast elsewhere."

Nymuë reflected. It could have been plausible, yes... if she didn't already know that Astarion was anything but a lawyer. Still, there must have been some truth in what Shadowheart said, for no sooner had they returned from the river than the high elf announced his desire to stretch his legs.

"Need to be accompanied?" the dark elf asked insidiously.

"Not at all, darling. Enjoy your snack, you're so irritable when you're hungry. I'll be back shortly."

She watched him walk away, adding that more eccentricity to his list. He quickly returned however, as the three women finished their meal: "We're not alone," he whispered. "I heard screams further away. A man and a woman."

They followed him immediatly. Upstream of the river, two humans were working around a third individual, lying on the ground. The latter wasn't responding to their calls.

"He is dying," the rogue declared. "He lost too much blood."

"How do you know?" Shadowheart asked. "I don't see any injury at this distance."

"I... Well, when I spotted their presence, I've been hiding. I was able to observe the scene more closely."

In the back of her mind, Nymuë could feel her parasite stirring. Something was drawing her to these strangers. Without even realising it, she stood up and approached them: "You're a True Soul," the human murmured. "You can't die. Please, stay with us."

"Brynna, I don't think he's conscious," her companion panicked. "Can you hear us, Ed?"

She was now very close to them. The call in her head was urgent, focused on the faces of the two strangers. The woman drew her sword: "You! Not a step closer!" she roared.

A strange symbol appeared on the traveller's face, without her reacting. It seemed invisible to the naked eye, identifiable only by their tadpole. Were their comrades too feeling this surge of power? Nymuë struggled to control the euphoria that took hold of her, while her parasite quivered with contentment. She was experiencing it again, that feeling of fulfillment... of authority.

The words that came out of her mouth weren't her own: "I'll go where I please," she ordered.

She was overcome with fatigue as the worm withdrew, satisfied... and sated. It was digesting something she would never get back. Her eyes fell on Brynna, who seemed curiously absent: "I'm so so sorry. It's our brother, True Soul Edowin. He's injured and I... I wasn't thinking."

Nymuë crouched down in front of the man. Now that she was close, she could see the wounds Astarion had mentioned; deep gashes caused by claws as long as daggers. When their eyes met, the dark elf felt that the dying man could see beyond her, behind her head. She knew nothing of why, but she was certain he knew about her tadpole.

"Protect them," he moaned. "Andrick, Brynna, mind the True Soul. She will... She…"

A groan escaped his lips, and his agony ended. The man named Andrick squeezed his colleague's shoulder: "He's with the Absolute, now," he declared. "Are you really True Souls? Our brother, Edowin, was chosen like you. Have you orders for us?"

Nymuë looked at them, puzzled. Glancing back briefly, she could only notice the same daze in her three companions. Lae'zel pushed her forward, while Astarion silently articulated "Play along".

"Such insolence!" she exclaimed imperiously. "Shouldn't I be the one asking questions? You have just let one of our people die."

"I... I didn't want to..." Andrick stammered.

"We're only recruits, ma'am," Brynna replied fervently. "But we dream of becoming True Souls. To be selected by the Absolute to carry Her sacred promise. You have only one word to say, and we'll act: your desires are Her commands. She grants you the power to inforce Her will."

"When the time comes," her brother continued, "the True Souls – you - will rule. That's why we were looking for fugitives… Survivors of that ship that crashed farther east of here."

"Tell us more," Shadowheart said.

"We don't know what they look like, but the Absolute wants them found, at any cost. But instead, Edowin fell on an owl bear, an angry one. We managed to drag him away but... the beast's claws have already done their work."

"Then, it's obvious," Astarion suggested softly. "You must find the creature and avenge your brother."

Nymuë felt a second wave of energy, this time emanating from the rogue. With squinted eyes, he studied the two fanatics like a cat facing a mouse.

"Are… are you sure?" Andrick exclaimed.

"It's killed one of us!" Brynna roared. "It's killed Edowin. It's an enemy of the Absolute. You're right, sir. The beast must be destroyed. Your weapon, Andrick!"

She ran screaming towards a cave below, her brother on her heels. Nymuë was too dismayed to react... And Astarion far too pleased with himself: "At least this will save us from being chased by two brainless idiots!" he commented.

"Chased for what?" Shadowheart hesitated.

"But our tadpoles, of course! Don't you understand? We still haven't transformed yet. We mysteriously survived the destruction of an illithid ship... And now we have the ability to influence others? These parasites are anything but ordinary…"

"Ignore them," Lae'zel spat. "Deny them! This is nothing but a disease. And every use will sicken us further."

"Nonsense! Any power freely given is a power well received. And this is a valuable power, indeed…"

"It's only valuable if we understand it," the priestess retorted. "And we don't. Not yet, at least."

Her companions turned to her, waiting for her judgement. They seemed to have quickly formed an opinion on the matter... But Nymuë had more conflicting feelings.

"These powers worry me as much as the situation we find ourselves in," she said. "Perhaps we should try to study them before making a decision."

Astarion pouted, and Lae'zel hissed that as far as she was concerned, the choice was made. Only Shadowheart approved of her cautious logic.

As they retraced their steps, Nymuë stood back, pensive. She hated the fact that the parasite could take control of her mind. But that feeling earlier, in front of Andrick and Brynna... She had felt invincible. Invulnerable. All her fears and anxieties had been swept away in an instant. Why skim the walls, bow her head and fear rejection from others, when this power simply allowed her to take? She had seen it, when it had opened up to her; if she embraced it, she would never have to put herself down again. To smile politely in the face of yet another insult. All she had to do was hold out her fingers and...

The young woman took a long breath. No. Agreeing to let herself be dominated by an illithid tadpole was unnatural, abject. Lae'zel was right: by abdicating, she would only be enslaving herself to this force. She would think she was dominating it, but she would be subject to its appetites. And then, what would differentiate her from a mind flayer? When she had crushed Brynna's consciousness, she hadn't controlled that energy. She'd just... let it possess her.

At the next observation, Nymuë froze in disgust.

Why then, but why had it done her so much good?

Chapter Text

It was the smell that stopped them. A pungent stench of decomposing bodies, blood and ashes. They spotted the first corpses as they approached the village.

"Horned ones," Lae'zel analyzed coldly. "Were they attacked on their way to the Grove?"

Nymuë held back a gasp. She understood better how miserable the tieflings were now, and their reluctance to leave the druids' home. From the start, the odds had been against them.

The priestess and the warrior gathered up the bodies, while Astarion watched the horizons. A movement caught his eye beyond the trees, followed by a smell, metallic and sickly sweet. As they both move towards its origin, the dark elf had to cover her face.

They found a man dressed in worn leather, crouched beside the remains of a boar. He was so engrossed by the carcass that he barely raised his head at their approach: "Ah, strangers," he greeted them, "forgive the aroma. Powder of Ironvine: an old hunter's trick, and most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me."

"You're a monster hunter?" Astarion asked. "I'm surprised. I thought all Gurs were vagrant cutthroats... "

Nymuë glanced at him briefly. The rogue's tone was amiable, but his mockery was obvious.

"Ah," the stranger replied, "another follower of tavern legends! What have you been told? That we're a mystical and dangerous people? That because we travel the land, never settling in one place, then we steal your chickens, curse your crops, seduce your daughters? I wish I'd have half the power that your people impute to mine. But alas, I am a simple wanderer. A simple wanderer... and monster hunter. You can call me Gandrel."

"What are you hunting, exactly?" Nymuë demanded.

Knowing that a beast was prowling around wasn't reassuring, especially with their parasite already to contend with. Her comrade didn't seem to share her concerns, however, as he went on to say: "Something terrifying, no doubt. Dragon? Cyclops?"

He pretended to think: "Kobold?"

"Nothing so dramatic. I'm hunting for a vampire spawn."

The dark elf waited, but the next derision was long in coming. When she looked at the rogue, all traces of irony had disappeared.

Instead, she saw fear.

Gandrel leaned over the boar; it looked to be in good shape, if it weren't for its obvious death. There was no sign of injury... appart from two holes, at the base of its neck.

"He died a short time ago, two hours at the most," the hunter said. "It's been drained of blood."

"What interest do you have in this vampire spawn?" Astarion asked.

"It's a sacred mission for the head of my tribe. She sent me here to capture the beast and return it to her."

"And bring it where?"

"Baldur's Gate."

Despite his fake smile, Nymuë felt the high elf tense up. His hand was only inches away from his dagger. When he moved, the young woman pretended to stagger. Her arm collided with her companion's fingers, and their eyes met. A warning.

"Do you feel well?" Gandrel asked gently. "I have a tea that might help…"

"She's doing wonderfully," Astarion interrupted. "But it's getting late. Have fun tracking your monster."

The man nodded, judging that it would indeed be wise to seek shelter before nightfall. When he reached the main road, the bloodless body lay like a macabre tableau between Nymuë and her comrade. Both of them stared at it for a long moment.

"I had the impression you were about to attack that hunter," she finally commented. "Not a fan of the Gurs?"

"Hardly. They've given me my fill of unpleasant surprises. This Gandrel may not have looked like it, but his people are real crooks."

"Are they the only ones? You have been sorely lacking in honesty since the start of our journey. So why not take this opportunity to show a minimum of sincerity?"

"Oh, because I'm the one who's being dishonest here? Darling, you pretend to be the friendly drow of the neighborhood, sometimes a leader, sometimes a hero... But I don't buy it. Your mask changes according to the role you think you should play. You dream of being acclaimed by the crowd, don't you? Only an idiot wouldn't see that."

"And there you are."

"Don't flirt, you're not my type. But I must admit I'm curious about your latest sham... The tadpole. You loved it, didn't you? So there's a hint of corruption beneath this banner of virtue."

The young woman glowered at him. She didn't know which annoyed her more, Astarion's insinuations or their veracity.

"The vampire spawn," she continued, "is he an acquaintance of yours?"

The winning hand changed sides, as the rogue interrupted his taunting.

"You seemed preoccupied with his search. A parasite capable of influencing weaker minds... I'm sure your undead friend would love that, too."

His furious expression was priceless when she turned on her heels to join their comrades. Shadowheart and Lae'zel had finished searching the tieflings.

"Where were you?" asked the first. "A man crossed the bridge a moment ago. He told us that he had met our companions."

"A monster hunter, yes," Nymuë replied. "He's chasing prey in the surrounding area."

"What is he hunting?"

The dark elf swivelled slightly towards Astarion, who had remained behind. His ruby eyes seemed both tense... and worried. She turned her attention back to Shadowheart: "Nothing he could find."

The entrance to the village, a large, half-collapsed stone arch, was guarded by two goblins. Who was more surprised, the creatures or the travellers, no-one could say; the adventurers expected to find the place completely empty.

They had already grabbed their weapons when one of the goblins pointed at Nymuë. He stood to attention: "Hail, Your Serene One! All drows are welcome in Bogrot!"

"And their slaves too," the second confirmed.

"Their what?" Lae'zel roared.

The dark elf didn't react to this sudden deference because - as with Andrick and Brynna - a luminous symbol had appeared around the creatures' left eye. Their parasite remained silent, but the sign was the same: a skull in a triangle, struck with a hand across the forehead.

The young woman reflected: if the goblins were in league with the cultists, the very ones who had named them "True Souls", the situation could turn to their advantage. She decided to test her hypothesis: "Long live the Absolute!" she chanted.

The goblins slammed their spears into the ground, enthusiastically repeating her hymn. With a gesture from her, they stopped just as quickly: "Where are our troops?" she asked authoritatively.

"In the main camp, Your Suzerainry."

"Suzerainty!"

"Yes, that. Minthara will be happy to receive one of her kin. Are you from Moonrise?"

Nymuë nodded, continuing her masquerade. Was there another drow around, in the very heart of the goblin camp? That would explain their military strategy… Curiosity and doubt seized her. She had never met any other dark elves before, and hadn't particularly sought out their company. Something told her that this wouldn't be a very pleasant experience.

"As if a single drow wasn't already a pain!" Astarion whispered. "You can go a lifetime without meeting one, and now they're multiplying."

The young woman smiled when she heard him yelp: Lae'zel's foot had just crushed his.

"Only my sister will be there to welcome me?" she continued.

"Priestess Gut will be able to show you our new recruits, Your Great."

"Greatness!"

"Watch the road, you!"

"There's nothing but pebbles!"

"Well, keep an eye on them! What was I saying?" the goblin growled. "Ah, yes. The priestess takes care of the new ones. She puts the mark on them, and so the faithful recognise one another. And then there's the boss, Dror Ragzlin! He too will be able to give you a report, Your Majesty."

"Are these the only True Souls in the camp?" Nymuë asked.

"Yes ma'am! The others, they're in Moonrise for you know what."

"What?" Shadowheart asked at once.

"Oh, uh... I don't know either. I'm not a True Soul."

"There, boss! The rock! IT MOVED!" the other shouted.

The companions entered the village, while the subordinate was slapped across the face.

Most of the houses were empty, the years and looting having won a battle long abandoned. A few goblins were scouring the area, but they quickly moved aside at the sight of Nymuë.

"So the goblins worship the dark elves..." Shadowheart thought aloud.

"Proof that they aren't that primitive," the concerned replied mischievously.

"That might be useful," Lae'zel interjected. "If they admire you, we could destroy them from the inside. As vexing as I am to be considered one of your subjects."

"Not to mention that they seem to honour this new deity... The Absolute," Astarion added. "Thanks to our tadpole, we could even take care of the most suspicious."

"It mostly means that we can look for Halsin without necessarily starting a fight. And if the archdruid turns out to be missing, we can always continue our journey to the mountain pass without exhausting all our resources."

"Let's not forget that we know the names of their leaders," the priestess said. "Goblins aren't creatures that are quick to strategise. If we realise that weapons are the only solution, we know who to eliminate first. Without leaders, they will quickly disperse."

"Then, we have a plan," the dark elf concluded.

Seeing an herbalist's shop and a forge in the distance, the adventurers decided to split up and explore the place. They had little hope of finding anything among these ruins, but it would have been a shame not to seize the opportunity. Nymuë and Shadowheart went one way, Astarion and Lae'zel the other. Unsurprisingly, the shop was empty, the medicinal herbs rotten, and the potions stolen ages ago. The priestess found a few interesting books which she stuffed into her pack. As they prepared to rejoin their comrades, she pointed out a monument a few steps away. It looked like a religious altar, but the statue of the deity had collapsed. Unless it has been desecrated.

Nymuë had always had a conflicted relationship with the gods. As a child, the incessant insinuations about her origins prompted her to learn more about the cult of Lolth. The little she found out made her blood run cold: the Spider Queen was a cruel and capricious goddess, feasting on the blood of her enemies as well as her devotees. She reigned supreme over the dark elves, and had quickly become the object of night-time anguish for the inhabitants of the surface. Her followers were encouraged to betray each other in order to appropriate the crumbs of power she deigned to leave them. The more insidious the treachery, the denser her web became. The young woman had tried to get closer to the pantheon of high elves, the so-called Seldarine gods. But if they had heard her prayers, they had hardly seen fit to answer.

Shadowheart didn't seem to share her doubts; in fact, it was with passionate interest that she sought to identify the allegory. The dark elf had once tried to find out the origin of her beliefs, but the priestess was discreet. After all, her religion was her own business.

Suddenly, she let out a cry. Her right hand emitted a bright glow, so strong that she withdrew her glove as if it were burning her. A wound pierced her palm, a clear, dark hole made with a red-hot iron. When Nymuë gestured towards her, the priestess stepped back: "Don't pay attention to that," she gasped. "It's nothing."

"You could have told us about it. You would have been healed."

"It's not recent," her companion replied cautiously. "For as long as I can remember, I've always had this wound. It hurts me from time to time, but it always passes quickly, so I can manage. It's just... something I have to live with. No need to make a big deal about it."

"So it's of magical origin?" Nymuë asked.

"It has nothing to do with our tadpole! And I told you, it's a simple abrasion."

Shadowheart crossed her arms, frowning; there was nothing more to say. Yet, her eyes kept returning to the ruined statuette, as if it had been the cause of her pain. As she approached, Nymuë recognised the half-moon emblem of Selûne, the Moon Maiden. A much-loved deity in Faerun, symbol of light, "She-who-guides in the dark"...

But it was anger that was distorting her comrade's features, not veneration.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" she asked wearily.

"I will respect your silence," the dark elf answered. "But I'd rather hear it from yourself."

"If we go on together, I might as well let you know, I suppose. I worship Shar, the Mistress of the Night and Lady of Loss. I assume you've heard of her?"

Nymuë wrinkled her nose, searching her memory. From what she could remembered of Revan's lessons, when she wasn't openly falling asleep, Shar was Selûne's sister. Constantly in competition, the twins were portrayed alternately as sworn enemies, or two sides of the same coin. No light without darkness, and no night without moon. Their... disciples, on the other hand, were less poetic and took their idol's interests to heart. The conflict between Shar and Selûne was as old as the world itself, for, according to the myths, it was at the very origin of Toril. "In the beginning, there was only Shar and the Void. Then, Selûne created light..."

"I know of her connexion with Selûne," the dark elf replied cautiously. "But I know nothing about her divine kingdom."

"My lady Shar is the Night Singer. Most fear the dark, like children; because in darkness they see their fears reflected. But Shar teaches us to step beyond fear, beyond loss. In darkness, we do not hide... we act. Pain, hope, the promise of better days... All of these are heavy cloaks that bend our backs and burden our hearts. Many people break before they embrace Shar's truth. There's often suffering, death even."

It was perhaps the first time the priestess had been so vehement, and her faith in Shar filled her with a fervour that set her green eyes ablaze and exalted her voice. It went beyond mere piety: it was zeal, pure adoration. As if realising that she had let herself go, Shadowheart immediately regained her composure: "There, you know the truth for what it's worth..."

She was sizing her up, almost defiantly. If Selûne was popular, her sister was considered an evil deity. The young woman understood her comrade's discretion: such beliefs were rarely welcomed with open arms. Nymuë would have laughed if Shadowheart hadn't looked so serious. Who could have thought that, one day, someone would fear her reaction to religious matters?

"I don't judge you, Shadowheart, if that's what frightens you," she said. "In the eyes of the world, I'm a Lolth follower. Her church leave much to be desired. You can pray whoever you want, I don't care. In fact, divine intervention would even be greatly appreciated in our situation."

"Most people are afraid of my Lady," the priestess murmured, barely containing a smile. "But I think I did well by joining you. Most agreeable company."

"I am curious, however, if you'll allow me. What inspired you to worship Shar?"

"She took me in when no one else would. Without her, I wouldn't be alive. She's my mother, she nurtures me, cares for me, loves me."

The dark elf's thoughts drifted back to Revan. Her work at Baldur's Gate had never been a source of joy, let alone pride. She followed her mentor on his missions, and offered her services whenever she could. She had learned a lot from him... for better or for worse. Yet, she knew that if she had to do it all over again, her choices would be the same. For Revan had saved her when she was weak and miserable, when the rest of the world would have finished her off without a second thought.

Her hands grasped Shadowheart's - still dimly lit- and squeezed. The priestess raised their palms to the sky: "My faith protects me. I will pray that you can find something to believe in your turn."

Chapter Text

Shadowheart and Nymuë joined their comrades, empty-handed. As it turned out, the search of the forge was no more fruitful: when they arrived, Lae'zel and Astarion's bags hadn't grown much. However, the former was triumphantly displaying a well-made blade, while the latter could hardly hide his hilarity. They had stolen it from a goblin in the midst of an activity with an ogress. The new-comers shuddered with disgust as they listened to the scurrilous details.

It was decided to set up camp inside an old mill, as the goblins' lair wasn't far away, and tomorrow was going to be a difficult day. While they set up their tent, the priestess was curious: "Do you have any loved ones waiting for you at home?"

"Waiting for me, you mean, behind the door?" Lae'zel retorted. "What for?"

"For the pleasure of your company would be a lie. I take it that no githyanki will come to save you?"

"My kins wouldn't waste time on such trivial matters. I am one of many, and won't be a burden to my queen. Besides, I've had countless lovers, and wouldn't tolerate them to disrespect me."

"Let's just say nobody bothered to look for you," Shadowheart scoffed. "But I agree on one point: one-night stands are less monotonous."

"You too, 'your countless lovers' populate the city?" Nymuë teased.

"I cultivate diversity. What about you, Astarion? A sweet heart, perhaps?"

"Sweet? I prefer them savorous."

"I really don't want to know what you mean by that..."

Nymuë's laughter soon died down, as she realised it was her turn to reply: "Oh! Uh... No. No one. Just a few acquaintances, a tutor also at Baldur's Gate, but nothing serious."

"If you need suggestions..." the rogue whispered.

"… I'll ask the goblin and the ogress!"

A series of sniggers greeted this repartee. Despite the apprehensions about the following day, the joyful atmosphere remained throughout the evening. Astarion volunteered for the first watch, and Nymuë settled outside to enjoy the stars. This night, she wanted to abandon meditation in favour of a more restful sleep. She sincerely believed that their plan was solid enougn, but the deception wouldn't hold if their search dragged on. They might as well be prepared.

Not surprisingly, images of Elyon visited her as soon as her eyelids closed. She became agitated, oscillating between feverish dreams and nightmares. Her companions were long asleep when she woke up again; perhaps it was her instinct telling her that something was wrong.

Or maybe she just get lucky.

Two red irises shone above her. Astarion was crouched beside her bunk, his lips close to her neck... displaying unsually long canines. When he saw her awake, he stood up quickly: "... Shit," he whispered.

Nymuë grabbed her weapon. She cast a furious glance at the high elf, who raised his hands in surrender: "No, no! It's not what it looks like, I swear! I… I wasn't going to hurt you! I just needed... well... blood."

There, in the dim firelight, she saw him for what he really was: a vampire. A slave to his sanguine hunger. Tightening her chains to the point of pain, the dark elf forced herself to remain calm while she calculating her chances to escape.

"Who's acting now?" she squeaked. "The boar, the hunter... How much longer did you hope to deceive us?"

"It's not what you think," he defended himself. "I'm not some monster! I feed on animals. Boars, deers, kobolds... whatever I can get."

She remembered his drawn features, his sickly complexion, the dark circles under his eyes. Had he been struggling to feed himself, while hiding his true nature from the rest of the group? His scarlet pupils followed her movements, trying to figure out her thoughts. Regularly, they slid towards the weapon at the end of her chains.

Stripped of his customary mockery, Astarion seemed almost... desperate. "I'm just too slow right now," he continued. "Too weak... If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer... Fight better... Please."

It made no sense. Nymuë had seen him moving about in the sunlight. If the rogue really was a creature of the night... Shouldn't he have evaporated? And even if she decided to believe that fable... What to do with him?

He had not attacked them so far, but he hadn't been honest either. It was hunger that had made him take reckless risks tonight. No, the truth was that Astarion needed the members of this group to survive, just like they needed him.

Slowly, she put down her weapon. The high elf's shoulders seemed to feel lighter.

"Please?" Nymuë repeated. "You just tried to bite me! Why didn't you tell me anything?"

"At best, I was sure you'd say no... More likely, you'd run a stake through my ribs. No, I needed you to trust me… And you can trust me."

Her mind was screaming at her to get him out of the camp. To wake up Shadowheart and Lae'zel in a minute. By the gods, she's spray him with garlic if she had to. But he needed help. Her help.

"This is suicide," she thought. "I might as well slit my own throat. Who's to say he'll be able to control his impulses? And even if he shows good faith, what if his tadpole gets the better of him? He is too dangerous, too unpredictable. It's all decided."

She opened her mouth: "I know. I believe you."

Astarion's eyes widened. He had calculated the odds in favour of his imminent death. Her interlocutor seemed just as surprised.

"Thank you," he murmured. "Do you think you can trust me just... a little further? I only need a taste, I swear."

"I don't particularly want to turn," she said.

"No risk. I'm hardly a vampire's spawn: my bite won't transform you."

It was the stupidest thing to do. And yet, Nymuë realised that she meant what she said: for a reason that she couldn't really explain, she trusted Astarion. Was it because of their situation? Their survival, forcing them to rely on each other? Or was it an even more selfish desire, to be indispensable to someone, if only for a moment?

"I warn you, no more than is strictly necessary," she agreed.

"I... Of course. Not one drop more. Let's make ourselves comfortable, shall we?"

He invited her to lie down on her makeshift mattress. Nymuë complied, her survival instinct in agony. Everything in her wanted to throw herself on her dagger. As if he sensed her thoughts, Astarion pulled her weapon away, while his arms wrapped around her face.

In other circumstances, this position might have been suggestive. The young woman might have been troubled, had it not been for the fangs ready to sink into her jugular. Astarion's eyes were devouring the back of her neck, staring at the vein that, she knew, was pulsating just below her ear. Fear made Nymuë's heart beat wildly, and her pulse quickened. The high elf smiled at her with his usual majesty, but she was under no illusions: he himself didn't know if he could control his thirst.

Or if he would want to.

She felt his breath in the hollow of her throat, making her hair twirl. The next moment, his fangs pierced her flesh. She refused to whimper: the pain was sharp, like a point of ice. Her blood throbbed in her veins as the vampire drained her of her strength.

Almost immediately however, the sensation disappeared. Her heartbeat continued to accelerate, but her body no longer felt anything. Her limbs were heavy and her brain dizzy, as if she were about to fall asleep. The dark elf could clearly perceive the intruder's presence inside her, but the world was... evaporated. Colours became blurred, sounds indistinct. Her conscience was crumbling.

She felt herself living. She felt herself dying.

"Now... it's enough," she murmured.

Even to her own ears, her voice echoed too low. Astarion's eyes met hers and for a second, a terrible second, the same thought passed through them. She was too weak to fight. If he wanted to finish her off, bleed her dry, there was nothing she could do about it.

She saw that he liked it. To have someone at his mercy, to be in control. There was no pity in his eyes, only an immense, inexhaustible thirst to which he could finally give himself over.

Her hands clutched his shirt, trying - in vain - to push him away. But the rogue was tighting her shoulders in an embrace that would soon prove fatal. Then Nymuë let go of his clothes, and slid her fingers down to his red pupils. They brushed against his face, forcing him to look at her: "I said stop."

As soon as their eyes met, he rose to his feet with extraordinary alacrity. Unlike his companion, his face betrayed pure wonder: "That... That was amazing."

"Speak for yourself," she gasped.

The slightest movement made her nauseous. She felt... empty. The rogue, on the other hand, was bathed in bliss. He licked the few remaining drops of blood - of her blood! – with an undisguised appetite. Things had almost gone horribly wrong. A few seconds more, and she would have been a bloodless corpse.

"My mind is finally clear," he continued. "I feel strong, I feel... happy."

For his credit, he did indeed look more energetic. His gestures were agile, quick; he could surely stop a projectile in mid-air, if the young woman felt strong enough to test that theory. "Wonderful," she thought. "If I die tonight, I can always console myself with the knowledge that the results are there."

"I can't wait to see you face the goblins," she said with difficulty.

"It shouldn't take long, Our little team has a knack for getting into perilous situations... And now, if you'll excuse me! You were invigorating, but I need something more... filling."

The dark elf collapsed on her bunk as he walked off into the forest. Stronger, more confident: ready to hunt. He stopped at the edge of the camp: "This is a gift, you know... I won't forget it."

Nymuë didn't answer. She had already fallen asleep.

In the morning, she was surprised to find that she had been moved inside her tent. Her gratitude to the nocturnal visitor exttinguished however, when a dull pain reminded her of the night's events.

She felt her throat and noticed two red gashes on her jugular. The bastard hadn't be delicate at all! You'd think a vampire would know how to eat properly, but she was paying the price for her bad decisions. Apart from a slight headache – and the unpleasant sensation of being a piece of meat – she felt surprisingly well. Ready to face goblins, if they didn't ambush them first, of course.

Using a clean cloth, Nymuë wiped her wounds and found that they were no longer bleeding. However, they remained hardly discreet under her short hair. The young woman put on her blue-gray leather armor, laced up her boots, then retrieved from her belongings an old black ribbon left over from her years with The Shining Star. Looking doubtfully at her reflection, she tied her emergency neck-warmer to hide the bite.

That would do the trick, for lack of anything better. She really didn't want to run into another Gandrel… Or to answer the questions of her comrades. The sun had only just risen and was now beginning its long ascent. She was the last to get up. She nodded at Shadowheart and Lae'zel, before heading towards the last member of their team.

Astarion had finished packing and was consulting a book. The sudden strength she had seen in him the day before was still apparent; no more fatigue, or sickly complexion. For today, the roles were reversed. As she approached, Nymuë saw him studying her out of the corner of his eye, moving from the scarf around her neck to her face. He looked perfectly relaxed, but for a moment she saw in him like a flash of relief.

"Good morning," he greeted her. "How do you feel?"

"Oh, like a charm," she almost shot back. "My parasite hasn't killed me yet, a group of cultists are actively searching for us, and we're on the verge of an outnumbered attack. Ah, and of the three individuals my life depends on, one of them turned me into a snack last night."

Instead, she replied: "I'm fine, my head is just a little spinning."

"It will pass. Just be glad I'm not a 'true' vampire. A bite from them, and you might wake up as a spawn, like my goodself. All the vampire's hungers, but few of their powers."

"Would that explain the walks in the sun?"

"Oh, no. I should be cindered with this light. I hadn't seen the sun for two hundred years before we crashed here. Someone, or something, wants me alive... They've changed the rules."

His face suddenly lit up, as if he was finally sharing the excitement that had been his since the start of their journey: "Standing in the sun, wading through a river, wandering into homes without an invitation... They're all perfectly mondane activities now. As for my other quirks, well... we can figure these out in time."

"Do you think... The parasite?" Nymuë asked.

"That's my theory," he confirmed.

"Let's recap. You're a vampire. You can walk in broad daylight... Oh, and a monster hunter is on your tail."

Her companion's expression darkened, a sign that the young woman had just ventured into dangerous territory.

"You see what I mean, Astarion. If I want to be sure I didn't make a mistake last night, I need to know more."

"Why do you insist on exhuming the past?"

"Because you borrowed my neck!"

His gaze was so furious that Nymuë didn't need a parasite to guess his thoughts. He wondered if he had done the right thing in not finishing her off. As if risking the wrath of Lae'zel and Shadowheart would have been a better option!

"I was a slave," he finally spat. "A vampire spawn, kept by the Szarr's family. A puppet unable to disobey."

Nymuë frowned: the name sounded vaguely familiar. But if a vampire had been hanging around Baldur's Gate for ages, Revan or other members of their network should have noticed... shouldn't they?

"Perhaps I still am," Astarion continued. "I was never able to resist their commands. But now, I've been conveniently lost…"

His voice had become lower, dangerous, with no doubt about his determination: "They won't ever control me again," he said.

The dark elf studied him: after the events of the night, compassion was probably the last thing she should feel, but it was hard not to discern an echo of her own story in Astarion. She would never have believed, beneath his pedantic and seductive exterior, that the high elf had suffered such treatment. He was her social opposite: self-assured, magnetic, attracting all eyes, while she did her best to blend in despite her distinctive features. Not the kind of man you'd suspect of being subservient.

"On the other hand, our favourite mask is the one that takes us furthest from the truth."

Still watching him, she nodded. The vampire seemed to calm down briefly.

"As for the monster-hunter," she continued, "is it to be feared that his search will continue?"

"Hopefully, he bumps into some gnolls while stumbling around at night, and that's the last we hear from him," he hissed disdainfully.

"If he comes back, there's little chance he'll suspect you, given your recent abilities. But why go after you in the first place? What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything! I was kidnaped, just like you. But it seems Cazador wants me back... We just have to be vigilant, keep our wits about us, and kill any monster hunter on sight."

"No one's going to kill anyone," the dark elf replied coldly. "And speaking of which..."

She slid a piece of her scarf, revealing the marks on her jugular. Astarion looked at the bruises, but Nymuë was outraged to see that, far from being sorry, he seemed on the opposite deeply satisfied: "I've already apologized!" he cried, with an air of false affectation. "What more do you want? Unless you're looking for another nibble..."

From cold, Nymuë's expression became icy: "You didn't apologize at all, you liar!"

Keeping her composure, she elaborated: "I need to know how we're going to feed you in the future. 'Nibbling away' at me, as you say, or our comrades isn't an option."

"No innocents, you have my word," he declared more seriously. "Only villains that we need to kill anyway..."

He looked like a child about to discover a new playground.

"... After all, you know what I am now. And, at your discretion, that means I can fight with all my weapons, teeth including. If I happen to drain the occasional bandit during the fight, what's the harm? They're just as dead."

Nymuë wasn't entirely convinced of the morality of this proposal, but if she had to choose between her jugular and those of future antagonists, her decision was made: "That sounds good to me," she decided. "Glad we agree on that."

"As am I," he nodded. "I'm just pleased that you're being sensible about these… revelations. I was worried people might turned up with torches and pitchforks..."

"There's still time," a voice said behind them.

The dark elf turned around: Shadowheart and Lae'zel had joined them, fists on their hips.

"You weren't particularly discreet last night, you know?" the priestess hissed. "Tents are not very insulating."

"Mind one thing, Astarion," the warrior said. "If Nymuë had not given you her blood, your head would now be detached from your shoulders. Only her decision to help you held back my blade... Until this morning, at least."

"Given our group's nature, I will see no harm," Shadowheart said. "We're all monsters in the making, after all. If this one knows how to behave..."

Astarion didn't reply, but his eyes crinkled at the half-elf's allusion. Nymuë, for her part, cast an incensed glance at her two comrades: they had witnessed the conversation last night, and hadn't moved a finger. It made you wonder if there was anyone reliable in this gang!

"That's enough," she ordered. "I trust him. He won't hurt us."

"You trust a vampire?" Lae'zel spatted.

"I trust Astarion," the dark elf corrected. "Whether you like it or not, we need him."

"I think I find goblins more sympathetic," the priestess muttered.

"There now, we're all friends again!" the vampire concluded.

Nymuë sighed: after all, she was perhaps the most stable member of this company.

Chapter Text

They found the goblin camp by following the sound of the drums. The refuge was an ancient temple to Selûne, which had clearly seen better days. The creatures had built watchtowers where religious effigies once stood. Canvas instruments, traps and barrels – with content already well underway - occupied the space.

"Selûne," Shadowheart spat. "As if we didn't have enough problems…"

"Remember the plan," Nymuë repeated softly. "We are True Souls. We have an audience with their leader, Minthara. Everything will be fine."

"It depends on you," Lae'zel said.

They advanced towards the goblins guarding the main entrance. The worg lying at their feet bared its fangs, explicitly hungry: "Move, Claw!" the sentry ordered. "Drow coming through."

Nymuë stared at him, in what she hoped was a firm, stern stance. These creatures bore the mark of the Absolute around their left eye.

"What's going on here?" she asked, referring to the din.

"Lads are celebrating a raid, madam! We captured a duke, we did! We wanted to bring him back to cook him on the spit, but Minthara said it would be better to send him elsewhere. So instead, let's bake one of those pesky thieves!"

"Thieves?" the dark elf pointed out.

While the drums had helped them locate the site, it was however the smell that had confirmed their destination. A scent of ash that left a pungent taste in the throat. Given the goblin's culinary revelations, the associated image was much worse.

"Yes, a group tried to break into the temple," the creature growled. "We caught three of them, but the last one was in a bad state, so we thought we might as well eat him. The bosses are planning a raid, and something tells me we'll soon have more than just dwarves to eat..."

Nymuë glanced at her companions. The goblin was referring to Aradin's failed expedition! Now let's just hope they weren't currently sniffing out Halsin...

"And the other two?" she asked. "Have you dealt with them?"

"No, ma'am, Minthara wanted to question them. But the first one died this morning, our executioner being known for his... grip."

"And he'd already drunk a barrel of beer," a sentinel added.

"Minthara wasn't happy, that's for sure. She threw him to the spiders, and he bellowed for at least an hour. I thought he'd put me off enjoying the party. But he died in the end, so everything's fine."

"And the last one?" the young woman asked cautiously.

"He kept turning into a bear, we couldn't question him. Our executioner didn't speak the bear, ma'am, you understand."

"Only the spider," Astarion sneered.

"That's it. The last I heard, they were reluctant to leave him in prison, or throw him in the pit."

"The pit?" Shadowheart choked. "What must it be like, when you see the general state of this camp..."

The adventurers entered the temple, digesting the information. Halsin had survived the mercenaries' failed excursion. Only an archdruid would have the reflex to turn himself into a bear! They would have to hurry.

The festivities were in full swing in the central courtyard, as witnessed by the frantic race of a hen, followed by three goblins. The strange team crossed the bridge to meet the companions, and continued their hunt outside the camp. A sharp snap, followed by a frustrated howl, told them that the worg got its dinner.

Nymuë stepped forward. No sooner had she moved than a violent vice gripped her head and knocked her to her knees. The air seemed to have solidified, weighing down on her shoulders and pinning her to the ground. The young woman thought she heard her comrades collapse too... But the space around her disappeared, replaced by an infinite void.

There, in the dark, a disembodied call came to her: "Hear my voice. Obey my commands."

The instruction was irresistible. Through the waves lacerating her reason, Nymuë recognised the overwhelming authority that she had used on others. But this time, infinitly stronger... and turned against her.

A vision emerged from the nothingness, three figures rising. An armoured man elf, exuding authority and command; a handsome younger man with a quick, easy smile; and a pale young woman, with even paler eyes...

"These are my Chosens. They speak for me. Aid their search for the prism, and you will be worthy to stand beside them… In My Presence."

Shadowheart groaned somewhere behind her. Her fingers trembled against the opening of her rucksack, and when the fastener snapped, a blinding light dispelled the shadows.

The voice lost its power. The half-elf's strange artefact floated in the air. The young woman could feel the prodigious energy that emanated from it: relieving the pain, chasing the intrusion away.

"My power grows," the Unknown whispered. "My forces gather. The reckoning draws near..."

The goblin camp reappeared before their very eyes, full of shouts, gesticulations, and smells. It was like waking up from a long dream, with startlingly vivid details. Nymuë could have believed she had imagined it all… if the terror in her companions' eyes wasn't an exact reflection of her own. Her gaze fell on the artefact, whose glow suddenly faded before falling back into Shadowheart's hands.

"Don't give me that look," the priestess objected. "I don't know what's just happened any more than you do. We should keep going."

"The voice is gone," Lae'zel interjected. "Muted by this... this gith relic. Why does a half-elf carry it?"

Nymuë stared at Shadowheart. Her comrade held the object to her chest with fierce determination, just like when she'd found her after the Nautiloïd crash. There had to be more to this piece than just a relic.

"I don't know what it is... Not exactly," she confessed. "All I know is it's important that I get it back to Baldur's Gate. At any cost."

"Does it have anything to do with your faith?" the dark elf asked.

"Indeed. I live in a cloister of Shar's followers, hidden in the city. A group of us was sent to retrieve the artefact... Now, I'm the only one left. I can't afford to fail. And... I can't tell you anything more."

"Everyone has their little secrets," Asarion sneered.

"I literally can't say anything," the priestress replied, glancing furiously. "This mission demanded the utmost discretion, and part of our memory has been erased so as not to betray Shar's trust."

"Can we really call it trust," Nymuë thought, "if the prerequisite is amnesia?"

She didn't elaborate on her thoughts. Shadowheart's eyes, far from being filled with ardent devotion as they had been the day before, seemed almost desperate. Her memory was fragmented, the remains of a mirror in which she could no longer reflect herself. This quest was her only hope of picking up the pieces."If I manage to find my contact in the city, my memories will be restored. In the meantime, I can only guard the artefact with my life. I don't know anything about its particularities... Or why this 'Absolute' wants to find it."

"Now we understand why these cultists were looking after us," Astarion guessed.

Nymuë shuddered: this mission was proving to be much more dangerous than expected.

"You stole this artefact from my people!" Lae'zel yelled.

"Yes," Shadowheart spat. "And I saw how your 'people' massacred mine in the process. I won't fail them."

"You will answer for your crime against githyankis!"

"Enough!" the dark elf cried. "Do you realise where we are, and what challenges we face? If we want to survive, we cannot afford to tear each other apart!"

"Not to mention that without this artifact, the conversation with the local deity wouldn't have gone our way... " the rogue added.

"Very well. But I promise you, Shadowheart, that any crimes against my kin will be answered for, in time."

"With pleasure," she provoked.

At the center of this conflict, the prism sat silently, almost harmless. But for how long?

The goblins had transformed the central courtyard of the temple into a vast festival hall. An obstacle course had been built on the left, the aim being to get a gallinaceous bird across the finishing line (hence, they assumed, the chase with a hen).

The rest of the square was furnished with tables and chairs, piled up in front of a stage that was for the moment empty. A gigantic cauldron was filled with a liquor so strong that just walking past it brought tears to their eyes. Two goblins were chatting away, the first assuring the second that the pigeon corpse he was holding was a real chicken, and he'd be a fool not to bet on it. Three others stood at a distance, singing a bawdy song with incomprehensible lyrics.

"Sweet chaos," Astarion sighed. "Breathe it in."

"Tchk. If we have to fight, these goblins are in too bad a shape to make it interesting."

"I'm not so sure," Nymuë retorted. "They're drunk, but still very numerous..."

"Or," Shadowheart suggested, "we use their current state to eliminate most of the threats... subtly."

Inconspicuously, she showed them a vial in her ruckpack. During their ill-fated meeting with Nettie, the priestess had taken advantage of the confusion to steal the poison of which the apprentice was so proud. Since then, she had studied it carefully: "Deadly and painless," she explained to them, "but long in the making."

"So, if by chance the contents of this vial fell into a cauldron..." the rogue began.

"... The bulk of the goblin army would be eliminated in a few hours," the dark elf finished. "Time for us to retrieve Halsin and flee. It's brilliant, Shadowheart!"

"I sometimes am," her interlocutor replied proudly.

But how to administer the poison? The trips to the cauldron were more than frequent, and as inebriated as the goblins may have been, they weren't blind. Nymuë glanced at Astarion, who waggled his finger disapprovingly: "Oh no, darling. I'm certainly not going to throw myself into the lion's den. This body has made too many poets weep to end up in a pit."

"Proof that anyone can be published," she retorted. "You're the most discreet of us. Suppose we organise a distraction... Do you think you're quick enough?"

The vampire reflected, a grimace showing with bad grace the common sense of this plan: "I suppose... If these dirty little beasts are suddenly obsessed with something else... It wouldn't take me long to pour the toxin into the cauldron."

"Do you have an idea in mind?" Shadowheart asked, looking at Nymuë.

Oh, an idea, the young woman had one, yes. It turned her stomach and made her hands tremble. She touched the violin Alfira had recently given her, caressing the blue feather on the handle. During the last few nights at camp, she had examined it from every angle, even going so far as to tune it... But the instrument had not yet made any sound. Her eyes darted to the platform. Was she really ready to pick up the bow again, to feel under her fingers the song of the strings stuck in the bridge? Or was she still that frightened teenager, throwing her instrument into Revan's arms to take it away ?

There was only one way to find out.

"Be ready," she ordered her comrades.

With a leap, she found herself on the improvised stage. A few goblins stood at attention, pointing at their comrades for a potential reprimand. Instead, Nymuë grabbed the violin behind her back and pressed her face against the chin strap. Her heart was racing and her bow shivering. The few, slightly intrigued spectators began to crowd around in search of the best seats.

She closed her eyes, and her index finger struck the strings in a simple chord. The hustle and bustle of the party ceased to exist around her; her mind was in the movements of her wand, in the plucking of her digits along the handle. As before, she felt herself slipping. Her legs waltzed, her body tensed to the rhythm of the entrechats. Her violin released her notes: that was where she began, and where she ended.

She vaguely thought she heard some drums accompanying her. But it wasn't until the whispers began to rise that she returned to the world around her.

"The boss," several voices murmured. "The boss Dror Ragzlin."

Her first reflex at the end of her play was to step back: in front of the stage weren't three, but fifty goblins, all huddled together with their heads raised towards her. One of them held his tankard leaning over him, the contents flowing happily past his wide-open mouth. At the rear of the regiment, there was more nervous movement; a huge red-skinned hobgoblin split the ranks.

Nymuë squinted; a subtle quiver at the back of her head linked her to the warrior for a second. It wasn't like with the other adepts, whose thoughts she could control with an impulse. The echo in her mind recognised a power twin to her own. This man, this goblin leader, had a parasite too.

His consciousness opened up to her surreptitiously, like a landscape of which she had a fleeting vision. "She felt the smell of ale in his mouth, and the taste of bile in his soul. She saw him bowing to the armoured elf she had witnessed earlier with the Absolute. The stranger mentioned a quest for a formidable weapon, and the rewards promised to whoever found it. The hobgoblin's eyes sparkled like diamonds."

"Another drow True Soul," Dror Ragzlin snarled, sardonic. "As if there weren't enough already..."

The dark elf watched the crowd in search of her companions. The area around the cauldron was deserted, and the goblins were already starting to help themselves.

"I have to admit though, it's not every day that you get to see such a spectacle," the chief continued."You've managed to convince me to join these idiots. Let's drink to your hymn in the Absolute!"

Without a word, he grabbed the freshly filled cup from one of his men, despite the latter's disappointed exclamation. Another was brought to Nymuë, who took it hesitantly. As she bent down, she caught sight of her comrades. At the rear of the goblin troop, they were watching her with concern. Catching her eyes, Astarion shook his head.

The young woman glanced worriedly at her goblet; at what point would refusing to drink be considered as an affront by the hobgoblin and his men? Concentrating, the dark elf tried to summon her magic. It answered her warmly, like a friend who had left her long ago and who, once again, resurfaced. Not as dazzling as it once was; not as malleable as her instrument. However... Nymuë smiled at Dror Ragzlin before raising her cup to her lips. In a single gesture, the hobgoblin and his men drank the contents.

The young woman accompanied them to the last drop.

At least, that's what they saw. Eyes narrowed, lips carefully parted from her goblet, the dark elf concentrated on maintaining the illusion. This school of magic had never been her favorite, but she had to admit that this trick had served her well on a few occasions. Nevertheless, she had never performed it in front of such a large audience. She could feel the sweat running down her forehead, as the goblins took their last sips.

She dispelled her cantrip, proudly holding up her empty glass. The creatures let out cries of joy, to which Nymuë responded with grace. Her audience rushed to help themselves a second dose... or a twentieth.

When the young woman rejoined her companions, they greeted her with appreciative looks: "Who would have thought you had it in you?" Astarion teased.

"You weren't joking when you said you were an artist!" Shadowheart exclaimed. "Bravo, it was very clever! The goblins were completly oblivious."

"Pretty tolerable," Lae'zel said.

Nymuë smiled, before turning to Dror Ragzlin. He was watching their small group, a second tankard in his hand. He raised it towards them, and the adventurers nodded in greeting.

"One less."

Chapter Text

After the din of the celebrations, the temple seemed strangely silent. Only the sound of drums could be heard, but no laughter or singing passed the lips of the goblins standing guard. The creatures were fewer here, but the adventurers were all the more closely watched.

A sentinel shouted at them: "Oi! Ain't no party in here ! We're doing the Absolute's work."

Nymuë cast a knowing glance at her companions. It was time to put their plan to the test.

"I have an audience with your boss," she said.

"Hmm... Your kind usually don't deal with boss Ragzlin or priestess Gut. Guess you're after Minthara. No kidding, you're her spitting image. A bit too fair-skinned, perhaps."

The dark elf looked imperious: "I wonder what my sister will think when I tell her you kept me waiting. I understand that your executioner has been serving as a meal for your spiders. Maybe they'll also find you to their liking?"

"No... No need to go that far," the sentry yelled. "Minthara knows her business, that's for sure, and I didn't mean to be disrespectful. Next raid gonna be a big one, aye! She's in jail, ma'am, with the last of the thieves. She was about to make him talk."

Trembling, the goblin pointed to a staircase leading to the heart of the building. The adventurers didn't bother with thanks before continuing on their way: "If I didn't know you, I'd almost think you enjoyed terrorising those little creatures," Astarion whispered.

"You're right. You don't know me."

"Oh, don't be so rigid. Authority suits you well..."

"I'm surprised that a dark elf got lost among the goblins," Shadowheart thought. "Don't take it the wrong way Nymuë, but yours are pretty rare on the surface."

"You make me blush, Shadowheart. Who could have guessed I was your first?"

"What I'm trying to say, is that drow social codes may not work with this Minthara."

Nymuë stopped at the top of the stairs, holding back a sigh. When she turned to her companions, her expression was distraught.

"The truth is... I'm not familiar with drow etiquette either. I've never met another one before today."

A silence greeted this confession, broken a moment later by the half-elf: "You don't know your parents, then?" she asked.

"They passed away, probably trying to reach the surface. My mother died giving birth to me. It was the troubadours who were with her who took me in, then raised me."

"Then, exploited me," she continued in thought. Pulling out her pendant from under her armour, she continued:"The only thing I have from them is this medallion. I understand there are more dark elves at Baldur's Gate, but I've never met them. I suppose, like me, they prefer to keep a low profile."

"I know twins, in Sharess's caress," Astarion ventured. "The best brothel in the lower city. I'll introduce you to them, darling. I'm sure they'll know what to do with you…"

"The question I'm asking myself," the young woman retorted, playing with her dagger, "is what I should do with you."

"I have some ideas..."

Nymuë held her tongue at his unbearable grin. Her own advice to Ombrecoeur and Lae'zel came back to her: now was not the time to argue. However, if things went badly, she could always imagine a certain high elf in Minthara's place.

The basement of the temple had long since collapsed; what must have been a huge gallery now resembled a cave, with tunnels for walls. Even the floor was deceptive, a collection of disintegrated slabs forming gaping chasms in places. One of them, shallow, had been converted into a pit in which were two large spiders.

No wonder the goblins have made it their prison. The only alternatives, if by some miracle a prisoner managed to escape, were a bottomless abyss or a rendezvous with the arachnids.

It was the back of the room that caught the companions' attention. This area, separated from the rest by heavy iron bars, served as a makeshift jail. Two worgs were growling ferociously, chained to a wall. In the last cage was a brown bear.

It was even bigger than the one that had threatened them at the Emerald Grove. Two heavy ties restrained its movements, but it was so large that Nymuë wondered by what miracle the bars of the cell were still holding. A few goblins had gathered to throw stones at it.

The dark elf headed for the recess where she hoped to find the other drow. Nothing could be done for Halsin as long as Minthara was around. Furniture had been pushed up against the walls of the antechamber, a vain attempt to make it more habitable. Torches cast a flickering light, and a large granite desk took up most of the space.

Nymuë didn't know what she expected from this meeting with Minthara. To feel some kind of curiosity, perhaps, for one of her kin? Or even to find something familiar about her. A facial feature, an expression, an attitude... Anything that would have given her a sense of belonging.

However, there was nothing about this drow that she could identify with. Her skin was darker than hers, almost purple. Her white hair was tied back in a quick bun. Even her armour seemed strange: a mixture of scales and leather, glinting blue-grey in the torchlight. It was tough enough to wishstand attacks from heavy weapons, but also stealthy, able to blend easily into the background. The general wore a spider web symbol on her neck, and her eyes... Her eyes were even redder than Astarion's. She was berating a goblin when they arrived, and the young woman could clearly see the scarlet of her pupils darken in anger. Judging by his trembling, the sentry at her feet could notice it too.

"Your scouting party has not returned," Minthara commented. "And half of the intruders died without providing any information."

"Sorry, mistress," the other murmured. "We screwed up."

"Until their sanctuary is found, I will take something precious from you every hour that passes. A trinket... a tongue... a limb."

"I'm no use without my limbs, ma'am! We're going to make the bear talk soon enough, I swear!"

"Silence now, creature. Or I will silence you forever."

She dismissed the goblin with a disdainful gesture, before laying eyes on the newcomers. A flash of surprise crossed her face as she met Nymuë's gaze. Instead of inviting them to approach, her thoughts mingled with those of her visitors, like a cold hand caressing their brains.

"In the vision, the drow was listening as a pale-eyed young woman whispered in her hear. One of those the Voice spoke of: one of the Chosen..."

The image dissipated as quickly as a breath of wind. Facing Minthara, the musician remembered to play her part. "A True Soul?" the general greeted her respectfully. "Praise be, sister. Are you here to join my hunt?"

"Oh," Astarion cried in delight. "Who do we hunt?"

Minthara turned slowly towards him, and the air became charged with electricity. When a wave of energy washed over the high elf, he fell backwards.

"You will speak, male, when you are allowed to. You've raised him wrong, sister."

The young woman smiled politely, clenching and unclenching her fingers to contain her concern. Astarion didn't seem to be hurt, pride aside. Under her gaze, he reluctantly held back his dagger.

"Forgive him, sister. Being in the presence of the Absolute's cherished children makes him lose all measure."

"I dare hope that you'll be able to remind him of his place. Are you coming directly from Menzoberranzan?"

Cautiously, Nymuë replied: "What makes you say that?"

Minthara pointed to the pendant she had forgotten to conceal under her armour: "Your ornament. Only the greatest families of Menzoberrazan have the right to own one, like the Baenre's which I wear on my neck. However, I must admit that I don't recognise the symbol of your House?"

Her eyes scrutinised the 'A' engraved on the jewel, as well as the spider's web surrounding it. Nymuë gripped her necklace tightly: "It's been a long time since I left the Underdark," she improvised. "The interests of my House ceased to be my priority when I heard the call of the Absolute."

This answer seemed to satisfy her kin, for she smiled at her indulgently. The young woman continued: "You said you were hunting?"

"Worshippers of a false divinity. Their existence is an insult to the Absolute's claim on this region. There is a weapon that our goddess seeks, I'm sure those wretches have it hidden away there. We will find it, amongs the deads and the ashes."

Her excitment was palpable. In spite of herself, the general's mind once again opened up to the adventurers. Her conscience lingered on thoughts of victory, of unbelievers blood spilled... And the weapon. She wanted to seize it, in the Absolute's name.

To her left, Nymuë felt Shadowheart's anxiety. As they feared, the artefact the cultists researched was the one that she carries, the same that had protected them when they entered the goblin camp. The dark elf's fists clenched; the fanatics cannot discovered that the weapon they coveted was within their grasp.

"The thief in our jails tried to flee to their sanctuary," Minthara continued. "Our executioner having turned his comrade into a pile of bloody bones, we will continue to remove parts of him, until he tells us exactly where it is. And if he decides to stay in his animal form, it doesn't matter: we'll use sharper weapons."

Slowly, an idea formed in the musician's mind. The bulk of the goblin forces would be decimated in a few hours, wiped out by Nettie's poison. The others were surely under Minthara's command, ready to take part in her raid... By luring them to the Grove, they could overwhelm them with the help of the tieflings. The druids wouldn't be cooperative of course, but Halsin could certainly convince them...

She couldn't communicate this plan to her comrades, for fear that the general would intercept it. They would have to trust her.

"No need of the prisoner," she said. "I already know the place you're looking for."

She heard Shadowheart jump and Lae'zel curse, but neither woman intervened. Only Astarion seemed to guess what she was getting at.

"Tell me what you know," Minthara ordered eagerly. "If we find this place, the Absolute will reward us with immense power."

Obediently, the dark elf made her way to the desk, on which a map lay. Her fingers caressed the surface, light as a feather, before stopping on the location of the Grove. The general's eyes widened: "So close? The cowers have found refuge among the desperates, and you will lend a hand to this massacre. Since you already know the place, go their and make your way inside… As a friend. Let them welcome the very knife on their throats."

"And once inside?" Nymuë asked.

"I will gather a raiding party and move into position. You will open the gates when the time is right to strike. We will cleanse the place of infidels and burn it to the ground in the Absolute's name. And then, we will be the first among Her favorites."

The dark elf hesitated: "And so it will be," she nodded.

"Good. Rallying the goblins is no simple matter, but my warband will be ready to attack by next light. On your signal, we'll break them. And when they are dead, the Absolute will reward your faith."

Minthara approached her, grabbing her chin possessively: "As will I," she purred.

Nymuë tried to keep her composure, while Shadowheart stifled a cough behind her back. As for Lae'zel and Astarion, they admired the spectacle with great interest.

Her kin released her with a final, appreciative smile, before heading into the next room: "It is time," she shouted. "Gather our men!"

The goblins stopped standing guard and rushed out. In an instant, the prison emptied, leaving only the creatures stationed in front of Halsin's cage. The bear roared as the general watched it with delight: "We have found our prey," she declared.

Behind her, the adventurers remained silent. In truth, who was hunting whom?

The last three goblins were too busy laughing at their prisoner to care about strangers. When Shadowheart concentrated on her spell, her voice was barely louder than a whisper: "Silencio," she summoned.

A magic bubble enveloped them, drowning out all outside noise. Only the shrill laughter of the creatures remained distinct; from now on, nothing could alert the patrols. The dark elf approached the group nonchalantly: "Aren't you packing?" she asked them. "After all, it's not every day you get to slaughter druids."

The bear turned its impressive head and growled. She gave a half-smile: "That one looks fierce, but I can tell you that his companions in the Grove are closer to hibernation..."

"They won't see the attack coming!" one goblin laughed.

"Yes," Nymuë agreed. "That's the least we can say."

She twirled her chained dagger and slit the sentry's throat. The creature nearby ran for cover, only avoiding an arrow from Astarion with a masterly dive. Unfortunately for it, Lae'zel's sword was ready; the githyanki cut him in two. The last guard was reaching for his weapon when a massive paw slammed him to the ground. He squeaked and scraped the stone slabs in vain, before being dragged inside the prison. There, his howl was silenced.

A bright light filled the cell as a humanoid form replaced the bear. Halsin was a tall, muscular wood elf. No wonder his animal form was so imposing! His medium-length brown hair reached his shoulders, and deep scratches marred his face. Rummaging through the goblin's corpse at his feet, he pulled out a key with which he unlocked his chains.

Cautiously, Nymuë opened the door, and it was when he met her suspicious gaze that the archdruid seemed to notice his hands, still covered in blood: "Pardon the viscera," he told them. "One should cherish all of nature's bounty… but goblin guts are quite far down the list. You helped a bear without knowing if it was going to hit you next? Either you're a true friend of nature... or you're a bunch of lunatics."

Nymuë had her opinion on the answer.

"I owe you thanks," the archdruid continued. "Although I was afraid you'd be like those cultists when you arrived. My name is Halsin."

"We know," Shadowheart replied. "We come from the Emerald Grove."

"The same one you just sent that drow to?" he accused.

"The same one we just trapped that drow in," the musician retorted. "Goblins attacked it few days ago, when Aradin and his team returned. Sooner or later, they'll have located you. Now, not only is their garrison reduced, but we've got the advantage of surprise."

"I left them vulnerable," Halsin admitted. "But I never thought they would face such a threat…"

"Fear the dangers within your own walls," the dark elf added. "Because Minthara isn't the only one to covet the Grove..."

Opening her bag, she handed him Kagha's letter, which she has previously stolen. The archdruid's eyes widened as he read it: "The Shadow Druids? Oh Kagha, poor child... What was she thinking?"

"Remarkable ambition, albeit badly orchestrated," the rogue sighed.

"I should have prepared her more," the first druid continued. "Showed her the way... But these regrets are my burden to bear."

He studied them carefully: "It's no coincidence that you found me here, I'll wager? Your actions honour you, but I recognise that look in your eyes... Something's happened to you."

The archdruid's fingers shone with a golden glow, enveloping them in a gentle warmth. The sensation wasn't unpleasant, almost friendly... until it brushed against their temples, causing the parasite to tremble.

"Oak Father preserve you, child… You're infected, aren't you? But something's different. You're aware of the monster inside you, and you don't bow to the Absolute, like the True Souls do... How is this possible?"

"We should have changed by now," Shadowheart admitted. "We've been suffering from this condition for several days, yet no symptoms have appeared. Our case is... complicated."

"I've been studying these parasites for a while now," Halsin said. "Ever since I discovered these so-called True Souls in the area. Someone is using very powerful magic to modify these tadpoles; they exert control over the infected, and subject them to their will."

Nymuë held her breath: the same power she had employed against Andrick and Brynna should have taken hold of her long ago... Was it also Shadowheart's artefact that protected them from this influence, leaving them free in body and mind?

"I'm sorry to say I can't undo that magic, which means I can't cure you," the archdruid confessed. "But that doesn't mean I can't help. My time in the cell has allowed me to observe these True Souls; I may not have found a way to remove the tadpoles, but I know where they come from. This... place, these Towers... Innocents go in, True Souls come out. If there is a cure for what ails you, it must be there."

"Moonrise Towers?" Nymuë asked, remembering the goblins she had met the day before. "Where is it?"

"I'll tell you more, I promise, but not here and not now. Time is running out; Minthara's troops are on their way to the Grove, and will arrive at dawn. We can overtake them."

"That's impossible," Shadowheart objected. "It took us almost two days to get here!"

"Because you used the paths," Halsin explained. "But we can go underneath."

And he pointed to the underground passage at the other end of the room.

"It collapsed a few days ago, so an army couldn't get in, but a small group will do. The goblins used to bring me food from here. Some of them have been sent to search an ancient village that has long since fallen into ruin. They're combing the whole area, but I don't know what they're looking for."

The companions exchanged a silent glance. Some informations were safer if only known by them.

"If we go through these… tunnels," Lae'zel said, "are we going straight back to the village?"

"That would only leave us half a day 's walk to the Grove," Asarion reflected.

"In other words, we could arrive in the evening. We would have time to prepare to welcome Minthara properly."

"Minthara isn't the only danger," Halsin growled. "The other goblin leaders will continue to threaten my people."

"Well," Shadowheart said, "we've already half solved this problem..."

She informed him of the poisoning of the creatures, deliberately omitting the origin of the toxin. The first druid smiled in admiration: "You're as cunning as foxes, my friends. But what about the priestess inside the temple?"

"Maybe I have an idea," Nymuë suggested.

With a mischievous look, she pointed to the arachnid pit: "You know how to talk to animals, don't you?"

Chapter Text

The journey to the village did not take long. Cleared of the mountainous terrain that forced them to make detours, the adventurers moved diligently forward. The lapping of the river marked their return to the surface; it was still broad daylight.

Looking up at the trees, Halsin raised his arm to welcome a raven. His gestures were surprisingly gentle for a man of his size. The bird snapped its beak several times – a language understood by the man it was talking to – then flew away:

"I sent him to Rath," the archdruid explained. "The Grove should be notified of our arrival."

The afternoon was drawing to a close when they finally caught sight of the gate. Several tieflings were working to consolidate it, while others were armed with shovels and explosive powder.

"Master Halsin," Zevlor greeted with relief. "You can't imagine how happy I am to see you again."

"We'll celebrate our reunion later, my friend. For the moment, it is time for war. What is our situation?"

"Rath came to me a little earlier. He gathered the druids and interrupted the Ritual of Thorns. But... Kagha was furious. They've isolated her near your quarters, awaiting your judgement."

"And your people?"

"Our children and elders are hidden in one of the cellars. They'll stay there until the goblins are repelled... or we die, trying. Since then, we've been laying traps and burying our stocks of oil and powder to slow them down as much as possible."

"Very well," the first druid nodded. "Minthara expects to find us desperate... Her troops won't anticipate your snares."

With a pat on the shoulder, he took his leave and headed towards the heart of the Grove. Changes were already visible: the carts had been replaced by several workbenches. A tiefling was busy sharpening knives and swords. Other refugees were reinforcing their clothes with leather, a poor protection against a sharp blade or arrow.

Nymuë was beginning to have serious doubts about her plan. How many fugitives would die tomorrow, because she had thought herself smarter than a warlord? If they had taken the risk of facing Minthara directly, would these people have suffered less? "Your will must be of steel," Lae'zel said at her side. "Or your arm will tremble."

"Am I that transparent?"

"You're a strategist. But every good tactician is also a soldier. Among the githyankis, we find our unity in Vlaakith, the Immortal Queen. To slaughter in her name is our duty; to die for her is our ultimate reverence."

"What explains such devotion?" Nymuë asked.

"Vlaakith is perfection. Fear and beauty, life and non-life. Tl'a'vlaakith, chyrki. Tl'a'vlaakith, tavki. Tl'a'vlaakith, lash'a'kla. Only by following this creed can a fighter hope to become a kith'rak."

Faced with her puzzled expression, Lae'zel continued: "The githyanki knights, our dragon riders. They carry out the will of our Queen from her home, Tu'narath, to all other Planes. To receive the silver sword is my destiny!"

"This is how bloodshed is called 'glory'," Shadowheart hissed.

The warrior prepared to retaliate, but the dark elf interrupted any spat: they had arrived at the druids' lair. The wooden idol and the incantators had disappeared, and only Kagha remained in the middle of the stone circle. When she caught sight of Halsin, she didn't blink.

"You dared to undertake the Ritual of Thorns without permission? You wanted to spill blood on these sacred lands? It would be easier to kill you than to bring you justice, Kagha. Instead, I'll have to hear your apologies."

"I owe you nothing," the former archdruidess uttured. "The goblins threatened our sanctuary, while you devoted yourself exclusively to strangers! You chose to abandon us. I chose to protect us."

"Silence! The ritual is no more. Mercy is nature's gift, not mine. You have forgotten your place in the scheme of things; you nearly took lives!"

"That's the law of nature," Kagha objected.

"No, it's its dispute! But if that's what you believe, then nature will also determine your fate. I banish you Kagha, from this Grove and these lands. No druid will open his door to you, no animal will declared itself your friend. Perhaps once you've experienced the bitterness of exile, you'll understand that no protection is worth the harm you nearly caused. And only then will you be able to return as a novice."

Kagha looked at her former master in shock. She raised her hand towards Tee-la, her faithful viper, but the snake disappeared through the ferns. The destitute druidess watched around her: no one intervened. No voice was raised to defend her. Defeated, she turned to Halsin and gave him a short bow: "As you wish, master."

Her voice was nothing but poison. With her head held high, she walked towards the gate and past the adventurers. There was a fire in her eyes.

"Are you sure you've made the right choice?" the dark elf murmured. "Minthara and the goblins are prowling around outside. "

"She'll know how to hide, if she's wise," Halsin replied. "Whatever happens to her now will depend on the Oak Father."

The companions watched Kagha walk away and, in unison, shared a bad feeling.

That evening, the atmosphere was tense. Nymuë remembered their very first night at the Grove. Overwhelmed by the bad news, the mood had been just as heavy; it was to be believed that the pure air of the druids didn't suit them.

Shadowheart and Lae'zel glared at each other, Astarion had gone hunting, and the dark elf had been pacing up and down ever since. The apprehension she'd felt earlier hadn't left, and - despite herself - she was worried about the rogue: the goblin troops weren't that far away...

She finally stood still, annoyed by her own attitude. The high elf knew how to defend himself; there was no cause for alarm. Her sudden nervousness revealed something else, however: the vampire's diva-like attitude – although execrable - prevented her from performing on a daily basis. She didn't have to be firm or inflexible, as with Lae'zel, or cautious and measured, as with Shadowheart. The game Astarion was playing involved no-one but himself. So,even though it was impossible for her to listen to him without rolling her eyes, did she managed to relax in his presence.

She felt a mixture of exasperation and relief when she saw him return from the undergrowth. This impression quickly disappeared however, when she noticed that the vampire was covered in blood. "Tell me it's not yours," she sighed wearily.

"Oh, there you are!" he cried. "My friend."

He chuckled as he wobbled. This wasn't the effect of an injury, Nymuë understood, but of intoxication.

"What the hell has happened to you?" she asked.

"I found a bear. He took a little of my blood... I took all of his."

Clearly, he was very pleased with himself. The idea that this was a crime within a druidic circle didn't seem to faze him.

"You seem to be in great shape," the dark elf observed. "No need to drink humanoid blood, then?"

"You're comparing plonk to vintage wine. You can make merry with either, but they're not the same!"

His eyes clouded over, suddenly lost in bad memories: "But Cazador only fed me rats and bugs ! I've had this condition for two centuries, but truth be told..."

He coughed, half-embarrassed, half-charming: "… You're my first. Drinking the blood of thinking creature is a different thing entirely. For example, you, sweetheart, were delectable."

He watched her, batting his eyelashes: looking for a blush perhaps, or an uncontrolled shiver. But Nymuë's expression couldn't have been more serious as she stared at him. Astarion sighed: "My dear, are you suffering from an incurable disease apart from your parasite? Frankly, you seem to be allergic to anything funny."

"Can you tell me more about Cazador?" she demanded.

Unsurprisingly, the rogue immediately frowned. Beneath the apparent irritation, the young woman saw a crack: "You owe me anything, Astarion. But since you admitted he was looking for you... "

"I don't want to say a damn thing. But I suppose that won't do anyone any good," he agreed reluctantly. "Fine. Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord in Baldur's Gate. The patriarch of his coven, and a monster obsessed with power."

He had stopped staggering. The mere mention of his former master was enough to sober him up.

"Not political power or military power: I mean power over people. The power to control them completely. He turned me nearly two hundred years ago… That night, I became his spawn, and he became my tormentor."

"What do you mean?" Nymuë whispered.

"A vampire's spawn is less than a slave. They're a puppet. We have no choice but to obey our master's commands. They speak, and our bodies react. It's all part of the deal. Sometimes, he'd order us to submit to torture. Sometimes, he'd... have us torture ourselves. Whatever his weathervane mood settled on."

The dark elf closed her eyes; cruelty, she knew. But this? Losing control of your own body, being nothing more than a spectator of your torments?

"I'm sorry," she said softly to Astarion. "It must have been awful."

"Thank you," his comrade hissed, "but this isn't about sympathy. If you really want to help me, keep your eyes open. Especially in dark places."

"Protect me, and I'll do the same for you," she said. "After all, you still owe me 50% of your loot."

"35," the rogue corrected at once. "And you know, you don't need all these questions if you want to know me better..."

Nymuë hid a faint smile: he reminded her of a peacock. Astarion was all colours and feathers, carefully working every piece of his decorum. He could appear by turns mischievous, bloodthirsty or vulnerable. He was all the characters in a card game, at once jester, jack and queen.

"Now that I'm remembering our time together, the things we've shared, it would be a shame to limit myself to your neck. I'm growing to like the all package, honestly. And you clearly like me too..."

"Oh, really?" the dark elf scoffed. "Does your tadpole grant you the gift of double sight?"

"Come now, don't be coy. Your body's already given you away... I could feel it, as I was getting… lost in your neck. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

"We obviously didn't experience the same night. But I'm glad to hear that one of us had a good time."

"Indeed, and look how well it worked! I've never felt better, all thanks to you. So, let me repay you your noble sacrifice. We could take an evening to ourselves, get away from camp, have some privacy... I know somewhere quiet. Somewhere… intimate. Somewhere we can indulge in each other."

The young woman looked at him, confused: was he trying to… make a pass at her?

"I didn't let you bite me because I wanted something in return," she replied.

"Of course, my angel. That's hardly the only reason... It's more of an excuse if anything. And we both know you want this, too."

"What exactly motivates you?"

"Darling, you ask yourself too many questions. Isn't it enough that I promised you a night you'll never forget? I swear to you that all I have in mind is an honest moment of pure debauchery."

"I helped you because you're my companion!" Nymuë exclaimed, screaming the last words.

She responded to his bewildered expression with a dark look. Something in her anger seemed to called out to him: "It's almost... touching," he murmured. For once, his voice didn't bear the slightest trace of mockery.

"I guess now is not the good time. Even if I risk dying of a broken heart."

"You're already dead," the dark elf observed soberly.

"How dare you! And you won't leave me anything to comfort me?"

His falsely indignant look was replaced by a mischievous pout. His fingers lifted her chin, before leaning forward. For a second, she got a full view of his well-defined face, as his palm traced a fiery path along her neck. She stepped back when his lips brushed hers.

"Good night, Astarion," she whispered.

She walked away without breaking eye contact. She knew she was too fragile to fall for the vampire's tricks. Oh, she wasn't questioning his 'talents', but would her heart survive it? The rogue must have guessed her fears because he opened his mouth, as if to add something... when Shadowheart's howl interrupted them.

A few steps away, Lae'zel had crushed the priestess with all her weight.

"Ch'k'l ghaik Vlaakith m'zath'ak! Honour wanted me to take your head in a fight, but it seems our parasites are forcing my hand."

"Walk away. Now. I won't warn you again!"

"Stop it!" Nymuë roared. "What is the matter with you?"

"Don't you see?" the warrior retorted. "She's changing!"

The dark elf froze in astonishment: Shadowheart's hands were shaking, but not from fear. Sweat was pouring down her forehead. With anguish, the young woman realised that she too was trembling. Her heart beat faster and her breath caught in her throat. "Not now, not yet! We need a little more time, just a little more time..."

"Can you feel it crawling through you?" the githyanki continued. "Tendrils squirming in your chest, gripping your heart, piercing your belly… Your bones popping, your flesh swelling? I can. I see it in you, I feel it in me. We are lost."

"You're hysterical!" the priestess hissed. "In the end, that's what you wanted, isn't it? A good excuse to get the artefact back!"

"Silent! I will be quick with my blade. First you..."

Lae'zel's eyes turned to Nymuë, and for a brief moment their parasite connected. She saw in her mind a mixture of anguish and disgust. She, the great warrior... dying in disgrace and anonymity.

"… Then, the others," she murmured. "And finally, myself."

"That's not what you want, Lae'zel," the dark elf said softly. "You are strong. You'll survive this ordeal and your queen will be proud of you. As for your feud with Shadowheart, you don't need to be enemies!"

"What would you have, that we'd be friends? Tsk! Thieves aren't afforded such luxury."

"If we survive the night, I'll show you the full extent of my friendship," the half-elf said. "Oh, just let me up and I..."

"Give up your damn pride for once, both of you!" Nymuë cried.

The two women stopped fighting, stunned. Even the rogue raised an eyebrow.

"We're already overwhelmed by the number of opponents, and it's not going to get any easier. We can only count on each other! If we fight among ourselves, it's all over. Imagine for a moment what you could achieve if you directed your constant hostility towards our ennemies, rather than each other! They wouldn't stand a chance."

The githyanki warrior and the priestess remained silent, uncertain. Lae'zel stepped back, allowing Shadowheart to get to her feet. The gaze they exchanged was far from benevolent, but neither woman lunged for the other's throat.

"What about the ghaik tadpole?" Lae'zel asked. "Are you just going to ignore it?"

"If we were to transform, the symptoms would be stronger than a simple fever," Nymuë argued. "We'll take shifts. But for the moment, no one is attacking anyone."

"Very well, I will wait. But know this: if this sickness does not pass come dawn..."

"You're going to give us a nice, gentle death," Astarion said. "I think everyone has understood. Now, since you've both given up entertaining me, shall we get some rest?"

With a final look of defiance, Shadowheart and Lae'zel returned to their respective tents, and the rogue volunteered for the first watch. Nymuë felt divided: part of her was relieved that her comrades had come to their senses. Another burned to smash their skulls. Fighting in the middle of the camp, on the eve of a goblin raid! Were they in their right minds? The gods had cast a strange lottery on the day they had gathered them together. Either they were trying to prove that disparity was strength, or - more likely - they were taking bets.

With concern, she glanced down at her hands which were still trembling. "It's nothing," she thought. "I'm fine." Halsin had confirmed that their parasite was out of the ordinary, and they had the artefact.

She went to bed, feeling that their time was running out.

That night, Nymuë was haunted by terrible nightmares. Her fever hadn't subsided, and her head was about to explode. In her dreams, she was surrounded by mirrors reflecting the glow of bright orange eyes. "Look what a magnificent creature you've become," her image said. She refused to approach; her face was numb from the weight of tentacles...

"I came just in time," a voice whispered. "You are transforming."

Nymuë then knew with certainty that the tadpole had got the better of her.

For Elyon was leaning over her.

Not the Elyon she had known, with her colorful wings and happy laughter. A more... adult, version of what she might have become. Her hands touched her skin, calming her fever and driving the pain away. Her hair, somewhere between blond and red, was longer than she remembered. But her green irises hadn't changed at all.

"Impossible," she murmured. "You're not here. You can't be here."

"And yet, I've saved you before."

Nymuë saw herself again, tumbling from the Nautiloïd. Her body was falling at full speed, plunging inevitably towards the ground... Until a wave of energy stopped her, in extremis.

"And I'm here to save you again."

The strange apparition stood up. She wore gleaming armour, a golden paladin repelling the illithid darkness. She held out her hand: "Don't worry. You'll not become a mind flayer. Not while I'm around."

"No," Nymuë thought. Elyon could not help her : something was wrong. This stranger, this... benefactress, wasn't her little fairy. It was an illusion, a falsification. She was being mocked. Refusing the help offered, the dark elf got up on her own.

"You have doubts," Elyon noticed, pained. "I understand. You're wondering how I survived, and you're right to do so. I'm not the Elyon you knew. I am the fragment of her that has continued to live inside you; an echo, returned from the depths to keep you safe."

"And what do you want to protect me from, exactly?" Nymuë retorted.

"We haven't much time. Listen closely..."

The apparition raised her arm in the direction of the landscape around them: a starry sky as far as the eye could see. Clusters of rock floated in the air, sometimes near, sometimes far. They shone with an unearthly glow.

The Astral Plane. The ocean between the different worlds, the bridge linking each universe. Only certain species - such as the githyankis or the illithids - navigated these waters: for all other peoples, they were legendary.

However, in the heart of the meteorites, a battle was raging. A gigantic skull-shaped vessel was being harassed by luminous silhouettes. One of them dived towards the force field protecting it. Its attack was devastating, but the ship held firm; the false Elyon staggered.

"What you're witnessing is the fight for the fate of Faerun," she said. "A fight we are losing. You can change that, but only if you embrace your potential."

"What do you mean?" the dark elf asked.

"Your parasite. Your instinct is to resist the power it gives, but you must accept it, nurture it. I will keep it from consuming you, but for the sake of both of us, you must learn to wield it."

"That's out of the question. It's too dangerous!"

"Then, our enemy has already won."

The figures around the ship gathered, preparing for the next assault. The ground benath their feet began to tremble.

"I have to go," Elyon whispered worriedly. "The ennemy is closing in. I will be back."

"No, wait! " Nymuë cried. "Elyon!"

The force field exploded, disintegrating the meteor they were standing on. The stranger froze the blast, before turning to the musician. She threw her backwards, away from the fight.

"Wake, now. You'll feel better, I promise."

Chapter Text

Nymuë opened her eyes, her heart pounding and her body sweating. The first rays were beginning to show, signalling the arrival of dawn. The young woman was relieved to recognise the thick canvases of her tent and, beyond, the marks of their camp. No meteor, no Astral Plane... and no Elyon.

She emerged from her shelter, her mind still clouded by this strange vision. Her confusion increased when she saw her three companions already on their feet, Astarion looking at her strangely. "You talk in your sleep," he said. "Nightmares?"

"Vivid ones?" Shadowheart added.

The priestess's features were tensed and Lae'zel was scowling. Only the rogue seemed relatively relaxed. "You too... " the dark elf guessed.

"G'lyck. We all dreamed last night."

Nymuë raised her hand to her forehead. Her fever was gone and she felt fit. Her parasite also seemed to be resting. Was she to believe that this nocturnal visitor, this mysterious guardian... had really appeared?

"I was hoping my imagination had got the better of me," the half-elf continued, "but obviously it hadn't. This... dream companion wanted me to use the tadpole... use its power. She told me that she was connected to the artefact... But I don't know what to think."

"To the artefact?" Nymuë repeated.

"According to her, it was thanks to it that she was protecting us. And look where we are this morning: no more shaking, nausea, nothing."

"Is this… 'saviour' had a special appearance for you too?"

None of her companions replied. Lae'zel's eyebrows were so furrowed that they formed a straight line across her forehead.

"On my side, it was someone I knew," the dark elf confessed. "Once."

"I couldn't tell if that stranger was familiar or not," the priestess murmured. "Not with my actual memory."

Neither Astarion nor the githyanki bothered to develop. Instead, Lae'zel said: "Ignore this dream. Every word, every promise... It is ghaik's deception. These parasites are a threat to be destroyed, not an opportunity to be exploited."

"Oh, what a kill-joy," the rogue hissed. "This vision is a good thing. Now we can finally see what these tadpoles can do for us."

"I wouldn't be so confident," Shadowheart tempered. "This entity... it's protecting us from our tadpole, but would also like us to embrace it? Perhaps we truly have a secret protector... or we're walking into a trap."

"A battle is won by the sword, not by parasitic trickeries! Avert your eyes from this creature and do not avail yourself of this new power, no matter how alluring."

Nymuë saw them waiting for her verdict: it started to become a habit. Her instinct was telling her not to trust this stranger hiding behind the face of a loved one. Another part of her though, - tiny, but tenacious - wanted to see Elyon again. Wanted to feel the exhilaration of illithid gifts once more. But that person wasn't Elyon, and that power wasn't the answer.

"I agree with Lae'zel," she whispered. "I think we should have as little to do with our tadpole as possible. And whoever this dream companion is, it surely has some hidden agendas."

Her comrades agreed, with the exception of Astarion whose displeasure was palpable. This battle was far from won...

Movements told them that the Grove was also beginning to wake up. The adventurers hurried to stow their belongings and don their armour. They had a greater threat to face for the moment.

The Burrow was empty; most of the tieflings had taken refuge in the cellars, with orders to follow the underground river in case of escape. As for the druids, Halsin had gathered them in the caves, ready to begin their incantations. "The birds will thrust their claws into the archers' eyes," he had promised. "Bears and boars will charge their troops. The wind will chase away the arrows, and the roots will entangle the warriors. We'll buy you time until you slay Minthara."

Since goblins were hardly great strategists, there was a good chance that their unit would collapse once eliminated their leader. As the companions headed for the gate, Shadowheart stopped them. She traced a golden rune in the air, and Nymuë felt a gentle tap on her shoulder, followed by a feeling of serenity. "It won't block a mortal blow," the priestess warned, "but this blessing may save your life."

The dark elf expressed her gratitude. They would need all the help they could get today, especially from the divines. When they reached the gate, only a handful of soldiers accompanied Zevlor. A trifle, compared to the number of goblins.

"You're here," the tiefling chief said. "Halsin and the others have started their hymns, and our scouts have spotted our enemies in the woods. They'll arrive at any moment."

He stared at them for a long time, looking determined: "We threw them back once. If you're with us, perhaps we can do it again."

"What is your strategy?" Lae'zel asked.

"We need to thin the goblins number quickly, as long as the druids' incantations protect us. The gate is fortified and the ground above is trapped, but that will only hold them back for a few moments. Your role is to get rid of Minthara; we'll blow the horn to drawn them in, and pray our fire arrow strike true."

"A challenge that everyone will witness," Shadowheart commented. "She'll find it hard to resist."

"Precisely. She expects to find us weak and desesperate... And she's not wrong. But she'll find you waiting too."

The adventurers looked around them: some semblance of ramparts had been built in front of the archers'posts. Despite this, the rocks around the gate were still easy to climb and represented a gap in their defences. They had to keep and eye on these openings, while holding the goblins away from the main entrance.

"Lae'zel," Nymuë said, "I want you near the western entrance, ready to slaughter anyone who tries to clamber. Shadowheart, near the eastern breach; the stones are smoother, you should be able to create a rockfall. Astarion, at the archer's post: take oils and aim for the explosive traps. I'll do the same with my magic. It's time to levitate some bombs."

She was surprised to see her companions complied immediately. They seemed almost... confident. Shouldn't they rather be furious with her? The odds were clearly not in their favour... And she was the one who had provoked this situation. Nevertheless, they moved diligently towards their posts, drawing their weapons. Nymuë approached the warhorn, and blew a loud blast.

It only took a few minutes for the first cries to reach them. The goblin horde was moving as one. The dark elf quickly counted 10, 20... more than thirty creatures. And there weren't even a dozen of them.

The ground shook with a roar more powerful than the others. A troll emerged from the undergrowth, gigantic and almost as tall as the gate. A refugee fell to his knees: "It's over, Zevlor," he whispered. "Over. Our weapons are dull. Our armour, holed. We don't stand a chance."

"Enough!" the veteran cried. "You won't die today. All of you, listen to me!"

The tieflings turned towards him, the same fear on their faces. They had fled the Hells and had met death on the way. The only refuge they had found had threatened to turn against them. They weren't warriors, not even survivors. And they were tired.

"I know that you are all afraid... But I also know that you have been fighting your whole lives. We have never been handed the easy choices, or the gentle paths. And this is no different. These creatures would take our lives, our children... our future. And we must resist!"

A splinter of ice worked its ways into the adventurer's minds. "A pretty speech," Minthara's voice scoffed. "It almost brings a tear to my eye. Last chance, True Soul. Slit his throat, and open that gate. The Absolute wants all of them dead."

The drow general was nowhere to be seen. Her warning, on the other hand, suggested that she had an excellent view of the scene. Nymuë clenched her fists: "This Grove is under our protection," she hissed. "Your goddess has no claim to these people."

"These are the words of a traitor! And a liar. You have never set foot in Menzoberranzan; the Absolute has never touched you with Her light. You are a disgrace to the race of dark elves, sister. I'll dissect you."

Her laugh echoed everywhere: in their ears, under their feet, nearby and yet miles away. Nymuë tried to locate her, but just as suddenly, Minthara cut off their connection.

"The plan doesn't change," she told her comrades. "She just wants to scare us."

"T'chk. She doesn't know you," Lae'zel growled in response.

The musician had no time to react to what looked dangerously like a compliment: three goblins were already rushing towards the entrance. On their back were barrels of explosive powder.

"They're aiming for the gate," Zevlor yelled. "Stop them!"

Nymuë grabbed the nearest bombs. She detached her dagger from its chains, wrapped them around the explosives and threw the projectile. The detonation eliminated the goblins just as a flaming arrow hit a second barrel.

"I'll take the last one," Astarion said mentally. "Take care of the troll!"

The monster cut through the clouds caused by the explosions, fangs exposed and sledgehammer brandished. Nymuë concentrated on its weapon: "Urere", she incanted.

The mace burst into flames, causing the creature to let out a roar of pain. It was a good plan... until the troll throws it in her direction. "Get down!" she screamed.

She saw the flames approaching at full speed, but a violent wind blew the weapon back to its owner. Screams echoed across the battlefield as vines as strong as ropes wrapped around the troll's legs. Out of the forest, a swarm of birds, bears, and wild boars fell on the enemy soldiers.

"Halsin!" Zevlor cried with relief. "It's time... But where is Minthara?"

The drow was still nowhere to be found. Even the rear of the enemy ranks consisted entirely of goblins. Something was wrong.

A shout snapped Nymuë out of her worries, just as Lae'zel jumped on the troll's head: "For Vlaakith!" she yelled.

She stuck her sword between the monster's eyes. It groaned, then collapsed, taking the warrior with it.

"What a fool!" The githyanki had clung to the battlements, a perfect target for enemy archers! The musician rushed towards her. As she grabbed her hand, a goblin bent his bow in their direction.

"Flagra!" Shadowheart's voice sounded.

A burst of light crashed down at the soldier's feet, sending him straight into a bear's mouth. Nymuë pulled her comrade to safety. Reluctantly, Lae'zel nodded to the priestess. "Have you lost your mind?" the dark elf cried. "Think this is a good time for heroics? You could have..."

The tumult around her came to an abrupt end. The crows fell to the ground and the wind stopped blowing. The animals facing the goblins groaned in pain.

Below them, where the druids' lair was, Nymuë heard screams.

"Impossible," she murmured. "How..."

"A diversion," Lae'zel spat. "She sent the bulk of her troops to the gate, while she infiltrated the caverns. She must have found another entrance."

"Or it was pointed out to her," Astarion corrected from his cover.

"Kagha." The druidess must have known the protection spells of the Grove... And Minthara would have no hesitation in sacrificing her arsenal to get her enemies from within. "The very knife on their throats", she had said...

If Halsin and his acolytes died, she would have free access to the tieflings refugees. Dozens of people, frightened and unarmed...

"I'm going," Nymuë declared.

"That's what she hopes!" Shadowheart objected.

"I know. But we cannot abandon this front, otherwise the goblins will invade us no matter what. You must stay here to kill the last ones. If I provoke her, she'll answer the call."

"What do you propose then darling, a noble sacrifice?" the high elf hissed. "Don't be stupid. You won't last two seconds against that drow."

"The druids will be with me. I just need to buy you a little time. And, after all..."

She looked at her companions in turn: "... I'm a drow, too."

The adventurers' eyes fell on the battlefield. A tiefling lay near the warhorn, an arrow in his neck. Another had been seized by a lasso, and had fallen from his shelter; the goblins' blades had silenced his cries. The western flank, abandoned by Lae'zel during her spectacular leap, saw the first soldiers reach its summit. Their attackers had been reduced to around fifteen, but Zevlor and his men couldn't hold them off alone.

"Come back alive," Shadowheart whispered in a trembling voice.

Nymuë nodded, then rolled out of her cover. Pushing up on her legs, she rushed towards the caves, running as if the Hells were after her. "Let's hope I'm not too late," she thought. "Please let them be alive!"

She saw no sign of Minthara near the cellars. She crossed the Grove, pushed open the heavy stone door... and stood speechless. Around twenty druids lived in the sanctuary; half of them had already died. The few survivors put up a tough fight against three hobgoblins, their Familiars at their side.

Minthara seemed oblivious to the carnage. Armed with a mace and a shield, she was fighting a gigantic bear that was none other than Halsin. Near her, Kagha silently watched the battle.

The archdruid was wounded in the front leg, and the general was gradually gaining ground. Her smile was ecstatic, each blow leaving a new gash.

"Minthara!" Nymuë cried.

Her fellow turned her red eyes in her direction: "It's time for the darkness to take you, iblith," she provoked.

Then, she shifted to Kagha, who gasped: "Vermin! Prove to me that I was right to leave you alive. Face your master!"

"You… you said you would only attack Halsin and the outsiders..."

"You wanted a purified Grove: here it is. Now deal with your fellows or end up like them!"

Hesitantly, the former first druid drew her rapier. Minthara struck the bear with a powerful blow, causing it to growl in pain. The general took the opportunity to move aside, before pouncing on Nymuë.

Time seemed to stand still; moved by an instinct more powerful than herself, the musician leapt to the side. The general's shield shattered the rock as it anchored itself in the doorway.

"Thank you, Shadowheart," the young woman thought, looking at the gaping hole where her head should have been. It had come very close. Minthara abandoned her protection and grabbed her mace with both hands. Nymuë avoided the first attack with a pirouette, then the second. The third, however, hit her in the stomach.

She fell to the ground, gasping for breath, her tongue testing blood. The general approached to deliver the coup de grâce. She raised her weapon; Nymuë, in return, threw her chains with all her might. The bindings wrapped around the handle and she pulled. Her opponent's arm flexed, but did not bend; with horror, the musician felt herself sliding in her direction.

She threw her dagger behind Minthara, and dived between her legs. Grabbing her weapon again, she tightened her grip around the mace. The general struck back but, hobbled, her movement wasn't wide enough. The two women mutually stared, each forcing her hold on the other.

A shock outside the caves startled the combatants; for a moment, cries of joy rose above the chaos: "They're retreating!" Zevlor's voice screamed. "The goblins are running away!"

This announcement gave the druids renewed energy. One of the hobgoblins fell under the fangs of a wolf, while another convulsed in a cloud of poison. The duel between Kagha and Halsin raged on. The last hobgoblin lined up alongside the first druidesse, pinning the animal down.

The archdruid staggered. Its heavy legs were cornered by a chasm, unable to escape this double assault. Kagha stared at the hobgoblin as it approached her mentor. Her eyes wandered over the caves that had once been her home, the bodies of those she had considered her brothers. They stopped on the corpse of her viper Tee-la, cut in two. With a howl of fury, she threw herself at the warrior. The hobgoblin stirred and shook himself, but to no avail. It forgot the precipice at its feet; the ground collapsed.

Halsin roared, but its claws only caught the void. The last soldier took Kagha with it... into the shadows she had so dearly hoped to join.

The other druids turned to Minthara. "Felony," she spat. "Wretched traitor to your blood..."

"You have lost," Nymuë replied. "Give up."

The general's eyes went from her face to her medallion, which had slipped off her armour. She let out a sardonic laugh. "Oh, Lolth would be so proud of you, sister."

She pulled sharply on her mace, freeing it from its chains. "I'll send you to greet her," she hissed. "Then I'll tear out your heart and offer it to the Absolute..."

"Not until I pierce yours, demon," a voice roared behind them.

The general raised her head, but Zevlor's sword was quicker. The tiefling chief looked at her with cold resolve:

"For the fallen," he whispered.

Nymuë saw Minthara crumble to her knees, as if in prayer. Her last words had been for her goddess... And she had not answered.

"Nymuë!" Shadowheart cried.

The musician felt strong hands lift her up, and she found herself face to face with Lae'zel. The gith warrior grunted, pleased to see her standing on her own two legs. The priestess immediately began to incantat healing formulas as she felt her wounds.

"We don't seem to be rid of you yet," someone murmured to her left.

Half-hidden by the stone door, Astarion was watching her. Nymuë's heart sank as she realised that none of her companions were hurt. They were fine; they had won. Her eyes fell on Minthara's frozen face.

"Not today," she blew.

Chapter Text

They had lost fifteen of their own. Fifteen druids and tieflings who had fought to protect the Grove from an unfortunate fate. The deads had been gathered and prepared in the underground caverns. This afternoon, the refugees would accompany them on their final journey. Tomorrow, they would have to live again.

The fleeing goblins had been hunted down; the wounded, cared for by Nettie. Now, the fugitives' wagons were ready to leave.

The druids had buried the bodies of those who had fallen in battle, returning them to the Oak Father. Familiars weren't concerned with this funeral rite, however Halsin made an exception for Tee-la.

Night fell slowly as the companions made their way back to camp. With a few tieflings, they had set up the place, bringing tables, barrels of wine and food. The tents had been moved closer to the undergrowth, freeing up space for potential dancers. It seemed incredibly alive after the chaos of the day.

Guests began to arrive, creating a cheerful buzz of voices, shouts, and laughter. A brawl of young tieflings broke out around Lae'zel, who ended up berating the novices about their footwork. Shadowheart, meanwhile, began to savour the wine. Only Astarion had disdainfully remained at a distance.

The dark elf would have laughed at his attitude, had she not felt intimidated. It was... unusual for her, to be celebrated as a heroine. "No, let's be honest," she thought. "It's even something completely unknown." It was pleasant, actually; every person she met had a kind word for her, or a warm look. Perhaps this was the first time she had been acknowledged for her actions.

And yet...

"That vile drow got what she deserved!" the survivors toasted.

… And yet, she still felt the weight of her origins on her shoulders. A few days ago, she was no better than Minthara in the eyes of the refugees. And today, they were calling her 'saviour', almost associating her with Drizzt Do'Urden, a dark elf reknown for his legendary exploits! Should she only have two faces? The monster haunting children's nightmares, or the incredible benefactress?

"Would it be too complicated to be me, with nothing to prove?"

An arm slipped under hers, pulling her out of her gloomy thoughts. With surprise, Nymuë recognised Alfira, the tiefling artist who had offered her her violin. She looked like she'd had too much to drink, and couldn't stop laughing.

"Do you know what's missing from this evening?" she exclaimed. "Music! We've got lots of good dancers here, and only Ikaron's broken voice to accompany them! Could you help me remedy that? I see you've kept your instrument..."

Nymuë smiled: this audience couldn't be any worse than the goblins! She followed Alfira to the center of the camp, and they both climbed onto crates. Whistles greeted them as the tieflings gathered on the improvised dance floor. The dark elf saw Shadowheart raise her cup in her honour.

"I have no idea what the latest fashions are!" she told Alfira worriedly.

"They've all been overheard anyway. Follow me!"

The tiefling began a simple chord... whose rhythm she maliciously accelerated. Spontaneously, the dark elf adapted her measure and held back a laugh. It was easy to play with Alfira; instinctive! Old habits returned to her as the audience applauded. Some spectators had launched into a frenzied waltz, and she herself twirled to follow the movements of her bow. She and Alfira jumped in tune with the choreographers, played more and more rapid chords. The waltzers spun faster; the final note brought them to a halt in front of their hilarious partner.

Nymuë curtsied deeply to the cheers, a smile on her face. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she'd really danced herself to exhaustion! The spectators asked for another turn, but she gracefully declined. Alfira, after all, was just warming up!

With a lighter heart, she went round her companions. Lae'zel challenged her to an arm wrestle, which she lost miserably. This had the merit of motivating the githyanki to completely reorganise their morning training. Shadowheart offered her a drink, half-admitting that she had 'borrowed' their best vintage from the druids... The dark elf burst out laughing at her mischievous expression: who would have thought that they had not one, but two thieves in their team?

Finally, she headed towards Astarion. The high elf had stayed away from the festivities, although several bottles of wine had mysteriously appeared near his tent. When he saw her, he greeted her charmingly: "Here's my little treat, with their cheeks all flushed," he declaimed.

"Your what?" Nymuë protested. "Are you drunk already?"

"Don't insult me, darling. This wine might as well be vinegar."

"You're exaggerating," she protested.

"Try it, then."

The young woman complied, taking a sip from the bottle he handed her. She couldn't hold back a grimace: the wine was rich, syrupy. Its consistency was so thick that it almost burned her throat! "You see?" the rogue retorted. "Disgusting."

He pondered for a few moments, before adding: "I never thought I'd be a hero, one day."

"Neither do I," Nymuë coughed.

"It seems unlikely to me that I would be applauded for saving so many lives. And now that I'm here..."

He drank another gulp, pursing his lips with aversion: "I hate it. It's awful."

"It's not that horrible," she tempered. "It can be nice to do a good deed once in a while."

"For pity's sake, never again. I've seen you, you know: you too know how fake this little evening is. They call us 'saviours', idolise us! But comes morning, when we'll be those in need...

He rolled his bottle on the floor. "… They'll turn their backs on us, just like everyone else."

Nymuë did not answer. Part of her felt as if she was stealing these moments of joy; inevitably, she was waiting for the moment of reckoning.

Astarion was groping around, calculating the risks of going to the end of his thoughts. Finally, he asked: "Who's Elyon?"

The young woman felt as if she had been stabbed in the chest. Her sorrow must have shown on her face, for the high elf continued: "You had a bad dream the night you… sated me. And as I told you, you talk in your sleep..."

He noted her tense features and her clenched hands. "Is she an old acquaintance?" he ventured to say. "Someone waiting for you at Baldur's Gate? Oh! And old flame?"

"Nothing like that," the dark elf murmured. "She was someone I cared for very much. A long time ago."

The rogue's smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression as the young woman fought against the myriad of images assailing her. It was like an obsession, ever since the Nautiloïd.

She had managed to live for fifteen years without dwelling on them. Fifteen empty but peaceful years, when all her memories had been stored in a corner of her head. She had carefully isolated them, drowned them out; to the point where they had become impenetrable even to her.

But there must have been a flaw in her construction, because since her departure, the visions had been nagging at her, stronger with each new assault. What had she hoped to find when she left Baldur's Gate? The young woman had thrown herself wholeheartedly into this undertaking, and now she couldn't even sleep peacefully.

Astarion raised his hand, startling her. He looked falsely pensive: "Come to think of it, you left me longing for you the other night. That was a big mistake."

Nymuë retained a disdainful exclamation. What a diva! They had been on the verge of transforming into illithid, then visited by a mysterious entity, and all he could remember was being rejected?

"How about this one?"

He cleared his throat: "All these accolades from the tieflings are nothing compared to what would give me the sound of my name cried from your lips."

"You've just admitted to hating said accolades," Nymuë scoffed.

"Hmm... Let me give it another go. Every part of your perfect body whispers temptation. It's as if the gods made you, just to ruin me."

"Is this line also two hundred years old?"

"Impertinent. I could go all night with the flattery! But is that really... all you want?"

The dark elf laughed in spite of herself. Did she want to be more intimate with Astarion? Perhaps, yes. He intrigued her; amused her, often... Sometimes, the two of them looked so alike that it was disconcerting. In those rare moments, she felt she understood him in a way she had never understood anyone before. To be seen, and to see; to be close to him, with him, was almost then... comfortable. Reassuring.

And the rest of the time, his personality was too changeable for her to form an opinion. Like now: he'd already made advances to her twice. But were they sincere? Did he really want to spend the night with her? Or was he doing it out of spite, because he didn't have a varied choice of partners?

She felt his hand lift her chin, as he made another attempt. "How about if I said these little words... Everyone's favourite?"

He looked her straight in the eyes, making both his smile and his grandiloquent gestures disappear.

"I love you."

Nymuë flinched. If this was a joke, it was incredibly cruel. No one had ever said that to her. And the few people who might have thought it were no longer there.

"That would be a lie," she whispered.

"Ah, ah! But rather a beautiful lie, nonetheless? Now, as much as I relish standing around and delivering all my favourite lines at you, I'd much rather we got to experience..."

"I'll come and join you when the others are asleep," Nymuë cut him off.

A shiver ran down her spine; she herself didn't know what had prompted her to accept. She felt strangely... empty. All this partying, this celebration... it was at once everything she'd ever dreamed of, and everything she wanted to run away from. "Another night," she thought. "Another performance."

"Perfect!" her companion exclaimed. "I'll be waiting."

She turned her back on him, dodging the questions he made her ask. As well as the feelings she wasn't ready to face.

The evening had been as dull as he had suspected.

Good feelings, promises of better days, pointed glances between two clumsy waltzs and, to top it all off, a wine even more disgusting than Baldur's Gate's swill. No, Astarion was adamant: this party was beyond pathetic.

That was why he had been so pleased when Nymuë had finally decided to approach him. The musician's cheeks were red, still flushed from her performance. It had taken him back to that night when, a few days earlier, she had offered him her neck. He had simply been starving at that moment; two hundred years of mistreatment hadn't prepared him for the euphoria that a real hunting ground could bring.

Old habits die hard, and he didn't dare to drink to his heart's content. In spite of himself, he feared Cazador's reaction if he learned that he had fed on beings other than rats or insects. So the blood of a thinking creature? Ah! That would doom him. And her, by the way, although he hadn't thought it necessary to pass on this information. If his master discovered what Nymuë had done, he would make her pay for her altruism. However, the experience had been exhilarating; for the very first time in his miserable existence, he had been in charge. He had been the one with the right of life or death over others. No wonder Cazador refused to let his spawns experience such joy!

Of course, this favour - like all others - came at a price. And if he had to pay to secure new access to her carotid, he was more than willing. He knew how to do it, after all. He'd had two centuries to train, and Nymuë was the ideal prey. No particular attachments, no loved ones or known family; she was their de-facto leader, and as of today, the great saviour of the Grove! Could he have dreamt of a better champion? And he sensed... something else, too. A fragility, in the way she avoided looking at him, or remained insensitive to his charms. She was no novice, he was sure, but always remained on her guard. Gaining her trust would then only serve his interests better.

Part of him felt disgusted to still resort to this kind of method. Cazador wasn't there to force his hand, was he? He didn't have to end up on his back for the umpteenth time. But how else could he protect himself? "One last night," he thought. "Time to learn how to control the parasite. To drive a stake through Cazador's chest. One more evening of parade, and freedom will be within reach."

He had to admit that Nymuë hadn't made his task any easier. It seemed that the poor girl had no taste! This physique had turned more heads than he could count, and it was unthinkable that he wasn't her type. His body was his best weapon after all, and he sharpened it regularly. His outfits, his hairstyle, even his perfume were perfectly calculated. They were part of his arsenal, a nectar to stun his prey, and lead them to their doom.

But the little dark elf didn't appear dazzled by his presence, and he was forced to rethink his strategy. He had quickly realised that he had to ponder in the long term.

This was something new in his long career of seduction. Usually, his victims didn't survive the night. If he wanted to get Nymuë on his good side, he would have to abandon his masquerade in favour of... honesty. Nothing too mawkish either, let's not exaggerate; but a hint of truth, here and there, would be more profitable to him than his usual techniques. The young woman seemed to think more of him when he opened up to her. And he... Well, he supposed that revealing some of his cards wouldn't kill him. As long as he won the jackpot at the end.

As he questioned her this evening, he saw her wall crack. The slightest gesture on his part, and the dark elf would have disintegrated like sand blown by the wind. He'd brought out his favourite seductive lines, his flirtatious glances, his discreet touches... And that had paid off, in the end. She was about to join him under cover of night. He was already waiting for her, having spotted a discreet area down by the river. This would be perfect for two people looking for privacy...

Not that he had any doubts about her coming, of course. He knew she was receptive to his charms, despite her scowl. But perhaps, indeed, he had felt a few touches of, shall we say... uncertainty. "Ironic to be so concerned about the success of a plan that makes me nauseous." He mused as he took off his shirt, He was thinking too much, that was his problem: it was just another night. He'd had worse; at least, this time his partner would be a little attractive.

However, there was something different about this encounter. Most of his victims had been selected according to precise criteria: they had to be easy prey, quick to fall into his arms. Husbands or wives trapped in monotonous lives; shy young people with little experience; drunks whose common sense was clouded by alcohol. They all wanted the same thing: quick, immediate pleasure. One that this body, this face was more than capable of providing.

Nymuë... Nymuë didn't meet these specifications. True, he had set his sights on her for reasons he didn't feel he needed to share, but the gith warrior or the tortured priestess would have been perfect candidates too. Perhaps this was the first time he could really afford to have a choice. To use his charms on his own behalf; to decide to whom he wished to be indebted.

A creak in his back told him that the object of his thoughts had just arrived. She hadn't spotted him yet, observing the undergrowth with a wary eye. Majestically, he stepped under the cover of the moonlight: "There you are. I've been waiting."

Suave voice, piercing gaze, and exposed body: he was playing his best role. "Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you."

Nymuë looked puzzled: had she expected anything else? For them to chat before the festivities began, or a romantic atmosphere? Oh, please. They both knew why they were here, so they might as well get to the heart of the matter.

"I am not yours yet," she replied.

He held back a laugh. As if the precious thing was really going to turn back. However, he took the time to study her, remembering their previous conversations. What did Nymuë really want? What could have driven her to give herself up, after clearly expressing reservations?

The answer came to him as he looked at her grey eyes, filled with both fear... and expectation.

"Don't I?" he went on. "You're here. And I don't think you want to talk... I think you want to be known. To be tasted."

"To be seen" he thought.

The dilation of her pupils confirmed his hypothesis. But the next question caught him off guard: "And you? What do you want, exactly?"

"Not having to do this," he reflected involuntarily. "Not throwing myself at your feet. Not looking over my shoulder as soon as night falls. Not being afraid of everything coming to an end."

"What do any of us want?" he said rather. "Pleasure... Yours, mine... Our collective ecstasy. That's what you want, isn't it?"

He pronounced the following words as if they were inevitable: "To lose yourself in me."

Not for him, or with him. In him. That's what they'd all wanted. He was the best vehicle for other people's emotions. The best grave to bury them in...

But what about him? Did he want to lose himself in Nymuë? He couldn't say. Every person he had slept with, had taken a piece of himself with them. After two centuries, there wasn't much left; his body seemed to be more theirs than his. How could he have any idea of what he wanted?

Nymuë approached, undecided, and his instinct did the rest. He drew her to him and took hold of her lips. His hands untied her corset. He erased her doubts, her apprehensions as their clothes fell to the floor. When the dark elf pressed against him, he lifted her up against the nearest tree.

He kissed her again, with less gentleness. He caressed her waist, her chest, her thighs; the young woman's sighs turned to moans. She undulated against him as his mouth slide down her neck.

She was more enterprising than he had expected. She was embracing him, but not abruptly; her fingers exploring without impatience or voracity. As if, of the two of them, he was the one most likely to break. But centuries of automatisms couldn't be erased so easily. He closed his eyes, and his mind drifted away from what they were doing, letting his body mechanically follow the rhythm. His hips, his hands, his tongue knew the dance.

He wondered if his pleasure was genuine or if, out of habit, his senses were responding to the stimulation. What was feigned, what was real... All of this had blended together over time, until they were indistinguishable. Names became blurred, faces too. He had learned to take pleasure where he could, and had even convinced himself of it at times.

A lifetime of debauchery meant that he never asked himself what he liked. He knew what others liked, and how to ignite their passion. He mastered this art; every night, his personality was completely reforged. So... travelling for days with the same people, maintaining a constant cohesion? This was uncharted territory.

He felt himself pushed backwards, and his back hit the floor. Reality caught up with him immediatly; he stared at his companion with an outraged expression. Her smile couldn't have been more mischievous. He turned her around, earning a laugh.

Astarion studied her: her grey eyes no longer avoided his, almost trying to make sure he was there, with her. Her short hair revealed her throat, which he took it as an invitation. With one hand, he urged her hips to meet his.

This would never be Cazador's moment. It was his. And he had every intention of making the most of it.

Chapter Text

"I think I'd love to go to Waterdeep," Elyon whispered.

Nymuë opened one lazy eye. In this part of the Sword Coast, the air was still heavy despite the end of summer. The locusts' song was so shrill that it overrode the din of the workers, putting up the marquee. Soon, the audience would arrive.

"Neverwinter isn't bad either," the dark elf said.

"I've never seen the sea. When we leave, it will be the first thing you bring me to see."

"Baldur's Gate is closer, and they have beaches too, you know!"

The young woman straightened up; Elyon's wings reflected multicoloured lights with each of her movements. She was making a crown of flowers, her little nose scrunched up in concentration. Nymuë sighed: "You know it's not for now, Elyon. If it's ever possible."

"She said next month, according to the finances."

"That's what she promised last month. And the one before. There will never be any 'good' finances, even if the circus is full every night."

"Then we could just leave. Take money, and horses."

"I've already told you no," Nymuë said. "We wouldn't go further than the first village."

"You haven't gone further than the first village," the teenarger murmured.

She gave her a resentful look, but stopped arguing. At thirteen, Elyon's heart was full of hopes and dreams for the future. There was a world beyond the tent that she longed to explore; but Nymuë knew. She knew that the rest of Faerun was just as odious as The Shining Star. That outside, she and her little fairy would be hunted down, even killed. The circus wasn't the worst of prisons.

In recent months, many travellers and small villages had been attacked, and the general atmosphere was desesperate. Most of the provinces had reluctantly opened their doors to them. Lady Seri had even raised the possibility of retreating to the city, until the looting had calmed down.

The two women headed towards the main caravan. Elyon had withdrawn into a morose silence, as usual. Nymuë feared that one day, she would have gone who knows where, lost on the moor or worse. The moment would soon come for the crowd to reveal itself in all its horror. In time, the teenager would understand that she had acted for her own good.

Brindille and Aktas had already put on their costumes for the evening. The Kobold was carefully tying a scarf around his neck, while the orc was choosing the hats for each of his two heads. Elyon grabbed her dress, a beautiful pink lace outfit, and left to change with a furious step.

Nymuë sat down at her dressing table, just as the caravan opened to Lady Seri. She wore a pinched expression, fiddling with the precious jewel hanging from her left ear. She was always keen to prepare herself 'according to her rank,' and that was the main use of The Shining Star's income. At her side, Tim - her handyman – looked very uncomfortable. His eyes fell nervously on the dark elf.

"You should reconsider your decision, ma'am," he murmured. "It would be better if she kept a low profile for today. You always have the other three to back you up."

"Do you want to explain to me, Tim, why I'm bothering to pay your mercenaries if they can't provide security for the performances?"

"My boys won't be here tonight," he grumbled.

The artists ceased all activity to witness this unexpected entertainment. Even Elyon discreetly leaned back from her screen.

"With the recent attacks, the town need all the swords they can get," the henchman continued. "The burgomaster of Beregost had agreed to let us set up in exchange for extra protection. There was a drow raid the week before."

All eyes turned to Nymuë, who did her best to remain impassive. Dark elves expeditions to the surface weren't frequent, but always deadly. All they left behind were blood and ashes.

"So," Lady Seri summed up, "You financed our temporary accommodation with the men in charge of our protection?"

"I wanted to talk to you about it, ma'am," Tim objected, "but you told me you wouldn't be cancelling any performances."

"Don't put this off on me! I hope for your sake that the tent will be full tonight. If your incompetence ruins my profits, I'll remember it when I pay you your wages."

"Don't let the girl go on stage!" the flunky insisted. "The fairy, the lizard and the ugly one will make people laugh. But her? Ma'am, you're going to make them angry if they see a dark elf. They're at the end of their tether and have lost many of their own. They won't know the difference with our Nymuë."

"Angry, you say?" the matriarch thought slowly.

"Very, ma'am!"

"And is that what's worrying you? A bunch of peasants throwing tomatoes at my sweethearts? They're tougher than that. Nymuë knows that her role is essential for keeping morale up, don't you, my angel? By taking it upon herself, she's helping these people. They need us, Tim, those poor souls who have no one to turn to."

Paying no further attention to her valet, she walked over to the dark elf. "I want you to look stunning tonight, my Nymuë," she purred. "I'll put you in the spotlight, and you can even play the violin. You'd like that, wouldn't you, darling? I'd be proud of you."

The young woman watched their reflection silently, not a sound escaping her lips. Her hands clenched on the edges of her stool.

The number of visitors exceeded Lady Seri's expectations; almost the entire village turned out. Despite their recent losses, the inhabitants of Beregost were determined to consume the few crumbs of joy within their reach. Nymuë was already in place, violin in hand. Around her, the matriarch was making last-minute alterations, pulling a crease here, smoothing a lock there. At the back of the stage, Elyon had positioned herself next to her trapeze. Brindille kept the audience waiting, while Aktas finished painting his double figures.

"The spectators might be a bit vindictive," Lady Seri told the dark elf, "but you're used to that. If they ever get agitated, make way for Elyon."

"I can't do my act without Nymuë," the teenager protested.

"You're a fairy, my dear. It's time to stop fearing emptiness."

"Music helps me," the young girl insisted. "You always said we were a duo."

"Well tonight, think of a solo. It's not that complicated!"

Elyon's eyes met hers, and the young woman smiled. Laughter and polite applause rang out from the stands, as Brindille's show was coming to an end. The matriarch disappeared backstage: "And now, ladies and gentlemen... The Shining Star!"

The curtain rose, and for a split of second, Nymuë was dazzled. The clamour of cheers, Brindille's enchanted lights... She was in a suspended moment. This was probably why she didn't notice the abrupt end of the ovations. Around fifty souls filled the marquee, but just one had been enough for a deadly silence to reign.

The dark elf was used to arousing anger. Never before however, had she been confronted with such calm. She saw the same rage spreading through the audience, a frenzy that spoke for itself. Her skin grew goosebumps, her muscles stiffened; her instinct ordered her to flee at full speed. Far, far from this icy cold, from this hum that would soon become a scream. Instead, she held up her bow and began to play. She started a joyful ballad to accompany the antics of Aktas and Brindille ; Elyon graciously spread her wings.

The first cry came from the back of the room: "Murderer!"

She couldn't see who it was. From backstage, Lady Seri beckoned her to continue, but the shouting resumed: "Demon!", "Children' cutthroats!"

The tumult surpassed the sound of her instrument. A few villagers had risen from their chairs. She was grapped by the shoulder: "Time to make way for the others," Tim whispered in her ear. "Leave the stage, miss."

The dark elf followed him, looking for Elyon. The little fairy was beside her trapeze, racked with anxiety. The young woman walked towards her. Some spectators were trying to climb onto the boards. "Ladies and gentlemen, stay calm," Brindille tempered. "No need to be violent, she's only our violinist! Please remain seated and..."

A stone hit him in the face. Roars now filled the tent, a hostile and furious mess. Nymuë groaned as a sharp pain struck her arm; one of the projectiles had grazed it. To her horror, she realised that it wasn't a rock, but a blade.

"We must go," she said, lifting Elyon up. "If we gallop all night, we'll reach Baldur's Gate by morning."

The fairy complied obediently, resting her head against her neck. Nymuë tried to make her way backstage, but all in vain. Two armed men were already advancing towards her. She soon spotted the trapdoor that Brindille used for his illusion acts.

"Elyon," she growled, "give me a hand!"

The teenager was heavy in her arms, and didn't move in the slightest. Two huge hands surrounded them, as Aktas took over. "We'll have to be quick!" his two heads yelled. "On my mark!"

The orc flexed his muscles and the two women rushed into the hatch. Aktas jumped in after them, locking the exit. Darkness replaced the angry crowd.

"Down there!" someone cried. "They went that way!"

"That won't hold them for long," Aktas hissed. "Come, we have to go to the plains. I've spotted some caves near the caravans, we'll hide there."

Nymuë followed him blindly, one hand stretched forward, the other supporting Elyon. The trapdoor ended near the trailers. It was a practical passage for discreetly moving equipment during performances, or sometimes even exotic animals. For the moment, the riot seemed to be confined to the marquee. Taking care not to leave any trace of their passing, the small troop threaded their way between the caravans. Aktas guided them, his step alert and confident, his two figures watching both their right and left. After a few meters, he pointed out a rocky ridge hidden by trees: "I discovered this place shortly after the first rumours of looting. I memorised its location, thinking it might come in handy in a crisis. I did well, I think."

The orc invited them forward, revealing an entrance behind wooden planks. The cave already contained supplies, blankets, and a few lamps hanging from the ceiling. "Tim," Nymuë understood. "He helped you prepare a hideout."

"I told him about the cave, and he gave me what I needed to last a few days, if it came to that. Brindille is supposed to warn Lady Seri. We would have told her sooner, but... you know her."

The dak elf nodded as he switched on one lamp. She cast a worried glance outwards. "Don't worry Nymuë, it's deep enough that the light won't alert anyone. We'll limit ourselves to a single candle."

"I should have taken Tim's side," the young woman murmured. "Or I should have disguised. I'm sorry, Aktas."

"No, little one. You don't have to apologise for other people's bad decisions."

He paused for a moment, and his eyes fell on Elyon. The teenager had said nothing throughout their escape. Nymuë followed her friend's gaze and saw a crimson spot between the fairy's wings.

"No," she whispered. "Aktas, bring me some clean linen. Medicinal herbs, quickly!"

She laid Elyon on one of the straw mattresses, staring in horror at the knife half-hidden by her leotard. The girl's breathing was laboured, while her eyes darted about without focusing. The dark elf relived the scene in slow motion: the wound on her arm, the jet having narrowly missed her. Was this dagger intended for her?

"Elyon," she whispered, "look at me. It's going to be okay. I'll remove the blade from you, make you a bandage and then we'll find a healer. You must keep your eyes open."

"Shall we go and see the sea?" Elyon breathed.

"Yes. We'll even take the boat. And when we've explored everything, we'll find an airship and visit the sky. You'll be able to fly next to it."

"Will you play the violin?"

"All your favourite songs. As many times as you want. But Elyon, I beg you, stay with me."

Aktas didn't move, a pained expression on his face. His many eyes searched Nymuë's, but she refused to read what she already knew. That the blade had sunk too deep. That the heart had been struck. That the victim had already lost too much blood.

"I didn't want to do the trapeze without your music," Elyon said. "Seri refused to listen."

"But I didn't leave you, did I? I came to get you. So don't abandon me either."

"I can protect you too," the teenager murmured. "I dreamt about it: I saw a setting sun and a river on fire. I saw a sky full of rocks and stars. And there was a city, a big one; some people were laughing, others were crying."

"We'll see them," the dark elf pleaded. "You'll see it all. But you must stay awake."

"I'm glad... that you found me."

Her trembling subsided; a single tear rolled down her cheek. She had once told Nymuë that her journey to Faerun had been both infinitely long and very short. In the eyes of the fairies, time was malleable, sometimes even 'frozen'. It was only on the Material Plane that the hourglass flowed continuously. Her passage had been completed in the blink of an eye; she had started it at the first ring of the bell and finished at the second.

She had come into this world and into Nymuë's life as suddenly as a breath of wind; and so she left.

The journey to Berdusk, the Jewel of the Vale, took four days. From the window of her caravan, Nymuë could see nothing but a succession of bleak fields. In normal circumstances, such a trip would have been childishly simple. But the roads weren't safe, so the members of The Shining Star had been forced to take detours.

The dark elf tugged mechanically at the chains on her wrists. Since Beregost's accident, Lady Seri had locked her up in one of the trailers to avoid 'any further disaster'. In reality, she feared that the young woman would attack her again.

Brindille, Tim, and the matriarch had joined them in their hideout a few hours after Elyon's death. The Kobold had closed the little fairy's green eyes tenderly.

Lady Seri was beside herself. She had started by accusing Tim of not having warned her enough about the danger. Then, she had blamed Brindille for his lack of reaction. Finally, she had turned to Nymuë: "And you, couldn't you disappear from the stage when you were asked to, instead of strutting around? I'm left with one less artist, and it's all your fault, my dear. You can be sure that when it comes to your salary…"

The dark elf had lost control. Grabbing the knife next to Elyon, she had rushed towards the matriarch. It had taken the combined strength of Aktas and Tim to prevent her from leaping at her throat. "Beast," Seri had whispered. "There may be some truth in what they say about drows!"

Nymuë had struggled on until she received a powerful blow to the back of her skull. When she had woken up, the sun was high in the sky, and she was handcuffed inside a trailer. She hadn't come out since, refusing to eat or talk to anyone, except for Brindille : "What have you done with Elyon?" she asked him.

The Kobold gently touched her arm: "She disintegrated in the early morning. Hundreds of particles in every colour of the rainbow. I got it all before Seri saw it; fairy dust is valuable on the market... It's all there. I think she would have wanted you to get them. Throw them in the ocean, or something."

He placed a purple satin purse beside her, which she hadn't glanced at. He then cleared his throat: "It's little consolation, I know, but I found this too."

She recognised her violin, in good condition despite a few scratches. Nymuë clutched the bow in her hands until it hurt.

She remembered her last conversation with Elyon, the afternoon before the performance. She had believed that the little fairy would understand her reluctance to leave once confronted with the true nature of the outside world. Tears of rage burned her eyes: "Congratulations Nymuë," she thought. "You're a damned prophet." A damned prophet who had done nothing. Who had sat back, and watched the world become a vast chaos. A collection of screams and obscure gestures. And now, every time she tried to sleep, she heard the voices. "Murderer," they accused. "Deep down, all those people were right to be angry with you."

"I didn't want that," the dark elf replied. "I never wanted that."

"Oh, you've never wanted much, Nymuë, and that's the problem. You don't aspire to anything, you don't say anything, you keep your head down and you wait."

"It's Lady Seri's fault. It's this bloody circus's fault!"

"And you were the best clown."

The caravans stopped as a rider approached. The matriarch's voice reached her: "We can't settle in the city," she said. "Those damned Guild brigands are everywhere."

"I would have thought them in Baldur's Gate..." Tim reflected.

"It seems they're sending their lackeys into every town now! Just to 'collect debts', they say. I did business with their boss a few years ago... And they refuse to let us through until I've paid them their dues! Thieving bastards!"

"Couldn't you, exceptionally…"

Lady Seri's shout cut Aktas off: "There's no way I'm paying these criminals a single coin. Let them go back to their cursed sewers and rot! Tomorrow, I'll sell Nymuë. That'll give us a bit of money to spare, enough to attract the highest bidder."

A silence greeted her announcement. "Sell... Nymuë?" Brindille repeated.

"You saw her. The poor girl's been half-mad since Elyon died. A drow's head is worth a lot at a time like this."

No one in the group protested. Ah! How beautiful their family was... Even Aktas and Brindille had chosen to abandon her to save their skins. No matter; she didn't care what would happen to her.

As evening began to fall, they set up camp. Lady Seri chose Aktas and Tim to accompany her to negotiate rations, while Brindille kept an eye on the caravans. The dark elf let herself slide against the wall of her prison. She didn't feel frightened. Not serene, either. Strangely, she was indifferent to the idea of her imminent demise. Like a problem to be dealt with by someone else.

It was a pity. It was for the best. Who cared?

"Frankly, you're the most depressing chickadee I've ever seen."

Nymuë gasped; a man was watching her from the window. He must have been in his thirties, a human if she was to believe his silhouette. His hood partially concealed his face, but the young woman could clearly see two brown eyes looking at her mockingly: "Since when does a circus carry a drow, tell me?"

"Who are you?"

"The one who asks questions. So, chickadee, what did you do to end up here?"

At her puzzled expression, he showed off her yellow and black lace parade dress: "And you have blue skin," he said as if that was obvious. "A chickadee, in other words."

"Are you a poet?" she scoffed. "Because you've clearly failed in your career."

"And you're not a mercenary, so spare me the tough-girl are you doing here, kid?"

"I'm a drow. It explains the chains."

"But not the violin."

She stared at him, noting his leather clothes and the daggers at his belt: "You have all the paraphernalia of a thief."

"Depressing but clever," he smiled. "You know what I think, chickadee? You're a musician in this gang of degenerates. And you did something that Seri didn't like, which is why you're in irons. I think you and I can get along."

"I don't give a damn about your business. Get out of here, or I'll alert Brindille."

"Your friend Kobold has gone for a nap."

"Brindille would never go to sleep while he's on watch."

"He's gone for a nap, with the help of my mace."

"And he's the one calling the others degenerates," she thought. The man took out a pipe from under his cloak, which he lit nonchalantly: "It seems that Seri wants to sell a drow on the black market. Apparently, the guy who'll buy her will make her wish she'd never been born."

"How do you know?" Nymuë asked.

"Sweetheart, I'm the black market. Me, and my little comrades."

Their eyes met through the bars of the caravan. He continued: "Your lack of reaction tells me that you already knew. Hence the depression, I guess."

"You're part of the Guild," the young woman realised. "Seri is up to her neck in debt, but you know that she'll categorically refuse to pay you. So you came to steal from her."

"I could search these trailers until dawn," the stranger agreed. "But it would be a waste of time. Besides, I don't know when your friends will be back. I can also call on someone who knows exactly where what I'm looking for is; and release this person at the same time."

"Not interested," she replied.

Nymuë turned her attention back to the wall. Contrary to what she had hoped, the man didn't interpret this as a dismissal. Instead, he examined her: "In this world, chickadee, we have two choices."

"Survive or die," the dark elf retorted. "Thank you poet."

"You can't dodge every blow. You can't avoid injuries. Whatever you do, you'll end up in the arena. The only decision you have left is whether or not to take up arms."

The young woman continued to stare straight ahead, but her face was slightly tilted: she was listening. The thief slid one of his daggers inside the caravan. "I don't know what you've been through, and I have no doubt that a part of you most certainly wants to die. I too wanted it, long ago. But my experience tells me that you don't handcuff someone who has completely stopped fighting."

"I can stab you with this knife," she said in a conversational tone.

"You're funny."

Nymuë thought for a moment. Was she seriously considering the words of this stranger? Why should she 'take up arms' exactly?

"Why?" she finally breathed.

"Why, what?"

"Why did you wish to die in the past?"

The thief took a puff from his pipe. His answer was a whisper: "My wife and daughter. They got sick. We didn't have enough money for a healer."

"No one agreed to help you?" Nymuë asked.

"All the fucking priests in Baldur's Gate sent me away. I promised my services to anyone who would listen to me, but in this life, if you don't have power or money it's like being mute. They died after a week of agony."

"And why did you stay in the arena?" she wondered. "Why did you choose to continue?"

"That, chickadee, is my business alone."

The dark elf reached out and grabbed his dagger. A clicking sound told her that was the signal the stranger was waiting for: "Good choice, kid. I'm Revan."

"I'll only help you on one condition," Nymuë said. "The Guild is based in Baldur's Gate. After your little robbery, you take me there. Safely."

"Did you take me for a fucking field guard?"

"I take you for someone who doesn't have many options."

"Ah! Even more of a pain than the Zentharim. And here I thought I'd negotiated with every brat in the world..."

He undid her cuffs, and Nymuë joined him with hesitant steps. When Revan removed his hood, it revealed a huge smile: "You're a hell of a find, chickadee."

Chapter Text

"You're a hell of a find, chickadee."

Revan's voice roused her from her sleep. Dawn was faintly illuminating the undergrowth, and the morning humidity made her bare skin tingle.

Nymuë clung to her dream, before the light of day erased it. Even now, she wasn't sure whether her encounter with the thief was the result of chance, or fate. Fifteen years had passed since she left The Shining Star. And so much had changed.

The young woman recalled the events that had led her to the clearing. She had joined Astarion in the forest; they had spent the night together. She straightened up, partially hiding her nakedness. With her fingertips, she drew a little dried blood from the hollow of her neck: the vampire appeared to have had a stimulating night.

She was surprised to see him just a few steps away. Half-dressed, Astarion was facing the first rays of the sun. His face was serene, and his hands—slightly apart—embraced the softness of the dawn. Nymuë wondered why he had stayed by her side after their lovemaking. Were they lovers now, friends, comrades? Her previous relationships had been marked by the ephemeral...

Her eyes fell on the back of her companion. The day before, her caresses had grazed the scars between his shoulder blades. In the morning light, she realised that she had underestimated the extent of the stigmata; three concentric circles were etched into his flesh, interspersed with discontinuous runes. The lines were stiff, sharp: chiselled with a blade.

The words passed her lips before common sense caught up with them: "Where do your marks come from?"

Astarion's shoulders tensed. He didn't turn to answer: "It's a poem. A 'gift' from Cazador. He considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves as a canvas. He composed and carved that one over the course of a night..."

His voice dropped to a whisper: "... He made a lot of revisions as he went."

The dark elf was glad that her companion did not look at her. Her compassion would probably have been poorly received. Yet, her heart sank as she studied the lines engraved on his skin. A brief memory came back to her, a cargo she and Revan had gone to pick up. The two mercenaries had entered a warehouse, only to discover that all the crates bore annotations written in angular language. "The Hell's tongue," Revan had growled. "Who knows what material we're looking for, with such a confusing dialect!"

"Why was it composed in infernal?" she asked.

"Infernal? I... How could I know? The bastard was insane."

The rogue put his shirt back on: "Now, let's go. We've wasted enough time already."

Nymuë put on her personal belongings. What kind of man, she pondered, could inflict such treatment? And what could she deduce from the scars that Astarion didn't bear on his back? Anguish, resentment built up over the years...

The return journey was made in silence, far from uncomfortable. The dark elf preferred this familiar distance to an overly pronounced intimacy. As far as she knew, this night together meant nothing to Astarion. As for her? Her only truth was that, when she had felt alone, her footsteps had crossed his.

Lae'zel and Shadowheart were already awake. The former was training, and the latter gave them a dirty look. Whether it was a saucy pout or a side effect of the wine, no one knew.

Halsin was there, too; the festivities didn't seem to have tired him out. "I trust you enjoyed your evening?" he greeted them. "After all your efforts, it was well-deserved. It may be some time before you are afforded another such night..."

The companions gathered around him. "Amongst the goblins, I've revealed that a cure for you can be found at Moonrise Towers. But... it's complicated."

"Of course it is," Astarion grumbled.

"The journey is extremely perilous, even though you're well accustomed to navigating danger. To get to the Towers, you'll need to pass through a terrible place... a cursed place. Everything there is shrouded in shadows. You will not find life, light, or anything natural. Any who linger are twisted by the curse. They become shadow beings: tormented, dangerous souls."

"There must be a way," Nymuë said. "Otherwise, the Absolute's cultists wouldn't go there."

"You could go overland, along the Risen Road or through the mountains. Easier at first, but you'll run into the shadow curse eventually."

"The Risen Road?" Lae'zel repeated. "This is where my kins were spotted!"

Nymuë pursed her lips: 'overland', had Halsin specified?

"You could also go under," he continued. "There is a tunnel somewhere, in the ruined temple of Selûne. It leads to Moonrise Towers through the Underdark."

The musician closed her eyes, while her comrades let out an exclamation of surprise. The World Below held many risks, as deadly as a curse. "Long ago, a man called Ketheric Thorm built a secret stronghold deep down there, before rallying a whole army of Dark Justiciars... Shar whorshippers."

Shadowheart was immediatly curious: "We have to see this. This is no coincidence!"

"This entrance... Is this what Aradin and his lot were after?" Nymuë reflected.

"Precisely. They were promised riches if they retrieved a relic called the Nightsong... But first, they had to get into the Underdark and survive."

"In the end, the simple step of the goblins had stopped them," Astarion scoffed.

"Moonrise... It must have been a place connected to Selûne, before a sect settled there," Shadowheart muttered. "This Ketheric Thorm certainly was an important follower of Shar to build a fortress so close to two strategic enemy points. He must have intended to attack them simultaneously."

"Could the curse have stopped him?"

"That's what I believe," Halsin said. "If you can find this place, I'll wager it will reveal a more direct path to Moonrise Towers, and may even bypass the worst of the shadow curse."

"That's out of the question!" Lae'zel stormed. "We have wasted enough time already, we must find a creche!"

"Haven't you still understood that our situation goes beyond the usual procedures?" the priestess retorted. "Our tadpoles are protected by magic. If we don't discover the source of it, removing our parasites won't get us off the hook."

"Actually… it would kill you," the archdruid whispered.

A silence followed this revelation. Nymuë's mind was racing: who had modified their worms, and why? This went beyond the illithid cause, a sign that something else was at work. The night visitor had spoken of a 'fight for the fate of Faerun'. A fight... that they were losing.

"Purification won't save us, Lae'zel," she murmured to her comrade. "And I think deep down, you know it."

The warrior clenched her fists. Ghaik parasites were subject to a rigid protocol among her people; to allow oneself to be corrupted by a tadpole was a stain, a disgrace. The longer she kept this creature, the further away she was from the immaculate ideal she should become. But if the archdruid was telling the truth, and if this operation threatened all the Planes... then she would be taking the risk of letting the mind flayers fulfil their Great Design. And Lae'zel of K'liir would never, ever act like a coward.

"Tsk'va!" she roared. "Fine, lead us to the Towers if you want. I will not tolerate serving the interests of the ghaiks!"

Nymuë analysed her own doubts. From what little she knew, her parents had tried to flee the World Below in the past, only to die at the end of the journey. Going there was madness... One more in the long adventure that was theirs. The young woman turned to her comrades to announce her decision: "On our way to the Underdark," she said.

It took them just under two days to return to the temple of Selûne. Thanks to Halsin and the other druids, they had enough food for a whole week. The goblins' lair seemed empty of its former occupants, a sign that their last visit had paid off.

"Are we sure that the poison and the spiders really wiped them out?" Shadowheart asked.

"If any survived, they must have fled," Nymuë retorted. "The news of Minthara's death must have spread."

"In any case, they're no match for us," the gith warrior shouted.

Remained the enigma of the secret entrance. Before they left, Halsin had told them that the passageway was probably in the foundations of the building. As the cultists used it regularly, they hoped its research wouldn't prove so complex.

As they crossed the bridge near the inner courtyard, a thud was heard behind them. They drew their weapons, only to fin a man, standing alone. He was elegantly dressed, a maroon blue jacket embellished with gold threads. His brown hair was slicked back, and he watched the companions with... complacency. Where did he come from, and how? He didn't seem inclined to tell them. In fact, he approached them like an actor making his grand entrance: "My, my, what manner of place is this?" he wonders. "A path to redemption, or a road to damnation? Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning."

"What kind of lunatic is that?" Nymuë thought. The stranger paid no attention to the blades pointed at his throat, seeming to think about his next retort: "What would suit the occasion? The words to a lullaby, perhaps?

The mouse smiled brightly:

It outfoxed the cat!

Then down came the claw,

And that, love, was that."

He sighed, admiring the simple beauty of the rhymes: "They do know how to write them in Cormyr, don't they? Well met, I am Raphael. Very much at your service."

"Who are we talking to?" the dark elf asked. "To the cat, or to the mouse?"

"Neither. The fox, rather, hiding in a word. A silent observer, about to break the silence."

The stranger - Raphael - looked around with bored eyes, frowning at the sight of the ruined temple: "Of course, what I have to say merits some privacy, as well as some more… let's call it refinement. This quaint little scene is decidedly too middle-of-nowhere for my tastes."

The landscape collapsed before their eyes, and the companions felt themselves being pushed backwards. Rubble became walls; mud, a marble floor. They landed in the center of a sumptuous setting, with a solid wooden table and several chairs. A feast awaited them, ready to be eaten. Raphael raised his hand: "There. Middle-of-somewhere."

Nymuë turned to her comrades, and saw the same anguish in their eyes. Lae'zel gripped her sword tightly; Shadowheart and Astarion looked around, realising that the dining room had no doors or windows. No way out... except for that man, playing with them.

"Where are we?" the rogue hissed.

"The House of Hope. Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed... lavishly. Go on, partake. Enjoy your supper. After all... it might just be your last."

The dark elf saw him sensed their reaction. He had reached them with great pomp, before transporting them to an unknown place. He was their guest and their jailer, once again the main actor facing the extras. And now that everyone knew their roles, they could recite their lines.

"I'm getting tired of your little games!" Lae'zel spat.

"Are you not entertained?" he laughed. "Well, far be it from me to disappoint."

A whirlwind of flames enveloped him, reddening his skin and darkening his pupils... When the gale subsided, he was adorned with two black horns on his head, and a pair of wings. His sharp teeth gleamed in the middle of his crimson face; oh, the hero of the story had finally taken off his costume.

"What's better than a devil you don't know?" he whispered. "A devil you do."

He was a cambion. The dangerous offspring of a demon and a mortal. Ambitious creatures, hungry for souls, pacts... and more than capable of providing for themselves. Their boundless gluttony was only surpassed by that of men, whose appetites and greed always served their cause. Glory, power, wealth? The devils were inclined to offer them to you at the best price.

At least, for them.

"Am I a friend?" Raphael continued. "Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But a saviour? That's for certain."

He stretched out his arms as if to hug them. He, their liberator, the answer to all their prayers. Between him and the nocturnal visitor, the benefactors multiplied around their little group... "But for what end?" the young woman wondered. What was so precious that a cult, a guardian and now a demon would take an interest in them? Overnight, they had become the first prize in a vast auction.

"Why help us?" Shadowheart asked suspiciously.

"Because my compassion is boundless! I stride among the needy, giving comfort where I can. And you're in dire need."

His clawed finger pointed at Nymuë, who had remained silent until now. "One skull, two tenants, and no solution in sight. I could fix it all... like that."

He watched for the effect of his speech: a panicked breathing, a frown... maybe a drop of sweat. The slightest hint that he had hooked his prey. Unfortunately, his booty of the day stayed resolute: "You're mad if you think I'll make a deal with a devil," Nymuë replied coldly.

She heard the approving grunt of Lae'zel, as well as the sighs of relief from Shadowheart and Astarion. With the parasite, their minds and bodies were already on borrowed time. There was no question of risking their souls too.

"And what is madness but a denial of reality?" Raphael resumed slowly. "Still, I've a feeling you'll change your mind. Before it's changed for you."

He made a careless gesture with his arm, brushing aside their desire to survive without his help: "Try to cure yourself. Shop around: beg, borrow, and steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left. And when hope has been whittled to the very marrow of despair… That's when you'll come knocking at my door."

He paused for a moment, savoring his own pun: "Hope. Ha! Such a tease."

"Your jokes have gone on long enough," the dark elf hissed. "Bring us back to where we came from, and don't dare cross our path again."

Raphael leaned towards them, as if to share a confidence: "All those pretty little symptoms, sundering skin, dissolving guts... They haven't manifested yet, have they?"

Despite herself, Nymuë's eyes fell on Shadowheart's bag, where was hidden her artefact. The cambion followed her gaze. "One might say you're a paragon of luck. I'll be there when it runs out."

A strong wind blew the adventurers away. When they rose to their feet, the temple of Selûne surrounded them once again.

"Bloody Hells!" Shadowheart cried. "Literally! Just when I think I've got a grasp on our dilemma..."

"So now there's a devil trailing after us?" Astarion shouted. "This gets better and better. He seems sure we won't find anything. And he might be right. We've had no luck so far."

"He's not," Nymuë said dryly. "We still have options."

"All he did was flaunted his paltry wings, as if he wanted to impress us," Lae'zel roared. "These creatures talk a lot, but they have no power apart from the one we give them."

"Perhaps, but he's playing with us. Caza..."

The rogue glanced suspiciously at the gith warrior and the priestess. "Someone I once knew liked to toy with people too. Let them think there was hope right until the end. Until he snatched it all away. Creatures like them don't play games, unless they know they can win."

"He's clever," Shadowheart approved. "My order uses the same tactics against Shar's enemies. You don't need a scourge or a rack to break people. Fear and self-doubt are sufficient. When actual pain comes, the victim's already done the heavy lifting for their torturer. There were no right answers with that devil, Astarion, and you'd better remember it."

The elf turned towards her, ready to reply harshly. His eyes met Nymuë's. "We are not his puppets," she smiled. "We'll show him."

"This devil is not the only one spinning a web for us," the priestess continued. "Who tampered our tadpoles and why? What do they have planned for us? If we find those answers, we might have a chance."

"Then let's stop chattering," the githyanki declared.

The companions entered the temple. Apart from the goblin corpses strewn about – victims of poison, for the most part - the place seemed... motionless. No noise, no movement. Who could have guessed that a great triumph had been celebrated here just a few days ago? On a platform, lay a goblin in full regalia. Her followers surrounded her as if they wanted to protect her until their last breath: no doubt the priestess Gut, the last leader of this disparate horde. Her personal chapel was a little further down the building.

Benches and sculptures filled the abandoned space, most of them damaged by the recent occupants. The adventurers followed the path between the seats, going deeper and deeper into the crypt. A cold draught reached them from below.

They landed in a vast room, lit only by a tiny opening in the ceiling. A ray filtered through the stone, illuminating a door on which were represented the different cycles of the moon. And behind it...

"How far does it go?" Shadowheart murmured.

A huge rope ladder tumbled down into the abyss, with the ground nowhere in sight. Hesitantly, the dark elf grabbed a stone and threw it: they heard no fall. "To the World Below," she replied laconically.

She felt her comrade's gaze on her: "Are you going to be all right? I mean... you have no idea what you're going to find down there."

"Neither do you. And I'm afraid there's only one way to find out."

Seizing the ladder, she carefully suspended herself in the air, silencing the anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

It was time to begin her long descent into the Underdark.

Chapter Text

The air was heavy, and the light non-existent. Down here, rocky galleries followed chasms. No sound, not even an echo: only the occasional gurgle of underground rivers.

Nymuë could hardly breathe. Oxygen circulated with difficulty in the World Below, and the slightest gasp compressed her chest. Her vision - although adapted to dark environments - was obscured. Every corner could hide a threat, and every turn heralded a potential fall into the abyss.

Their journey into the heart of the Underdak had got off to a very bad start. The ladder's ropes were worn and damp, and more than once the dark elf had imagined herself falling. The descent had felt like an eternity, but they had finally landed in what looked like an old fort. Long abandoned, the building had once served as an underground base for the Selûnite faithfuls. They had found no plans, no resources: just the bones of forgotten individuals. A battle had taken place here, leaving only a few patched journals as witnesses.

Nymuë had opened one at random. The ink had formed vast watercolours over several pages, but one of them was still comprehensible:

[There was another earthquake last week. We sent a group to find out which roads were practicable. Sendor was among them. This place is a real labyrinth, but we can't use a compass or a map. The seismic tremors shaking our camp leave a cryptic trail behind them; Sendor thinks they are arcane phenomena. Perhaps this is what makes the flora so unpredictable?

When it's not the landslides, it's floods that overwhelm us. The river fill up quickly, and the air is so humid that our fires never last long. Even the nearby lake had overflowed its banks. We'll have to rebuild our boats if we want to get back to Moonrise.]

[It's been two days since Sendor's party left. Mistress Abigail thinks we won't see them again. I'd go and look for them myself, but I can't see anything in this darkness. Walking around with torches is suicide. If there aren't many drows or illithids at this altitude, other things are crawling in the shadows.]

[Mistress Abigail had finally agreed to my request. With the rest of the garrison, we're leaving to Moonrise. From there, we'll be able to call for reinforcements; there are rumours of Shar's disciples in the area... Captain Wurled lectured me before we departed. "Don't forget,boy," he told me. "We have the advantage of numbers, but all the creatures hiding there know their environment. They are adapted to it, and will never attack you head-on. So don't make the mistake of underestimating what's lurking in the dark."

He's exaggerating, as usual. Our priests have made this journey hundreds of times without any problems. I may even have the pleasant surprise of finding Sendor when I get to the Towers.

Everything will be fine.]

The attack on the bastion must have followed this last entry, for the author of the diary didn't take his property with him. Captain Wurled's warnings - even a century later - weren't to be taken lightly, as the adventurers quickly found out. No sooner had they exited the fortress than a gigantic creature emerged from the ground. A bulette, Shadowheart had informed them: a beast moving from galleries dug beneath the earth. The monster was covered in bony plates that their weapons couldn't weaken. Its short, but powerful legs supported its large carcass, completed by a gaping mouth. It had leapt out to meet them, colliding with the shield of light that the priestess barely managed to summon. Lae'zel had charged it, while Nymuë had shackled it. Thanks to a distraction on Astarion's part, the companions managed to knock it onto its back, before finishing it off.

Since then, they have been moving forwards as quickly as possible. The slightest noise or flash of light could be fatal in the Underdark. Their objective was the waterway mentioned in the Selûnite's notebook. The few texts about the World Below referred to a trade route called Darklake, which descended into the lower levels, making it both and ideal and rapid passage. By mutual agreement, they decided to follow the rivers. But as they went further away from the fort, regular bones dotted their path: "People from the surface," Astarion guessed. "After a very, very long fall…"

"I suppose the stories about the Underdark are justified," Shadowheart declared. "The environment is constantly trying to kill you. It's no wonder the denizens seek to do the same."

She froze as she realised her blunder: "I meant... I didn't want to…"

"There's no harm," Nymuë reassured her. "I wasn't expecting a pleasant discovery, anyway."

It was true that the young woman felt a deep sense of unease. She had often imagined this kingdom that her parents had left. The atrocities it must have contained to justify such a departure. In view of what she was observing, her assumptions had been quite mild.

Her childlike mind had often pictured this place, without being able to identify what feeling it evoked. She had been told that the Underdark was a cruel and terrifying land. That the drows, her people, revelled in bloodshed. They were natural born killers, sacrificing the flesh of the weak in the name of their Spider Queen. It was hardly surprising that her poor parents had wanted to give her a better future.

And yet, Nymuë disagreed. Part of her despised this 'noble sacrifice'. True, her family had taken her out of the World Below, but only to leave her alone. For what life, exactly, should she be grateful? Slave to the whims of an odious woman, the whipping girl of a public she disdained. Faerun was as much full of cruelty and terror as anywhere else.

In the middle of the night, she had imagined what it would be like to become the monster they portrayed. Slaughtering the innocent, plotting against her own kind to gain the favours of an evil goddess. Deprived of the sun and the surface. Then, she became afraid; afraid of the ease with which she contemplated – no, envied - this version of herself. On the continent, she didn't belong. But down here, her monstrosity would have been common. It wouldn't have mattered.

As she naively visualised this other roalm, she told herself that it couldn't be any worse than The Shining Star. That her parents - by their selfish choice - were responsible for her misfortune. Because all this loneliness, those humiliations couldn't be the result of bad luck or chance, could it ? Nobody could suffer, simply for... nothing. Confronting the real World Below today showed her that injustice didn't necessarily have a cause, or pain a reason. She hated this truth.

"I'm afraid I don't belong here either," Nymuë whispered.

The young woman noticed that her companions had stopped, covering their faces with their cloaks. They were looking apprehensively at the multitude of mushrooms below. The thallophytes were huge, fluorescent... and emitted spores that were almost invisible to the naked eye. The dark elf heard her comrades let out a discreet coughing fit, as she breathed without difficulty. The particles glided gently over her skin.

"Genetic inheritance," Shadowheart smiled.

"But… How? I never... "

She paused; the nearest mushroom had suddenly lit up. Fearing a reaction, Nymuë stepped back, but the fungus returned to its normal hue. A slightly more powerful cough from Lae'zel caused a second one to glow, but it too gradually faded. The dark elf studied their little group: she was wondering... Grabbing a stone, she threw it into the middle of the chanterelles. With each bounce, a new mushroom lit up, leaving a line of light in its wake. "The sound," Nymuë understood. "They're reacting to the noises around them." But what was the point of such a flora? To repel light-sensitive predators?

The image of a spider's web took root in her mind. "We're on a hunting ground," she thought with fright. Shrill cries confirmed her reasoning; all around them, whistling sounds came closer.

"Run!" Shadowheart cried.

The companions rushed through the mushrooms, getting as far away as possible from the creatures chasing them. Each step they took kindled a chanterelle, like a chain reaction. Nymuë threw herself to the ground as a purple tentacle shot towards her. The appendage gesticulated above her head, beating the air in search of its prey. It was connected to a fungus that was more shrivelled than its neighbours. The thallophyte was covered in mould and seemed to be waiting for something. When a distant flash of light revealed the position of the three fugitives, it stretched out its sinuous arms towards the source of the noise.

The monster was blind, the young woman realised, but capable of capturing the emanations of other mushrooms. To cross its territory, you had to be as discreet as a shadow... Or scramble its signals.

"Nymuë!" Shadowheart's voice screamed far ahead.

The musician moved slowly, gripping the handle of her violin. The Screamer – for that would be its name - wanted light? She was going to give it some.

Her bow produced a strident sound, which echoed throughout the caverns. Her music surrounded them, everywhere and nowhere all at once. The mushrooms lit up simultaneously, like a wave. For an instant, this small part of the Underdark glowed brightly.

The Screamer waved its tentacles, unable to determine the origin of this sudden radiance, and furiously swept away the nearest chanterelles. Nymuë receded, continuing to play. In the light of the fungi, she easily spotted her companions: they had managed to slip out of the phosphorescent field. She avoided a blind attack from the Screamer, her fingers and feet dancing in unison. Pas chassé, demi-pointe, entrechat, glissé to the left, then pirouette: "One, two, three," she counted, "One, two, three..." Hands pulled her back as she left the chanterelle garden. Turning round, the dark elf recognised Astarion's half-smile: "It's really a shame you've left the circus..." he said.

"Believe me, it was one of the best decisions I've ever made."

"Keep playing," Lae'zel roared. "I'm going to smash this mushroom!"

"Be glad we got away with it," Shadowheart sighed. "It would be foolish to waste our strength when we are so close to our goal. Observe..."

Below, a few huts stood in front of the black surface of a gigantic lake. The place looked like and old fishing village, abandoned and decrepit. As they approached, the companions saw the corpse of a dark elf surrounded by grey-skinned dwarves."Duergars," Astarion spat disdainfully. "Deep dwarves."

"They killed each other," Lae'zel observed.

"Look at their amulet. This symbol..."

Nymuë crouched down, studying the strange medallion hanging around the drow's neck. The priestess was right, they had seen this emblem before: it was painted all over the walls of the goblin camp. A skull resting on an inverted triangle; a bloody handprint covered its empty eye sockets.

"The mark of the Absolute," the gith warrior hissed.

"If True Souls are here, we're in the right place. Are they coming from across the lake?"

"Probably," the rogue remarked. "There are boats moored further away. And the skin of these fanatics is covered in soot..."

Faced with their puzzled looks, he elaborated: "That means they're near a heat source. Probably volcanic, given the rocks. Take a look..."

Holding out his finger majestically, the high elf pointed to a faint light at the other end of the river. In this total darkness, it had the effect of a lighthouse in the middle of the night. The orange flicker came out of the dark ores and flowed straight into the lake. "Lava," the musician realised.

"I guess we know where we're going next," she concluded.

"Are you sure?" Shadowheart retorted. "It might not be a good idea to sail in these waters..."

Anxiously, she approached what looked like a huge rock on the shore. It was, in fact, a gaping maw, the fragmented remains of an even larger carcass. Each of its teeth was the size of the adventurers, and it towered higher than the surrounding dwellings. The monster's corpse had been swept away by the water flow, but even dead it was still frightening. If this thing lived in the lake, what else could be hiding there?

"Can't see anything," Lae'zel informed them, scanning the liquid expanse with her eyes. "This pool could just as easily be filled with ink."

"We have no other choice," Nymuë replied.

The young woman headed towards the boats. Made entirely of wood and bone, the raft consisted of two decks linked by fishing nets. It didn't seem complicated to manoeuvre: a simple lever moved it forward. Nymuë climbed aboard, with Shadowheart on her right, and Lae'zel and Astarion at the bow. The dark elf took one last look at the dark caverns of the World Below.

In the course of a few hours, this place had almost killed them twice. Yet, there was a certain beauty in this realm left to its own devices. Looking away, the musician activated the boat's controls. It glided across the cold surface of the lake... in the direction of the volcanic heart.

The temperature rose considerably as the lava cascades approached. Beneath the rocks blackened by the molten liquid, the adventurers spotted a small opening. Gradually, the caverns of the Underdark disappeared, giving way to an immense underground gallery. Stone walls surrounded them, and alcoves had been built to allow the lava to drain away without damaging the architecture.

A statue - the top of which easily reached the ceiling - stood near the iron doors. It depicted a woman with folded arms, a dagger in each hand. Her eyes were covered by a mask, and her whole body was strewn with golden threads. Shadowheart cried out:"Lady Shar! Mistress of the Night. I knew your call wasn't a coincidence!"

The companions looked apprehensively at the Goddess of Loss, now convinced that they had reached their destination. This place must be the secret fortress built by Ketheric Thorm, halfway to Moonrise Towers.

Nymuë turned her attention back to the door in front of them, which opened with a thud. "We are expected," she thought. They moored at a quay where two duergars were standing guard.

"What do we got here?" snarled the first, a bald-headed woman. "Dead hoon walking, seems like."

Nymuë had no idea what a 'hoon' was, but it didn't sound like a compliment. "Got any reason I shouldn't sever your head and toss it to the rothé?"

"Think twice. We are True Souls, and you will treat us with respect," Astarion clamed.

The dark elf rolled her eyes at her companion, when she felt the stranger's mind brushed against hers. The parasite at the back of her head remained surprisingly silent: this woman wasn't infected.

"I'll be," she hissed. "You ain't shitting. Felt the tingle. In that case, let's talk business. Your twat-soul friend Nere caused a rockfall. Trapped tighter than a eunuch in a brothel."

"Coupla gnome slaves stuck with him too," her comrade added. "Little bastards."

"Who is Nere?" Shadowheart asked cautiously. "The Absolute has ordered us to reach Moonrise Towers. She didn't mention another True Soul along the way."

"Ah! It's a pity that pig's under the rubble," the duergar laughed. "I wish he'd heard that!"

"Of course you want to go to Moonrise!" continued the other. "That's what all these cult-freaks want anyway. Nere's from there too. Supposedly, he's a representative of your damned goddess, and he wants to clean the place up to make a headquarters. And now, the idiot is half dead."

Their tadpole shuddered, as Astarion worked his way into his companions' head: "That's not our problem," he said. "In fact, we have one less opponent."

"True," Shadowheart added. "I'm sorry about the gnomes, but this isn't our fight."

"Our enemy is already buried," Lae'zel concluded.

Nymuë nodded silently, her gaze still fixed on the duergar. She spoke again: "If Nere has failed, the Absolute will judge him and send someone worthier. Our mission is paramount; how do we get to Moonrise?"

"You want the information?" the dwarf yelped. "Make a donation."

She brandished her dagger just as Nymuë unfurled her chains. Her opponent's weapon was propelled across the room."I don't think so. In fact, I think you're going to give me the whole thing for free."

The two guards stepped back: "Unclog your hole, just shitting around," the stranger said. "Your fanatical pal hired us to help him run this place. And now that he's trapped, his debt is unpaid. Be sure to pass this on to your goddess. No duergar works for free."

"The passage to Moonrise is on the other side of the docks," her comrade pointed out. "But you'll hardly survive up there. The place is cursed, and most of the twat-souls use a device - a kind of lantern - to get through the area."

"Didn't your goddess provide you with one?" asked the first duergar suspiciously.

"We were supposed to get it here," Nymuë lied.

The dwarf studied them carefully: "Yes, well, tough luck, the only one here belongs to Nere. As if he needed it, deep down in Grymforge. You can always dig and hope to find it on his corpse."

"Or else you face the curse," her mate sneered. " Some are said to have survived. But not many."

The two soldiers walked away, laughing loudly. The dark elf raised her eyebrows: "That changes our plans somehow..."

"Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark!" Astarion scoffed.

"It's not the darkness that scares me, but the curse. We thought the path to Moonrise was clear from this bastion. But if even the cultists avoid using it without protection…"

"We've managed to fool True Souls before," Shadowheart reflected. "Perhaps we can also deceive this Nere. Convince him that the Absolute sends us."

"And then what, we're going to help the duergars shovel? I'm warning you, I'm not digging with that manicure."

"If Nere refuses to cooperate, we could always save him from death to grant it to him immediatly," Lae'zel suggested.

"Oh no. I see what you're doing. You," the rogue said, pointing at Shadowheart, "you want to explore the fortress dedicated to your dark goddess. You," this time showing the gith, "you just want a chance to slaughter some cultists. And you," he finished, turning to Nymuë, "are looking for an excuse to save those foolish little gnomes."

The three women stared at him wordlessly. Lae'zel frowned, her hand on the hilt of her sword, and Shadowheart's eyes flashed. Nymuë merely smiled.

With a groan, Astarion shuffled after his companions. When they reached the heart of Grymforge, he was still complaining.

Chapter Text

Compared to the rest of the Underdark, the ruins of Grymforge were bursting with light. Lava flowed beneath metal platforms, and duergars shouted orders to a band of emaciated gnomes. Wherever they went, the adventurers attracted suspicious glances.

"At least we won't be short of enemies if things go wrong," Astarion quipped.

"I can't believe such vermins have taken possession of Lady Shar's house," Shadowheart grumbled. "This place must have once served the Dark Justiciars!"

"Halsin and you have already mentioned that title," Nymuë noted. "What does it stand for?"

"There is scarcely a greater way to fully dedicate yourself to Lady Shar, save perhaps if you become the head of her church. To rise as a Dark Justiciar is to act as her sword arm : her implement with wich she will cast down the unbelievers and win the final battle to restore her perfect, endless darkness… It's all I ever wanted. I prayed it was my calling. But 'Mother' forbid me from seeking to prove myself worthy of the rank. She said I was not ready."

Seeing the curious looks on her companions' faces, the priestess resumed: "Not my mother-mother, I should add. The Mother Superior, head of Lady Shar's enclave in Baldur's Gate. I owe her everything, and I only wish to serve, yet she can prove… inscrutable. Sometimes, I wonder if she would ever deem me ready."

"All you have to do is keep fighting," Lae'zel declared. "Goddesses do not stop at such trivial considerations. Vlaakith will see that I am her most loyal warrior, not because one of her advisors has judged me worthy, but because my actions are irrefutable proof. The same goes for you."

"That explains why your mission is so important to you..." the dark elf guessed.

"Indeed. As well as restoring my memory, bringing back this artefact will prove the strength of my faith."

"It hasn't yet been said that this artefact belongs to you!" the gith warrior retorted.

"We have already decided that the astral prism will remain with Shadowheart, Lae'zel."

"Because it protects us from our parasite. That doesn't mean that once we're rid of it, my people have to give up what's theirs."

"I still find it strange that you should end up with the exact object capable of protecting us," Astarion observed. "It seems very convenient."

"I agree," Nymuë added. "Before you start arguing, don't forget that the nocturnal visitor has their own motivations. We'll understand them better if we work together."

Her companions nodded, but not without one last look of defiance. While relations between the two women had improved in recent days, the main point of friction remained the strange githyanki artefact. They had discovered nothing about it, apart from the tenacity with which their enemies were trying to seize it.

Their steps led them to a vast space in the middle of the lava waterfalls. There, several gnomes were busy clearing away a mountain of rubble, under the merciless lashes of their masters.

"Faster!" roared the woman at the head of the pack. "Heat up some rocks. Let's see how the little pricks do when we strap fire to their legs."

She then spotted the visitors: "Move!" she ordered. "I don't have time for you."

"Really?" Astarion whispered. "That's a pity. Saves us a lot of digging, I suppose."

"Shall we report to the Absolute that you have neglected her followers?" Shadowheart implied.

The dwarf looked at them warily. Underneath her suspicion was a hint of fear: "True Souls, eh? Useless rakkah of a lookout could've told me. Glad you're here to take responsibility. Tunnels collapsed, trapped True Soul Nere. He's stuck in there with poisoned geysers. If we don't get him soon…"

"How did Nere get into this, exactly?" Nymuë asked.

"Place is older than bonedust. Previous tenants left a trap: dropped a shit-tonne of metal once we'd dug a way in. Get Nere out and you'll have the Absolute's blessing, no doubting that."

The dark elf carefully studied the debris the gnomes were working on. Digging would take forever, even with four extra pairs of hands, and time was running out. Magic? Neither she nor Shadowheart knew a levitation spell powerful enough... They had to be more radical. Fortunately, they had kept a few souvenirs of the battle of the Emerald Grove.

"Tell them to back off," she warned. "I've got some explosive powder."

The sergeant didn't need to be told twice. With a gesture, she motioned for to her men to join her at the back of the room, and the gnomes dropped their pickaxes. Shadowheart's hands went up in flames; when Nymuë threw the bag of powder into the rubble, she was ready: "Ignis!" she chanted.

The detonation threw the adventurers to the ground. Shards of rock flew in all directions, and one of the projectiles hit a duergar who was too busy admonishing the gnomes. In the midst of the chaos, a figure emerged. Nere was a drow whose skin was almost as pale as Nymuë's, a sign that he too hadn't always lived in the depths. His white hair was slicked back to reveal a face with high cheekbones and dark red eyes. He was dressed in an elegant robe, fastened with a brooch representing the symbol of the Absolute. Although wounded, he adressed his soldiers in a haughty tone:"Finally!" he hissed.

A gnome slipped in his wake, immediately incurring his wrath: "Worthless slaves! Your incompetence has been my ruin."

Purple sparks flew from his palms, a sign of his fury. As if in response, a violent headache seized the adventurers.

"Nere. Does. Not. Fail," the cultist roared.

The gnome was propelled backwards, her arms flailing in the air, and her scream of terror muffled by the gurgle of lava. The drow then turned to the newcomers: "And now, let us see the chosen ones that the Absolute has sent..."

His gaze met Nymuë's, and he froze. His eyes went wide. Was he surprised to see one of his own kind? Yet, they had come across the corpse of a dark elf on the shores of Darklake…

"Sabrae?" he asked.

The musician looked around, but no one reacted. Her companions were perplexed. Refocusing on the True Soul, Nymuë saw that he was studying her from head to toe. His pupils noted every detail of her face, her clothes, lingering for a moment on the violin behind her. His observation felt like a sharp blade on her throat: there was hatred in it.

"You're mistaken," she replied softly. "My name is..."

"You're not Sabrae," Nere cut her off. "You are her despicable bastard."

The young woman's heart skipped a beat; the surrounding noises became indistinct hums. The drow's face expressed nothing but disgust.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded in a blank voice.

"Sabrae, pest be her name, never told you about your lineage? Curious. There was a time when she was proud to disgrace herself. Are you here to claim the Asenred's heritage, so-called True Soul? If so, you're a century too late."

"You're going to tell me everything you know," Nymuë whispered.

Her parasite began to tremble under her anger. Suddenly, it opened up to her. A flood of power coursed through her veins, and aimed at the other elf. Unfortunately, Nere also had an illithid worm. The young woman's consciousness collided with a wall of steel.

"Oh, so you really are a child of the Absolute," he said. "I suppose she won't mind if I remove the rotten fruit from her branches. What a pity Sabrae isn't here. For a former consort, it is satisfying to eliminate an illegitimate offspring."

Nymuë heard movement behind her: her companions had came closer, and the duergars were beginning to surround them. Only the gnomes remained at the back of the room, huddling together like a terrified herd.

"Soldiers!" Nere called. "These True Souls have betrayed us. Let their spilt blood be the proof of your devotion!"

Three of the dwarves charged the group of adventurers, as they drew their weapons. Not Nymuë. She raised her hand: "Out of my way. Detono !"

A powerful wind blew the warriors into the river of lava. The dark elf felt the gaze of her comrades, but only Nere's jubilant smile mattered: "Let's see how ferocious you can be against one of your allies. Imperium!"

A violet beam struck Lae'zel in the chest, and the warrior's eyes lost all expression. Grabbing her sword in a firm grip, she rushed... straight at Nymuë. The musician dodged the attack at the last second, then rolled to the side to avoid the next blow. Shadowheart and Astarion tried to seize the githyanki, but the duergar were now upon them. Nere stepped back.

"Lae'zel!" the dark elf cried. "It's me!"

Her compagnion's features remained blank as she tightened the hilt of her blade. The drow was too far away for Nymuë to break his concentration. Her only way out was ... to reach him through his puppet. Using their parasite, the young woman projected her energy into Lae'zel's mind: "Timere," she whispered.

The warrior's eyes widened, reflecting her worst terrors. Nere took his head in both hands, prey to the same visions. Spasms shook his limbs as well as the lines of his face. In the blink of an eye, his spell of domination dissipated. "Heretic," he snarled. "That was your last mistake..."

"Tsk'va !" Lae'zel roared. "I will have your head, Nere!"

The drow looked at the battlefield in front of him: the duergar sentries had been slain by Astarion's arrows, and the remaining soldiers were being assaulted by Shadowheart and the gnomes. The camp of the Absolute was losing its advantage. "So be it," he exclaimed. "I will take care of you myself."

He waved his hands and three lifelike replicas of himself materialised. The four Nere advanced towards the companions. "Stay back!" Lae'zel firmly said. "I will take care of it."

The gith rushed at the drow who was no match for the force of her blows. He concentrated on dodging: the first attack missed him, but the second mowed down one of his illusions in the stomach. An arrow in the eye shattered the second, and the third collapsed under the combined assaults of Shadowheart and the former slaves. Only one Nere remained, raising his blade to strike the nearest gnome: "You should have listened. Nere does not..."

Chains wrapped around his wrist and the caress of a dagger cut his cheek. Disarming him with a squeeze, Nymuë pounced on him: "Now!" she shouted. "Tell me what you know. Who is Sabrae?"

Without realising it, she once again drew on the power of her larva. The True Soul laughed: "Sabrae Asenred... A name that no longer exists. If you don't know who she is, she's probably rotting six feet under... Praise the Absolute!"

The young woman increased the pressure on the man's brain, shaking it sharply: "She was my mother, wasn't it? Who was she? Why did she leave? Talk!"

"Ah ! You have her anger. Her violence. But from him... you got those abominable grey eyes. Oh, I was so happy when Lolth allowed me to put them to death!"

"What do you say?" she murmured.

"The Spider Queen didn't keep her promise: I was unable to destroy Sabrae. But before I left Menzoberranzan, I savoured the discredit of every member of the Asenred family."

The musician's fingers dug into her interlocutor's face. She heard faintly her companions approaching; but the screams of her parasite were too loud. Nere's laughter was interspersed with coughing fits, blood trickling down his chin: "Show. Me," she ordered.

She invaded his consciousness, sweeping it away. She went through each memory, reducing to dust those that didn't matter, and seizing the next. Every scrap of childhood, successes or failures, allies and enemies alike... she annihilated them until she found the fragment she was looking for.

A woman, with an imperious bearing. She was a dark elf with long white hair, carefully combed into a myriad of plaits. Her dress, embroidered with a large 'A' surrounded by a spider's web, moulded her curves. She lifted her chin proudly: "They say you were one of Sorcere's best students, male?" she asked. "You'll do. I intend to have an heiress before I become a Matron. Don't disappoint me."

"Nere does not fail," he replied.

Through the drow's eyes, Nymuë felt a shiver of euphoria: "At last!" he thought. At last, he was going to acquire the honours that were his due. By joining the Asenred family, he was placing himself under the protection of the Fourth House of Menzoberranzan: he was untouchable. He would show Sabrae that she had made a wise choice in taking him as her consort. He would slaughter her enemies; he would plant a seed in her that would in turn serve Lolth with fervour.

Another memory: the same dark elf, many years later, pregnant and running at full speed. He was chasing her, hatred in his heart. They were destined to rule the city together! Destroy the Three Sovereign Houses, take over the drow nobility, and form an empire where only Lolth would surpass them in majesty. But she had humiliated him, betrayed him, cheated on him with... a slave !

A rock narrowly missed him, and light blinded his eyes: the World Above. With difficulty, he saw Sabrae's silhouette stop, before turning towards him. She smiled: "This time, Nere, you do have failed."

"Nymuë?" someone shouted to her right. "Nymuë, stop!"

The vision disappeared, like a bubble bursting. The cliff where Sabrae had been standing gave way to the volcanic landscape of Grymforge, and the dark elf realised that her cheek was burning. She had been slapped. At her feet, Nere's corpse lay quivering. Blood poured from his nose, mouth, and eyes; the echo of his illithid tadpole had fallen silent.

The young woman felt her strength drain, and she dropped limply into Shadowheart's arms. The priestess looked at her with concern, even... fear. Her hand was raised, as if she didn't know whether to hit her again, but Nymuë couldn't take her eyes off the dead. She had killed Nere. Worse: she had disintegrated him.

Without thinking, without controlling herself... but certainly not without meaning to. She had wanted to hurt the drow, had savoured the taste of blood on her tongue. Today, for the first time, she had sided with those who took, rather than endured. She should have felt exhilarated, intoxicated...

Lae'zel's strong arms lifted her effortlessly over her shoulder, and the young woman met Astarion's gaze. His ruby eyes were unfathomable, devoid of all emotion. An echo of her own.

Nere's moon lantern proved to be useless, destroyed in the landslide. Inside, nothing but grey, glittering dust... A chemical compound, perhaps. Something useless in the face of the shadow curse.

"We have no choice," Lae'zel decreed. "We'll have to do without this asset."

"If there are cultists in the area, we might be lucky enough to find another option," Shadowheart suggested. "It was all for nothing, in the end."

The companions fell silent, watching Nymuë as she stood back. Lost in thought, she simply followed her comrades without expressing an opinion. The adventurers felt uncomfortable: perhaps, they had got a little too used to the musician playing the role of mediator in their team...

The few surviving duergar had seized the ships to leave Grymforge quickly. No boss, no payment after all. The gnomes - now free - were taking over the ruins and seemed reluctant to mingle with their saviours.

It was decided to rest before returning to the surface; who knows what would await them, once up there... They would need all their strength, as well as their leader. Shadowheart spotted an alcove among the rubble, an old ceremonial room. "This must be where the Dark Justiciars used to perform their sacraments!"

The chamber contained several granite benches, stacked in front of a large altar. Set high above the docks and the lava waterfalls, it gave them relative privacy for the night. They pitched their tents in morose silence. At dinnertime, Nymuë stayed by her bunk.

"You should eat something," Shadowheart advised. "Tomorrow will be a hard day."

"No need to look glum," Lae'zel added. "You killed a cultist, so what? That's one less enemy for us. I'm sorry you chose to use your parasite as an intermediary, but a dead adversary is something to be celebrated, not mourned."

"I'm just not hungry," the dark elf replied. "Thank you for your concern."

"Where's Astarion? Tell me he hasn't gone hunting for gnomes. Those poor ones have been through enough horrors."

"I saw him heading inside the temple," Nymuë pointed.

"On his own? The lure of gain will be his undoing. He's going to stick his long, manicured fingers into a trap, and I warn you, he'll have to get out alone."

The musician sighed as the half-elf and the githyanki - for once in agreement- continued to swear. After a few seconds, she stood up: "I'll go get him," she said.

"What a good idea, let's go our separate ways!" Shadowheart scoffed. "Then, we'll just have to save you..."

"You don't understand," Lae'zel corrected her. "Those two are crotch mates. I hope to sleep tonight."

"And there's an echo in this temple," the priestress smiled.

"My 'crotch' and I don't need your remarks!" Nymuë snapped.

She abandoned the giggles of her companions to dive into the galleries. The conflict between the partisans of Shar and those of Selûne had left its mark; the place had been gleefully ransacked. Many of the rooms hid bones amongst ancient armour, but there were no secret passage to Moonrise Towers. With a certain irony, fate was taking them out of the Underdark, to join an even worse curse. It made you wonder whether their quest would ever cease to multiply the ordeals.

The young woman heard a growl in a neighbouring chamber, and moved towards its source. What she discovered left her stunned: with his back to her, Astarion was following the pattern of his scars with his fingertips: "A line with a fork and one... two... three dots?"

He grumbled at the failure of his attempt: "Bloody infernal! How is anyone meant to read this garbage?"

"With a lot of patience," Nymuë suggested. "And many years of study."

The rogue turned round abruptly, furious at having been caught red-handed. "What are you doing?" he grunted.

"Tourism," the dark elf almost replied. "The lava blocks are lovely at this time of year." However, she was not in the best mood for sarcasm.

Instead, she answered: "Shadowheart and Lae'zel were worried you weren't hunting the right game."

"I can hold out for a few more days," the vampire retorted. "And even though our dear comrades are kind, I have my standards when it comes to food."

"They were worried about the gnomes, not your culinary preferences."

"I see," he responded coldly.

Nymuë stared at him for a moment, noting his furrowed eyebrows and stern gaze. Once again, his lack of expression disconcerted her; did he see her as a danger, because of what had happened with Nere? Did he think that, in time, she would attack her companions?

"I didn't mean to disturb you," she whispered. "I'll leave you alone."

"Wait!" the rogue interrupted. "I'm sorry... You caught me by surprise, that's all. I've been tracing the scars on my back with my fingers, trying to read them by touch, but I can't. They may as well be written in Rashemi."

He studied her, secretly watching for her reaction. He looked like Elyon when she 'innocently' enquired if she was going to finish her pie. He was clearly asking for her assistance, but was too proud to express that need out loud. "I bet he'll refuse my help, just to perfect his decorum a little..." Nymuë thought.

"Let me look at it," she offered.

Relief crossed Astarion's face, quickly tempered: "I... This isn't your problem, you know?"

"I know. Now shut up and turn around."

"Fine."

Too quickly for his bad grace to be credible, he swivelled round. For the second time, the young woman could contemplate the symbols crossing his shoulders. Her knowledge of infernal was sketchy - at best - and unfortunately she barely understood its meaning.

"What are you doing?" Astarion then asked.

She rolled her eyes: "I'm going to draw them. Don't move."

He complied, and Nymuë concentrated on his scars. The runes were numerous, but simple in their execution; she soon arrived at a fairly accurate pattern.

"What in the Hells..." Astarion examined the layout with dismay: "What did he do to me?"

The dark elf also felt a deep sense of unease. Infernal could sometimes be used for transactions involving illegal products; more often than not, they were code names or brief notes. Writing an entire text in this language never augured well.

"Should we tell the others?" she demanded. "Maybe they'll know something…"

"No!" countered the rogue energetically. "No... Let's keep this between ourselves. At least, until we know what it means."

For a brief second, Nymuë saw her companion's features tense up in anguish. "Two centuries carrying this, and I can finally see it."

"Had you ever witnessed Cazador writing in Infernal before?"

"No. I could have missed it, of course, but I doubt it. Cazador was only figuratively hellish; there was any devils hanging about the crypt. Whatever he's left carved in my flesh, it's a mystery to me..."

He hesitated, as if the next words weren't natural to him: "Thank you, by the way. This is... Well, it's something."

"Don't mention it," Nymuë smiled.

"Given the subject matter, I probably won't. No, the truth is I'm rather curious about your situation?"

The young woman tensed. He couldn't accept a favour without gleaning information in return, could he? "There is nothing to say," she retorted. "I let my anger dominate me, and it won't happen again."

"Oh, but on the contrary, I hope you'll let it express itself more. It gives you a certain charm."

"It doesn't. I wouldn't go so far as to say I regret what happened to Nere but... I hate the idea that I couldn't control my actions. I didn't recognise myself."

"Was it worth it?"

Nymuë crossed her arms. She thought back to the visions glimpsed in the True Soul's mind: her mother's face, her flight to the surface...

"I don't know," she admitted. "My own story seems less abstract now. But despite these revelations, nothing changes. My future remains as uncertain as ever."

She gestured towards the infernal sketch: "You know what I mean."

"Well, I suppose you and I will have to be patient," the rogue concluded. "If getting results means killing more cultists, I really don't see what the problem is."

"You must have been the worst lawyer back then, you know?" Nymuë laughed.

"Darling, you offend me. I may not remember it, but I was undoubtedly a genius among my peers."

"You don't remember your life before your transformation?"

"It's not as if there was much of interest."

He pulled on his shirt with a sudden gesture, full of anger. In it, the young woman perceived the depth of his bitterness. She tried for a moment to imagine what Astarion might have looked like before all this. Cazador, the Nautiloïd, the Absolute. An ambitious man, sure of his place in the world and to whom everything was offered.

Without really paying attention, she spoke her thoughts aloud: "I'm glad to know Astarion the vampire. I don't think I could have been friends with the magistrate."

The high elf's shoulders stiffened as he finished dressing. He stared at her quizzically, searching her face for a trace of mockery. Nymuë herself was troubled by her sudden confession.

"Friends," he repeated softly. "Is that what we are?"

"I don't know. I've never had one before."

She decided to leave him to the solitude from which she had torn him. As she left the room, Astarion called out to her: "As for me, I think I'd rather have met Nymuë of Baldur's Gate than Nymuë Asenred."

She did not turn around.

Chapter Text

That night, Nymuë found herself in the Astral Plane. The starry ocean surrounded her, vast and magnificent. Elyon - or at least the entity that resembled her - stood nearby. She also contemplated the spectacle of this bridge between worlds.

"I promised I'd be back," she greeted her.

No enemy emerged from the ethereal void. The skull-shaped ship was still floating among the meteorites, sheltered by its force field. Whatever her 'guardian' had faced in the past, she had managed to overcome it. "Dont worry," she confirmed. "I have things under control... For now."

She studied her: "You thought you didn't need the parasite's powers... but today proved otherwise, didn't it?"

Nymuë's tadpole was still quivering with ecstasy after Nere's death. The young woman remembered the intoxication of the moment.

"Do you think that eliminating this disciple was a mistake?" Elyon questioned. "Yet, without your intervention, who knows who he would have attacked next... Not to mention those poor gnomes you and your companions have freed!"

She smiled at her with pride, but Nymuë's heart could not rejoice. She was no hero. Just a street performer overwhelmed by events. Her benefactress lulled her with sweet words, but hidden in the verses was a lie.

"Things haven't gone as you expected," she continued gently. "You hoped a druid as powerful as Halsin might be able to help you, but he couldn't. All he did was reaffirm the danger. You're desperate to be rid of it... Understandable, but you're looking for solutions in the wrong places."

"Tell me who you are," the dark elf demanded.

Elyon tilted her head to one side: "It's complicated. But I'm an adventurer, trapped in the artefact you're carrying. Just like you, I was infected with a mind flayer parasite. Just like you, I seek to be free of it."

Nymuë knew that she and her companions were protected by the prism's energy. This was what had saved them from undergoing ceremorphosis until now. But then, how could their guardian be afflicted by the same evil?

"You've already realised that your parasite is unusual," the false Elyon confessed. "It is wrapped in magic that prevents its elimination. Until the source of it is detroyed, any attempt to remove it will kill you. But the tadpoles are merely a symptom of a greater sickness in Faerun..."

"The cult of the Absolute. Is that why they're looking for you?"

The dream entity nodded: "The Absolute's aims are not yet clear to me, but her methods are. These parasites are more than illithid spawn : they are vessels for control. The infected hear the voice of the Absolute, and believe it to be a god. That is how the cult is spreading. The highest of their rank, the True Souls, carry a tadpole just like yours. It is how they receive their orders, but it is also what makes them obey. When the order to transform is given, it will not be a matter of days. They will be mind flayers in an instant."

The dark elf suppressed a shudder. So their failure would mark their transformation in a terrible way... Everything they had been, everything they had fought for... annihilated in the blink of an eye. Nymuë met the gaze of her benefactress, her calm perfectly calculated. "Indeed: were it not for my protection, so would you."

"Why are you protecting me?"

"Because we share a common cause and a common ennemy. We are alike, you and I. I've been trying to escape from this evil for a long time. Once... I almost succeeded. Now, through you, I've been given a new chance. You can go where I cannot. And I can protect you from that evil. If we work together, we may turn this around. But you should know that the power I use to protect you... I stole it from someone."

"Githyankis," Nymuë guessed. "Hence the runes on the artefact. And it was Shadowheart who found you next... "

"Very perceptive," the false Elyon approved.

"Was that them last time? The attack on the ship? I'm warning you, there's no way I'm giving up Lae'zel for you."

"It's more complicated than that. Those... or rather the one I took this force from wants it back. I will hold them off for as long as I can, but sooner or later I will be worn down. The cultists are gathering at Moonrise Towers: use the powers of your parasite to infiltrate them. And when you find the source of their magic, destroy it."

The young woman pursed her lips: it was obvious that nothing was as simple as her 'rescuer' had made it out to be. But in the light of their situation, she had few options. A flash of relief crossed Elyon's features: "You are a worthy ally. Now go... our freedom depends on it."

When they woke up the next morning, the companions looked at each other sombrely. Once again, their dream had been shared. But although the messenger had taken many forms, their words had been unanimous: they had to go to Moonrise. It was there that everything would be decided.

From the ruins of Grymforge, a goods lift took them to the upper floors. The place was empty, overgrown with decaying vegetation. Black roots had seeped through the openings, and only silence reigned. A few chests, here and there, bore witness to the regular passage of the cultists. But the closer the small group got to the main door, the more a dull apprehension gripped their hearts.

"You can feel it, can't you?" Lae'zel asked. " The shadow curse. Its influence extends as far as here. Once we cross the threshold..."

"No turning back," Nymuë agreed. "Stay close to your torches; whatever we find, don't stray too far."

Shadowheart and Astarion pushed open the heavy doors to the outside. They saw no sky, no trace of sun. Only a dark grey tinted the horizon, covering the ground and infecting the air. Nature seemed to have got out of control. Deprived of light, the flora had been transformed into a chaotic and menacing whole. The trees pointed their branches at the travellers like hooked fingers; the ground was treacherous, spongy. There was hardly any noise here either. No birds or insects singing. Very briefly, they seemed to hear whispers in the fog... but never long enough to be sure.

"These shadows..." Shadowheart murmured. "They are inhabited by a power that is strangely familiar. Beware."

"Even in the World Below, we have never seen such darkness," Nymuë whispered. "It's worrying."

Without really knowing why, the companions didn't dare raise their voices. It was as if the slightest sign of vitality had no place here. In the Underdark, they had found themselves trapped in an oppressive - but natural - obscurity. An ecosystem had developed in response. Not here; darkness was not innate. It took root inside the travellers. The eyes that followed their every move didn't belong to the world of the living, and everything that grew on this soil was destined to rot.

Torchlight had never seemed so reassuring. As they advanced, Shadowheart and Nymuë lit many braziers. However, their comrades lagged behind them, struggling to breathe. The two women stared at each other: "The shadow curse doesn't affect us like it does the rest of them," the priestess noticed. "Not as badly, anyway."

"What does this mean?" the musician asked.

"Lady Shar must give me her blessing! She protects me where all the others suffer her wrath. She loves me, she has to!"

"Wonderful," Astarion scoffed. "Feel free to share some of that love. How ironic that I'm not in my element in the dark..."

"My Mistress wouldn't bless me without reason. We know there are signs of the Dark Justiciars in these lands, but perhaps there's a consecrated place somewhere? A temple, for example?"

"What about you, Nymuë?" Lae'zel inquired. "Why doesn't this curse strike you? Could it be because of your drow heritage?"

"I don't think so," she replied. "I don't know what's protecting me... or why."

"I suppose it would have been too nice if the artefact had also spared us from this evil..." the rogue sighed.

Nymuë and Shadowheart placed themselves at the front and back of the procession. In the centre, illuminated by torches, Lae'zel and Astarion watched their surroundings.

The dark elf couldn't understand why the shadow curse had so little effect on her. She could feel its sinuous arms embracing her, but the call seemed ... diminished. Distant, somehow. What magic was causing this? It couldn't be the host of the prism, who had no advantage in making her face the cultists alone. Nor was it divine intervention; unlike Shadowheart, she didn't have blind faith... No infernal pact either, as Raphael the devil having been rejected. But then... what could it be?

"Stay together!" shouted a voice further upstream. "Keep to the light!"

The adventurers hid behind a root, studying the group of strangers. There were half a dozen of them, armed and dressed like mercenaries, torches brandished. The absence of a mark on their left temple didn't identify them as True Souls. Moreover, they wore a symbol on the front of their armour, a harp and a crescent moon intertwined. Nymuë leaned closer: she was sure she had seen this emblem before, during her lessons with Revan...

The sharp crack of a branch drew an angry curse from her. "Bravo," Astarion whispered. "Brilliant!"

"Shut up!" Shadowheart retorted. "Be discreet, for once."

"Do you think this friendly team will forget us if we don't move? 'Maybe it was just the wind'?"

"Shut up, both of you!" Lae'zel roared. "Or I'll kill you so I won't hear you again."

The dark elf sighed: "Lower your weapons," she said to the small battalion. "We mean you no harm."

"That's what we're going to see," screamed one of the strangers. "Come closer. Hands up."

The musician obeyed, followed reluctantly by her comrades. The mercenaries had taken up a defensive posture, one of them pointing his crossbow in their direction. Without making any sudden moves, Nymuë observed the newcomers in detail. Underneath their bravado, anguish and fatigue threatened to overwhelm them. They clung to their torches in furious despair. When the light revealed the dark elf's bluish skin, they stepped back: "By the gods!" the crossbowman hissed. "A drow!"

"Yonas, look out!" his commander ordered.

The man had left the circle of light. When he turned round, the darkness was staring back at him, cold and unthreatening. He sighed... but not for long. A hoarse growl broke the silence as a huge figure rose up. The creature dragged Yonas away from the crowd.

Soon there was a howl. Nymuë and her comrades moved closer to the mercenaries, who were too busy searching the shadows to worry about them. They saw no trace of the warrior or the thing that had taken him. Yet, his voice echoed in their ears: "I'm here!" he exclaimed. "Where are you?"

"Yonas! Can you see our torches?" the group leader asked.

"I can't see a thing! Some... Something's wrong..."

"Follow my voice. Come back to the light!"

"Who's there?" he cried. "Meg? Is that... Ahhhh!"

A heart-rending scream was heard, followed by a sinister gurgle. In the flickering light of the flames, a humanoid silhouette approached. "Yonas!" recognised one of the warriors.

The man's features were blurred. He moved with difficulty, as if his body were nothing more than a disjointed skeleton. His skin was as dark as the surrounding vegetation, as blotchy as the sky and as decomposed as the ground beneath their feet. Only his eyes glowed with green fire: "There you are..." he called. "Come... join me..."

Nymuë looked at the creature, more corpse than man. Anguish nauseated her and made her hands tremble; she grabbed her chained dagger. Her companions drew their weapon. "Harpers!" the leader commanded. "To arms!"

Three shadows emerged from the void and darted towards them. Their contours were translucent, a vestige perhaps of what they had once been. Only the night was their flesh now. One of the mercenaries swung her sword at the nearest spectre, but her attack passed through it as if it was made of smoke. Another slid towards Astarion, and evaporated as his torch approached.

"The shadows are cursed!" the Harper shouted. "Avoid them, or destroy them with light!"

Nymuë saw a crossbow bolt pierce one of the creatures without even slowing it down; the monster grabbed the shooter by the throat and drained him of his energy. The poor man opened his mouth, but his cheeks hollowed out and his skin turned dull. An arrow from Astarion finished him off.

"The flames make them dense," he informed them. "It's the only way to hurt them!"

"Behind me!" Shadowheart ordered.

The adventurers obeyed, soon joined by the Harpers. Raising her hands to her chest, the priestess looked up at the sky: "Dum vita est spes est!" she chanted.

An explosion of light surrounded them. The shadows crashed into it, gesticulating in pain, unable to cross the threshold. Then, they thickened. "Now!" Nymuë screamed.

The attackers tackled the creatures, keeping Shadowheart at the center of their formation. Soon, only Yonas remained. He pointed his crossbow in their direction, his whispers gradually taking on the hoarse intonation of smoke spectres.

"I'm sorry, my love..." one of the Harper wept.

She plunged her rapier into the chest of her brother in arms. The ghostly gleam in his eyes faded; his silhouette disintegrated into fine particles. Silence returned to this desolate land, as if no nightmare monster had appeared... Of the six warriors in the squad, only three had survived. The leader took a moment to reflect at the spot where Yonas had disappeared. Then, she turned to the companions: "Thank you," she murmured. "Without you, we'd never have made it."

She studied them, noting the absence of fatigue in Shadowheart and Nymuë: "Your arrival in this region is recent: it hasn't left its mark on you yet. We must leave now. These shadows fear our fire, but their appetite is never sated. Follow us."

The adventurers joined their new allies. The dark elf now remembered where she had seen their insignia: of all the tales and legends circulating among the bards, those recounting the exploits of the Harpers were well known. A secret organisation spread throughout Faerun, heroes of the shadows who worked to defeat evil and restore balance. Some of the most prestigious members of this caste came from Baldur's Gate; in fact, it was claimed that they had helped save the city a hundred years ago, when it was attacked by a sinister guild of assassins.

Great allies, if they could rally them to their cause... But what on earth were they doing in the midst of the shadow curse? Was their presence - so close to the cultists! – really a coincidence? A quick glance at her companions was enough to make up her mind: they would have to choose their words carefully when the time came for the official introductions.

They travelled for a few hours, lighting several makeshift fires along the way. Soon, a pale light came into view: "We're almost there," the leader said. "It's the only safe place in the area. Not even shadows can enter."

With amazement, the adventurers saw the solid framework of a large tavern. Two storeys high, the building bordered a calm lake, in front of which were numerous tents. Merchants, stables, smithy: it was a veritable war camp. A dome with a silvery sheen surrounded the barracks, like a sanctuary in the midst of darkness.

The Harper smiled: "Your eyes don't deceive you. Welcome... to the Last Light Inn."

Chapter Text

Entering the sanctuary of the Last Light Inn was like emerging from the ocean after a long immersion. The weight on the adventurers' chests melted away; the shadows in their hearts dispersed. Even Shadowheart and Nymuë – who had been preserved from the darkness - felt relieved. Here, by some magic unknown to them, the neverending night was kept away.

The tavern was full of activity. The village square was a busy place, with armour, swords, and bows being meticulously stored. Apart from two guards at the camp entrance, no-one was paying them any attention. A sentry swivelled towards the source of the gathering: "Jaheira!" she shouted.

A woman turned around. The crowd seemed to organise itself according to her fluctuations. She was the epicentre of this strange procession, the beating heart keeping the machine going. When she stepped forward, all the soldiers kept a respectful distance.

Her silver hair was strewn in braids; two scimitars, adorned with engravings, crossed in the middle of her back. Despite her semi-elven nature, her features were marked by age. In her wrinkles, one could read all the battles fought... those won, as well as those lost.

The companions hardly had time to introduce themselves. As they approached, Jaheira made a sudden movement to the ground. Vines wrapped around their legs, preventing them from retreating. The Harper's hand - lit by an intense golden glow - sent an unequivocal message: if they moved, the noose would tighten. Nymuë heard her comrades protesting. For her part, she was tired of yet another armed welcome. "Sometimes, I wish people would simply say hello," she said.

Jaheira smiled: "Hello."

The warriors surrounding them drew their weapons. "Very good," the dark elf thought. "A protocol dialogue, then." She raised her palms as high as her vegetal chains would allow: "Easy. Give us a chance to earn your trust."

"You're about to," the Harper whispered.

From her pocket she took out a vial in which was floating... an illithid tadpole. The worm was squawking in its glass cell.

"This is why we're here, you see," the veteran continued. "It is a curious creature that hides all manner of secrets. But if there's one thing that we know..."

Her gaze locked mercilessly with the musician's: "... It's that it knows its own kind."

The creature's squeaks intensified. Something inside it desperately wanted to pounce on the adventurers, to become one with their ruined minds.

"You should never have come here, True Souls," Jaheira hissed.

Nymuë opened her mouth: she had to make them understand, they had nothing to do with these cultists! If only this headache would stop pounding at her temples, then she could...

"Stop! Stop!"several voices cried.

A group of tieflings broke through the crowd. The musician was astonished to recognise refugees from the Emerald Grove! Emaciated, and dressed in rags, bad luck had continued to pursue them after the battle with the goblins. But they were still there, and very much alive. Few people could say the same in these lands.

"They're the ones who saved us!" exclaimed one of their defenders.

"They're the ones who protected the Emerald Grove?" the Harper questioned.

Another tiefling approached. With her purple skin and lute clutched tightly in her hands, the bard Alfira didn't flinch from the veteran's gaze."It's true. I'd pretty much trust them with my life!"

"True Souls with a mind of their own... How is that possible?"

The vines imprisoning the adventurers sank back to the ground. Nymuë turned to her comrades; her silent question earned her several obstinate frowns. None of them liked the idea of revealing their only asset... But if they wanted to make allies against the Absolute, they had to play the honesty card.

The priestess held out the astral prism to the audience: "We're escaping the cultists… with this."

The runes on the artefact flickered, and Jaheira cast a puzzled glance at her vial. The parasite floated peacefully in its prison, dormant.

"What in the Hells is that thing?"

"Something that had saved many lives," Nymuë replied. "I hope we can agree on this."

"Ah! Congratulations. You've earned yourself the benefit of the doubt. Hear me, Harpers! At ease."

The warriors sheathed their weapons, and the tieflings cheered in delight. However, the veteran hadn't finished with them yet: "I'll not pretend to understand what your artefact is, but I'm old and wise enough to recognise a sliver of hope when it crawls out of the dark. Perhaps our interests are aligned: we seek to eliminate the creeping scourge that is the Absolute. There's food in the inn over there. Beds too, if you require rest. Aloe oil in the cupboard in case the vines gave you a rash... Settle in, then come join me for a drink. You may just be the godsend we've been praying for."

The musician heard Astarion growl in frustration: another group of desperate people asking for help! The young woman gave him a stern look. "Don't forget," she told him through their tadpole, "that the said desesperates have just saved our lives."

Even if the rogue didn't approve, he had the merit of keeping his remarks to himself.

"You're all right!" Alfira exclaimed. "Thank goodness, I was worried they'd got you too."

"I'm glad to see you've pulled through," Nymuë replied warmly. "This curse has no mercy..."

"The curse is probably not the worst thing about this area. These cultists are… awful. They ambushed us a few days ago. Even though we surrendered, it wasn't enough for them. They lined us up like dogs... Asharak was with the kids, telling them it was gonna be all right. Maybe that's why they picked him..."

The bard closed her eyes, struggling to hold back a sob. A refugee put a hand on her shoulder.

"How did you survive?" Shadowheart asked.

"Luck?" another tiefling suggested. "A whim? It just… never stops. Even Zevlor was taken."

"How do you do it? How do you keep going?"

Nymuë glanced at her companions and found them strangely silent. No hymn of faith for Shadowheart. No valiant speech in the name of Vlaakith from Lae'zel. Even Astarion had no sarcasm to offer. For the first time since in a while, the dark elf realised just how adrift their group was. They were running from disillusionment to disillusionment, hoping at last to find a path out of the darkness at the next turn. One step at a time, never daring to stop long enough for fear of losing their way. But if it wasn't religion, devotion or vengeance that had given Nymuë her strength, what could it be?

"I'll tell you when I know," she answered mischievously.

She received a smile from a tiefling child, as well as a few amused sniffs.

"We're in the same boat, then," Alfira said. "That's rather comforting. Just be careful out there, all right? I can't handle anyone else dying."

The dark elf squeezed her hand, a gentle warmth filling her chest. It was strange in the midst of this vast chaos, to discover that there were people for whom she was welcome. It seemed even more unreal than their current condition... even if it was far from unpleasant.

The adventurers made their way inside the inn, which was also in a state of cacophony. The central foyer was occupied by numerous refugees, and smell of food reigned supreme. Some rooms had been turned into infirmaries. Only the upstairs remained empty of people, Jaheira's office having been set up nearby. When she spotted the adventurers, she invited them to join her.

"You know, even githyankis have heard of the great Jaheira," Lae'zel said. "Her exploits are legendary."

"Many bards sing of her deeds," Nymuë agreed. "Nevertheless, I would have preferred to avoid the death threats when we first met."

"I suppose facing a Bhaalspawn and Sarevok's rebellion is enough to make you wary..." Shadowheart guessed.

"It means that our dear hostess intends to dissect our intentions in great detail," Astarion intervened. "She's going to try to use us to her advantage."

"What's wrong with that if it serves us? It's not as if our chances of penetrating Moonrise are immense despite our parasites."

"People always ask for something in return. It's a constant."

The musician winced, but nodded. During their little exchange at a distance, the Harper had remained serene, taking a bottle of wine and a few goblets out of her secretary. She seemed almost... amused. "Please, be welcome," she greeted them. "Have a drink. Here's to your very good health."

She smiled, but the expression didn't reach her eyes. Nymuë felt a tingling at the back of her head: "Don't drink," mentally ordered Shadowheart. "I smell klauthgrass in the wine. An herb much sought after by magicians... to elicit the truth."

The dark elf stopped her gesture and looked at her interlocutor; this time, Jaheira's smile seemed sincere. "It doesn't spoil the taste, if that's what you're wondering."

"No, but it spoils my trust."

"Indulge me."

The adventurers put down their cups, and Nymuë heard the githyanki warrior uttered an exclamation. This tempered the respect she had for the Harper.

"You don't know what you're missing," she sighed. "Over a century old, and yet this wine hasn't lost a hint of flavour. Still no quite so sure about you, though. People tend to lose more than just flavour when illithids get their hands on them. I speak from experience. There's an air about you, something… alien. Answer me true and do not lie: the parasite... it's changing you, isn't it?"

Nymuë raised her eyebrows: their mysterious guardian had assured them of their protection against the tadpole, but... they also seemed to be the first to value its power. And yet, every time the worm took control, a part of themselves insidiously disappeared.

"It's trying to win us over," she replied honestly. "But for the moment, we're resisting its temptations."

"And you think you can go on like this for much longer?"

"Well see," Astarion hissed, beginning to tire of this interrogation.

"Look around you," Jaheira summoned them. "Good men, good women, stranded here, two feet in the grave. You already know some them; but if we're to survive, I have no choice but to trust you. Can I?"

"What happened to us being the godsend you've been praying for?" Shadowheart ironised.

"Any good leader must be able to show optimism in front of his men, despite private reservations. I have every reason to be cautious: I've traced people like you, people with parasites in their brain, all the way here from Baldur's Gate. The cult of the Absolute is spreading through the city : quietly, quickly and with unsettling deliberation."

She hesitated, studying a list of reports on her desk: "We tracked them to this ancient village, only to be faced with a man we killed and burried over a century ago."

"Who was... Who is he?" Nymuë asked.

"General Ketheric Thorm. Remember that name: he's the leader of the Absolutists."

"Wait..." Shadowheart murmured. She exchanged a stunned look with her companions: Ketheric Thorm was the man mentioned by Halsin, the one who had caused the shadow curse. A former Chosen of Shar...

"You know your history," Jaheira approved. "Back in the day, Thorm took to building an army of Dark Justiciars beneath this very village. Alongside the local druids, we made it our business to see him deposed."

"We know one of them," Lae'zel intervened. "Halsin of the Emerald Grove."

"That explains the rescue of our fellow tieflings!" the veteran smiled. "Alas, the general is returned. Not only does Ketheric Thorm live again, it seems he is no longer mortal. He has become, in fact, invincible."

"What do you mean?" Astarion asked.

"We met him on a road here, commanding an army of the Absolute. I put an arrow through his eye myself, only to watch him pluck it out like a splinter. He healed right in front of me, and chased us into the shadows."

The Harper caught her breath, anger gradually giving way to resolution:

"Things look hopeless, I know. But experience has taught me that no matter how bleak things seem, there's always hope. You are that hope."

"Wonderful," the rogue sputtered. "But hardly motivating, as far as I'm concerned."

"What do you have in mind?" Nymuë demanded.

"Protected by your artefact, you can infiltrate his forces at Moonrise Towers, posing as a True Soul. Find out what it is that makes him invincible, so we can strip him of his advantage. Once Ketheric is without his shield, the sword: together, we assault his towers, and put a final end to this blight."

"It's not too far from our own plan..." Shadowheart said.

"Oh yes, if you forget the part about a whole army!" Astarion scoffed.

"It's even better than our plan," Lae'zel agreed. "Say yes!"

"Need I remind you that we're trying to determine the origin of our infection, and not to play the hero?"

"Any cure starts with understanding the disease," Jaheira retorted. "Whatever magic Ketheric's using to control these tadpoles, it must be at Moonrise. Your options are just as limited as ours."

The high elf grumbled, feeling trapped. Nymuë put a hand on his shoulder: "We'll decide according to the scale of the threat," she murmured in his mind. "We'll survive this like everything else, you'll see."

He relaxed slightly, though still annoyed. The dark elf turned her attention back to Jaheira: "We're on your side," she assured her. "We will stand up to the cult of the Absolute together."

"Despite the lack of guarantees, you're willing to help us in our fight. This is to your great credit. In exchange, I promise to do everything in my power to ensure your survival."

"You're very kind," the rogue growled.

"Indeed I am. Until then, we'll keep drinking wine when we meet."

The adventurers walked away, unhappy with the outcome of the conversation. They had obtained the support of the Harpers, but once again their lives were at stake. Despite Jaheira's goodwill, they were still on borrowed time.

"This changes nothing," Lae'zel fulminated. "As long as we don't have any answers, it's all just speculation."

"At least we have a target now," Shadowheart pondered. "Ketheric Thorm... I don't know what to think of him. I should naturally consider any follower of Shar an ally, but this... this is not my Mistress's will."

"It would seem that he has abandoned your goddess in favour of the Absolute..." Astarion insinuated.

"So it's a good thing we've been tasked to eliminate him. I knew my Lady had great ambitions for me."

"It's all a big game of chess, with no king to take."

"That's because you have to play better games," whispered a voice behind them.

The companions jumped up and grabbed their weapons. From a shadowy corner, a swarthy-skinned man in elegant clothes came to meet them: the devil Raphael. The same one who had offered to rid them of their parasites a few days earlier...

Nobody seemed to have noticed the cambion. He moved gracefully through the crowd, without anyone brushing against him or touching him. Just as when they first met, he had emerged from nothing.

"You still have to learn the only game that really matters: the game of souls. Oh, but don't worry: it goes without saying you still have the unconditional freedom to choose the only option you have left."

Nymuë clenched her fists; was this cambion revelling in their doubts? This was the second time he had appeared as they faced a new obstacle...

Raphael smiled and turned his scrutinising gaze towards Astarion: "Now, let's talk about you. I sense there's something you want to ask me."

The rogue gasped, then nodded: "I do. I have a... proposal for you."

"A proposal? If you're hoping to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than Wyvern Whiskey."

"This is serious business, devil!"

The dark elf's eyes met Astarion's and she understood what was tormenting him. He wasn't trying to negotiate his survival in the face of their parasite; he was suffering from another evil, just as dangerous. His scars. The painful marks that could - perhaps – serve as a means of escape from his former master. For what benefit would he gain from freeing himself of his tadpole, if the vampire lord were to control him again?

Unaware of the stigmata in question, Lae'zel and Shadowheart protested. The musician didn't like the idea of asking Raphaël for help either. It was like trading one scourge for another. On the other hand, who better than a devil to translate the language of the Hells?

The rogue expanded on his request: "My old... Well… A long time ago, someone carved some runes into my back. They are a fragment of a contract... I'd like to know what the full contract says."

"Hummm..." Raphaël thought. "These marks are indeed very important to your master; but are they a love letter, a warning, or a deed of ownership? I could give you all the gory details..."

"In exchange for something," Nymuë guessed bitterly.

"Nothing much. I'm motivated to help you, you know. Scars often tell such wonderful stories, and I think yours might be truly exquisite..."

Raphaël's smile widened, giving him the look of a cat about to lick its lips. Astarion's impatience delighted him: the more desperate the prey, the higher the stakes. People like him and Lady Seri were ruining lives, content as they were to play with fate.

"Tell us what you want," Nymuë ordered.

The devil complied:

"Our heroes thought but of treasure ahead,

Did not consider the peace of the dead.

Through the dark they went creeping,

And awoke what was sleeping…

A new grave they dug, which they themselves fed."

"How long have you been training for this little recital?" Shadowheart scoffed.

"Until it was perfect. I've grown quite fond of you, in my way. So you should be pleased that I'm warning you of the dangers of this... favour you're doing me. Like a dramatist, I can set the scene and prepare you for your role."

"Which is, exactly?" the musician asked.

"In the darkness near Moonrise Towers, there is a stage upon which a great drama has suspended itself in time. There, in the depths of the Thorm mausoleum, its actors dwell there still, mired in the languor of their long-tired scenes."

"What actors?" Lae'zel growled, annoyed of these mind games.

"A creature who, like me, is very much of the... infernal persuasion. Should it make its way out of its prison, a pestilence would be unleashed upon this realm... This beast and I go back a long way, and I think you have the talent to write for it an exceptional final chapter. If, however, you heed this warning: this opponent is carnage incarnate. Do not underestimate it. At best you will have the blink of an eye to strike, so attack first and aim true. Defy the odds, for they are distinctly in its favour."

"That's encouraging," Shadowheart sneered. "You're asking us to fight an orthon – a champion of the Hells! - in exchange for a translation? That's not a very fair offer."

"You're breaking my heart, priestess, for I am fairness made devil... Unfortunately, my offer is the only one you have. None of these dear tieflings would have the ability to decipher runes of such perfidy... Unless you want to wait for the next devil kind enough to cross your path, I'll consider us even when the beast is dead. Soon, all will be concluded."

Without giving the adventurers time to respond, Raphaël simply disappeared. The corner from which he had stepped was once again invaded by obscurity, and the conversations around them resumed, as if the intrusion had never taken place.

"You could have told us that you intended to trade with a cambion!" Lae'zel spat.

"So you could have dissuaded me?" Astarion retorted. "Certainly not. It wasn't a choice you had to make. And besides, you should know that I have no regrets: these runes were engraved on my skin for a reason. If I can't understand them, my former master will find a new way to dominate me."

"You knew about this, didn't you Nymuë?" the priestress asked.

The musician turned to her comrade, who was patiently staring at her. There was no judgement in her voice, only observation. For the first time, Nymuë wondered what her relationship with Astarion looked like. She had been so careful not to think about it that she hadn't considered that it might be a source of confusion for those around them.

"Indeed," she admitted.

"So you let Astarion negotiate - for all of us! - a fight to the death, without even asking our opinion?" the githyanki hissed. "The pleasures of the flesh have made you lose your sense of responsibility!"

"And your anger has made you lose your ability to think," the dark elf replied. "I'd remind you that I didn't apply for the position of leader, you're free to take it. Secondly, it seems to me that you and Shadowheart are much more inclined to forgive my 'mistakes' when it comes to maintaining the status quo between the two of you! A responsible leader would have got bored of your bickering long ago. Do I make myself clear?"

Her three companions felt the blow: it was rare for Nymuë to be so pugnacious. Apart from a few outbursts here and there, she tended to be the voice of reason.

But ever since that famous night at the tiefling's party, the young woman had struggled to put her mask back on. That night, a part of her had been freed from her shackles. She had dared to express herself, to assert her desires rather than follow those of others. And since that side of her had been released, it had been difficult to keep under control.

The musician closed her eyes, all too aware of the silent reproaches of those around her. Shadowheart spoke again: "Do you think this devil will deliver on his promise if we kill the orthon?"

"Between a devil and a vampire, I trust the devil any day," the rogue assured. "Besides, we're the epitome of prudence, aren't we?"

"I suppose we've faced death together enough times to rely on each other. It would be dishonest of me to reproach you for thinking of your own interests, Astarion, when the call of my goddess comes. You can count on me."

"If we must add a demon to our list, then so be it," Lae'zel grumbled.

She hesitated for a moment, before adding: "I trust our leader."

"Well, perfect!" Astarion exclaimed cheerfully. "When we get close to Moonrise, we'll just have to poke around a bit, and kill a few people! What do you say, darling?"

Nymuë stared at her comrades in turn, surprised by their sudden profession of faith. It was as if every time she felt discouraged or pained, they took a back seat to show her that she could lean on them too. Her throat tightened; without really knowing why, she felt almost ashamed of her anger. She murmured: "I say neither this orthon nor Ketheric Thorm are ready for what's coming."

Chapter Text

That evening, the adventurers settled down on the outskirts of the Last Light Inn. The air was mild and strangely comforting compared to the darkness outside. It was a moment of calm that they wouldn't find again any time soon, once they were deep in these cursed lands.

Lae'zel and Shadowheart asked Astarion about his 'former master': who was he, and why had he marked him this way? The rogue told his story with great reluctance. He spoke in a low voice, wearing an austere expression, as if whispering Cazador's name was enough to make him appear. As soon as he was silent, his comrades stopped questioning the fight against the Orthon once and for all.

Their sympathy quickly faded, however, as the high elf took out a series of reddish vials from his bag: "I stocked up when we were with the goblins," he explained. "I'm glad I did, because it's neither in the Underdark nor in this cursed place that I could hunt properly..."

His eyes turned innocently to Nymuë: "It would have been a real shame if someone had to give up their neck on the way..."

"True," the dark elf nodded. "We would have missed you dearly."

The vampire draped himself in wounded pride, and the adventurers burst out laughing. Despite her amusement, the musician felt a wave of compassion: making so many provisions was proof of the malnutrition the rogue had suffered. It was ironic to think that he was perhaps in better health now - in the middle of this deadly region - than he had been all those years in Baldur's Gate. Gently, she approached him: "You spoke about your brothers and sisters with our comrades earlier... So there are others like you?"

Astarion laughed bitterly at the thought of his siblings. "Cazador sired seven spawns. He always insisted we were a family, even when he was carving scars into our flesh. I was one of his first. Some of the others came years later."

He remained quiet for a moment, his eyes fixed on the fog beyond the silver shield. "He was a monster to us all," he continued, "but did take special pleasure in my pain. He said my screams sounded sweetest."

The young woman took his hand, which seemed to surprise him. He examined their intertwined fingers with uncertainty.

"And now that I'm gone, I... I don't know. I pity the other six."

Nymuë turned her face towards the campfire. Pity, anger and regret ran through her, like old friends from the depths of her mind.

"That makes you a better person than I am," she murmured.

She stood up, feeling Astarion's fingers linger on hers. Her thoughts were already catching up with her.

She had never tried to find out what had become of Brindille or Aktas after she had fled The Shining Star. Had Lady Seri gone bankrupt? Had she punished the kobold for letting her escape? Unlike Astarion who could sympathise with the fate of the other spawns, she had lost all interest in those who had shared her life. It was as if, after Elyon's death, her feelings had been swept away by the wind, leaving only an immense void. An emptiness that not even Revan had been able to fill, despite his kindness. She respected the rogue for remaining capable of empathy. Perhaps, deep down, she was much more of a vampire than he was.

When they sat down around the fire, Nymuë was still lost in thought. Lae'zel sharpened her sword, and Shadowheart looked at Astarion with disgust as he drank from one of his personal flasks.

"All you need now is a straw," she spat.

"If you ask me nicely, I'll give you a taste."

"You're sickening, Astarion. I don't understand what Nymuë sees in you."

"She's probably enjoying his pretty face," interjected the githyanki with a disapproving click of her tongue.

"Let's hear what the lady has to say..."

"I'll pass; I'm wondering the exact same question."

"Allow me to hazard a guess in this case," the rogue purred. "It's my legendary modesty that makes you melt. It can never be praised enough! If I were you, I'd have been captivated in the blink of an eye."

The musician rolled her eyes, letting Shadowheart speak again: "Maybe this isn't the time to discuss personal matters..."

"Vlaakith, have mercy on me," Lae'zel hissed.

"... But I was wondering if you'd be willing to tell us more about your life as a performer, Nymuë?"

The joy in the air burst like a bubble, and the smile on the dark elf's lips faded. Instinctively, she tightened her arms around her knees.

"I'm not forcing you to anything," the priestess continued. "You never did. I think I just want to know more about you, if you don't mind."

"I don't know if there's much to tell."

"Although not very effective in battle, your music is pleasant," the warrior remarked.

The young woman searched for words. She had never spoken to anyone about her situation, and even Revan had given up questioning her. How could she explain what she had been until now? A ghost, a spectre like those hiding in these lands...

"As you know, my parents died when they reached the surface," she began. "The circus where my mother gave birth raised me... with the aim of creating an exceptional parade."

"Private concerts?" Shadowheart asked.

"No. A freak show."

A silence greeted her speech. Nymuë continued: "Other members and I were chosen according to our ability to stand out from the crowd. To be grotesque. The good people came to see us and... well... It did them good, I suppose, to take it out on us."

"Is that what you were told when you had to go on stage?"

"That's what we told ourselves, to give meaning to our humiliation. One day, there was an accident and... To put it simply, my mentor - Revan - found me in one of the caravans. He took me with him, and I started a new life. He taught me the art of haggling, and the one of survival. I decided to try my luck elsewhere... and the rest is history."

"How long?" Astarion demanded.

The dark elf stared at him: his gaze pierced her with a vigilance she knew only too well. He was finally putting into words the symmetry of their behaviour; finally hearing what her silences were screaming.

"Almost a hundred years," she answered without taking her eyes off him. "Then another fifteen at Baldur's Gate."

"I never imagined you could have been weak," the githyanki intervened.

"Lae'zel!" Shadowheart exclaimed furiously.

"Tch'k. You've got me wrong. What I mean is that Nymuë has overcome her condition. You can see it in our confrontations, or when she talks to our enemies. If she was once glass, she is now steel. A metal so sharp that I'm surprised some people have managed to break it in the past."

"Careful Lae'zel," Nymuë smiled. "You're going to make me blush."

"That wasn't the point. Accept the honours you're given, but don't tarnish them with vanity."

"You gith," the priestress sighed. "You can't express your sympathy like everyone else, can you?"

"My sympathy would do you no good," the warrior retorted. "But I can spill the blood of your foes, if you wish."

"Wonderful. Once you have rid yourself of your parasite, Nymuë, don't forget that you have now an ally ready to commit murder for you."

The dark elf watched Shadowheart and Lae'zel bicker, her heart strangely light. Her comrades had not pitied her. After exposing herself, she had expected to feel ashamed or angry, but this disparate team knew how to be delicate. Tonight, she had opened the drawer in which she had hidden. Her companions had simply looked inside, without validation or judgement. Leaving the contents untouched, they then closed its access.

She met Astarion's gaze and found him pensive: she knew that one question remained unanswered. The young woman had been careful not to mention Elyon. Perhaps, one day, she would feel able to share this pain. For now however, this drawer would remain sealed.

"My turn, I suppose," the priestess said suddenly.

"I'm getting sick of all these confessions," the rogue hissed.

"Don't expect me to take over," Lae'zel agreed.

"It won't take long, if you keep quiet! Lady Shar's presence is powerful here, and I can't help but feel... a pull. Something is calling me: I don't know if it's my goddess, or my destiny, but I'm convinced I'm in the right place. I think it's time I explained what motivates my faith."

Suddenly, Shadowheart let out a cry of pain: the wound on her hand flashed with a violet glow. The affliction ceased as suddenly as it had arrived. "Does this happen often?" Astarion asked.

"This injury... It never quite heals. It's my burden from Lady Shar. I can feel her influence, somehow."

"Why would your goddess subject you to such a thing?" the githyanki inquired, her eyebrows furrowed.

"I cannot say, not with what I can recall... But even then, it would not be for me to question her will. Pain is sacred to followers of Lady Shar... Sometimes I wonder if it's supposed to be guiding me, punishing me, testing me. Perhaps it's none of those, and completely random. Until my Mistress will reveal it to me, all I can do is endure."

The priestess fell silent, struggling to gather her thoughts. She clutched her wounded hand to her chest. "It's difficult to put into words," she sighed. "It might be easier to just show you..."

A brief shudder seized the adventurers, and their thoughts intertwined: the surrounding landscape disappeared. Instead, their eyes opened on dark woods. Neither stars nor moon lit up the sky. It was a memory, seen from their comrade's point of view. "I don't remember how it started," she murmured. "Only how it ended. I was fleeing…"

The Shadowheart in the vision was much younger than the one beside them. The hand she held to her face was small, a child's one at most. At that time, she had no injury... but her palms were covered in blood.

A wolf emerged from the undergrowth, a gigantic beast with yellow pupils focused on the little girl. The animal's body vibrated with intensity and it bared its fangs. A figure stepped in before it could attack. The child looked up at the strangest being she had ever seen.

The woman was masked, her face like that of a wax doll. Only her irises, darker than night, remained visible. She wore a magnificent dress, black and silver, which in places revealed the azure glow of her skin. A drow? When she knelt down to face the girl, she didn't seem hostile. Behind her, her comrades came out of the thicket to surround the wolf.

Shadowheart's memory faded; everything around this woman lost its substance, blurring the fight with the animal. The stranger removed her disguise. As one, the adventurers felt the priestess' excitement. Whoever this woman was, she had been a beginning, but it was not yet time to write the end. All they saw was darkness.

"She asked me my name," Shadowheart whispered. "I can't remember what I said. I can't remember anything before those woods. All I know is she saved my life, and gave me a new home... with Lady Shar."

The campfire came back into view, and their united consciousness redivided. The priestess watched them gravely: "That's all I remember," she admitted.

"No wonder you're so dedicated to Shar," Astarion said. "You feel like you owe her everything."

"Lady Shar. And yes: its thanks to her that I can be what I am today. I won't fail her."

"Thank you for sharing that with us," Nymuë murmured. "I imagine it can't have been easy."

The half elf gave her a warm smile: "Normally I'd agreed, but with you… it's getting easier by the moment."

"It's all natural," the rogue replied. "I'm the expert on lost souls."

Her companions were still protesting loudly when Nymuë went to lie down on her bunk; it was to the sound of their verbal sparring that she fell asleep.

The next morning, a Harper woke them up. The area around the tavern was silent. Dawn – if such a thing existed in this darkness - was just beginning to break.

"Jaheira is asking for you," he said soberly. "She's inside."

The adventurers sighed. Would they never get a real night's sleep, without responsibilities, dreams or imminent threats?

"We might as well go now," Nymuë grumbled. "Before she comes after us with her vines."

"What about our morning training?"

"Please, Lae'zel. Not now."

The small team headed for the Last Light Inn. The refugees had settled into the rooms available, and were being offered the precious rest their saviours had been deprived of. Jaheira stood at her desk: "There you are," she greeted them. "Sleep well ?"

An icy silence answered her. She smiled: "You probably deserved a longer halt, but alas, I couldn't wait. A convoy has been sighted not far from here. It's led by followers of the Absolute."

The news had the merit of rousing the adventurers. "My spies followed them along the main road. According to our estimates, they should pass near the inn."

"You want to ambush them," Lae'zel guessed.

"That's right. My men had to take every precaution to avoid the shadows, but they swore to me that the cultists had never been attacked, not even once. Whatever they're using to protect themselves, this convoy is carrying it with it. I'm in favour of stealing this asset."

"That's an excellent idea!" Shadowheart enthused.

"How many are there?" Nymuë asked.

"About eight people, mostly goblins. The only exception is their leader: the report mentions a drider."

A shiver ran down the dark elf's spine. During her research on Lolth, when she was hoping to learn more about her origins, this term had often come up. The image she had conjured up had given her nightmares for a week.

"Half-drows, half-spiders…" she informed her comrades. "Up to their waists, they're black elves. Below that, they have eight long legs. It's impossible to escape them, as their speed is formidable. They can also climb on any surface."

"A gift from Lolth?" Astarion scoffed.

"More like a punishment," Jaheira corrected. "The driders are dark elves who have displeased the Spider Queen. While sacrifice and murder are commonplace among the drows, she has more... imaginative methods."

"Has this drider turned away from Lolth to embrace the cult of the Absolute? This seems to be a constant. Minthara, Nere..."

"The Absolute spread from Moonrise Towers, and quickly found followers in the heart of the Underdark. By recruiting the wretched, the desperate and the dissatisfied, she was able to create a group of devotees, devoid of remorse."

"In other words, this drider would rather sacrifice himself with the artefact we seek than disappoint his new deity," Nymuë understood.

"Exactly. Here, stealth and cunning will be your best assets. My sentries are waiting for you near the bridge, outside the inn. They'll take you close to the main road. You'll have to strike decisively: don't give our enemies the chance to react."

"And what do we do if the shadows decide to join in the fun?" Astarion demanded.

Jaheira looked up at the top floor of the building: "You see, you're not our only secret weapon. Among us is Isobel, a faithful cleric of Selûne, and a light in the darkness."

"Selûne?" Shadowheart spat.

Nymuë gave her a warning glance, and the half elf - with difficulty - concealed her disgust. The veteran ignored this interruption: "She cast the moon shield around the inn. She's the only reason we're still alive."

"That includes you too, Shadowheart," Lae'zel taunted.

The priestess pursed her lips, angry and worried at the same time. Until now, she had received the blessing of her goddess as a token of her good graces. So, fraternising with the enemy… Wouldn't that be considered blasphemy?

"Isobel is upstairs in her chambers," Jaheira added. "Tell her I sent you and she'll see you through the shadows safely."

The adventurers took their leave and headed for the second floor. At its centre was a communal area leading to the various bedrooms. A bluish glow was visible under the landing of one of them.

"I suppose this is the place," Nymuë guessed.

"Let's go," the half elf agreed. "The sooner we're done with this, the better."

The companions announced themselves, but no one came to open the door. After a few seconds' hesitation, Lae'zel dismantled it with a flick of her shoulder. The room was spacious and rather impersonal, despite some signs of habitation. A pile of books lay on a desk; in one corner, a bed was half unmade. An almost completely burnt-out candle rested on a chest, next to an embroidered handkerchief. The fabric could have been a delightful piece of sewing... if it hadn't been covered in dark stains.

"Do you think it's ink?" Astarion asked in disgust.

"What else?" Shadowheart retorted. "Unless Selûnites are rotten from the inside..."

Nymuë moved towards the balcony at the other end of the room, where the silver light was coming from. A young woman was standing before an altar. The moon, still visible at such an early hour, was reflected on the protective dome. The priestess looked quite young, no more than thirty; her eyes were as pale as Nymuë's, and her hair even whiter. Finishing her prayer, Isobel stretched out her arms: two silver rays flew in the direction of the moon shield. For a moment, the adventurers saw their frail defence strengthened in the face of the darkness.

The peace of the instant was interrupted by a violent cough. The Selûnite took out a tissue and wiped her face; it was once again stained with black traces. "I didn't realise I had an audience," she murmured, turning around.

Who - Isobel or the adventurers - looked at the other with more curiosity, no one could say. She gave them a mocking smile: "The famous True Souls who are going to save us all! I'm Isobel. Pleased to meet you."

"Words get around fast," Astarion quipped.

"Small inn. We've been waiting for people like you for some time now. Free of the Absolute's influence, yet able to walk among cultists. It's almost too good to be true... But I'd be a poor cleric indeed not to avail of a blessing when I see one. Let me guess: Jaheira's sent you to beg a protection spell off her favourite Selûnite?

"Because there are others?" Shadowheart snorted.

The two women stared at each other, as opposed in their appearance as in their faith. Isobel grinned as she observed her colleague's attire: "There used to be more of us. But as usual, Shar couldn't help coveting what she couldn't have, and look what happened. But if you're here, it's to face a greater threat than the Mother of Misguidance. Proof that she at least knows how to choose her nasty little terrier."

The half elf had the good sense to contain her anger. Putting an end to the hostilities, Isobel cast an opalescent glow over the companions. They felt a sensation of warmth pushing the shadows out of their way... out of their mind.

"Perfect," she declared. "It'll make you immune to the lesser effects of the shadow curse. But they are places it won't help, where this disaster first began. The Moon Maiden's influence stops at the town of Reithwin."

"You seem to know the region well," the dark elf remarked. "What can you tell us about General Thorm?"

The priestess's expression darkened, betraying for a second a spark of emotion. Sadness, perhaps?

"Ketheric is a terrifying man," she replied. "But you have something he doesn't: allies worth trusting. Show him no mercy, for he will show you none. End this."

Nymuë nodded, seized with apprehension. Isobel's voice had trembled at the mention of the General. Her determination was tinged with sorrow; one darker than the ink covering her handkerchiefs.

Chapter Text

As the companions ventured beyond the shield, they realised that Isobel hadn't lied. There were ravenous shadows outside the Last Light Inn. Even in proximity to their refuge, Nymuë could sense their hunger. The creature's voracity followed them like a putrid breath at the back of their necks, biding their time.

Four Harpers greeted them as they crossed the stone bridge. Their leader - a wood elf named Branthos - came to meet them: "Jaheira informed us that you wish to reach Moonrise Towers. I have been ordered to help you."

"We're ready for the ambush," the dark elf said.

"I hope so. The road to the Towers passes through a darkness so deep that even torchlight cannot dispel it. And yet the cultists have found a way... Whatever this asset is, we must seize it."

"We came across duergars who spoke of a moon lantern..." the musician suggested.

"I doubt Selûne favours the Absolutists... It's stolen magic, no doubt."

"So what's the plan?" Lae'zel asked impatiently.

"The enemy convoy is expected to travel past old ruins not far from here. My men and I have already set some traps. The strategy is to hide and take them by surprise."

"Let's hope they don't destroy their protection during the attack," Astarion grumbled.

"Perhaps there's a more subtle way..." Nymuë mused. "You already know, I suppose, that we have an illithid tadpole?"

Branthos looked uncomfortable, scrutinising her as if tentacles could come out of her skull at any moment: "That's what I understood," he replied cautiously.

"We're not under its influence," Shadowheart reassured him. "However, it has sometimes helped us. If we pretended to be True Souls..."

"... You might get what we're looking for before we even launch the attack," the Harper agreed. "It's a good plan; the glyphs we've prepared are just begging to be triggered. We'll await your order."

With that, the battalion set off. The rubble around them was that of a once prosperous city; the Last Light Inn was just a small fragment of it. Amongst the brambles, chasms and mud, the adventurers could discern old dwellings frozen in mid-movement. Through a window, Nymuë saw a child's bed, covered with dolls and toys. They noticed tables dressed for a dinner that was never eaten, and a doghouse attached to a pile of bones.

There had been life here, before Ketheric Thorm.

After a bend, Branthos pointed to an imposing building. Harpers and adventurers operated strategically, some positioning on ledges and others under windows. Nymuë caressed the chains of her dagger; a slight roll was approaching.

The convoy was small, and just wide enough for raw materials... Three goblins and two orcs with a grumpy air surrounded it.

Leading the way was the drider.

He towered above all his warriors. His long spidery legs were as sharp as razors; Lolth, in all her cruelty, had a sense of pragmatism. Each limb, each joint, proved to be a deadly weapon.

Long white hair obscured his face, but not enough to hide his deformity. Five dark eyes, similar to those of a spider, adorned his forehead. They shone intensely in the light of a strange lantern.

Nymuë felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise: unlike Nere's device, this lantern seemed in perfect condition and was glowing brightly. This was their ticket to Moonrise!

"We bring more to your church every day, my Queen," the drider grumbled. "Your followers are legion."

His voice was guttural, as if his vocal cords were struggling to produce humanoid sounds. His fervour, on the other hand, was obvious... And all the while, the musician couldn't detect a tadpole.

The monster was serving the Absolute of his own free will. They were dealing with a fanatic. The slightest suspicion, the tiniest misstep... and their protection would vanish into the shadows.

"Your faithful stand ready, Majesty," the creature continued. "Soon we march. Soon the world will bow to you."

"Hey, web arse!" shouted one of the goblins. "Something moved up there!"

Nymuë turned around: behind her, a Harper was clinging with difficulty to the beam he had managed to climb. Leaving the safety of her hideout, she made her way alone towards the convoy.

"What's this?" the leader spat.

The musician concentrated on the goblin who had spotted them. In a commanding voice, she ordered: "Step back. Now."

The mark on the creature's face lit up. Nymuë fought against the euphoria that accompanied each use of her parasite: this time, she would control it. She suppressed its joyful cries, while the sentinel humbly submitted to her instructions. The drider's many eyes widened in surprise: "One of your True Souls, my Queen! Kar'niss is amazed. How has she survived?"

"It's not for you to question the gifts of the Absolute, nor those of her disciples," the young woman retorted.

"You blessed her too, my Queen? Where is her lantern?"

Kar'niss backed away, his eight legs sinking into the ground like stakes. He was agitating, gripping his lamp so tightly that it trembled. The dark elf could see his fever, his desire to be his sovereign's only chosen; perhaps there was a card to play here.

"Her Highness guided me to you; she told me that you were her most treasured child. The one she had appointed to hand over her lantern to me, so that her design could be fulfilled."

"Majesty? Is... is this true? Did we not serve you well? We can fulfil your will without her help!"

His movements were now erratic, his lips curled over his sharp teeth. Nymuë watched in horror as his subordinates slowly drew their weapons. "You have misunderstood me, First Disciple: it is not I that the Absolute acclaims. I am but a messenger. It is your action, your adoration that has made my mission possible."

"Did she... see us? Does Her Majesty know that we have worked for her, for her kingdom?"

Emotions flashed across his face. For a second - a terrible second - he seemed close to the person he must once have been. The young woman stifled a retch and let her parasite dictate her next words: "In Her Name," she said slowly.

Kar'niss smiled; he looked at her as if she had just appeared out of the heavens. The hand holding the lantern relaxed. His eight legs curled up as he bowed deeply: "For you, my Queen," he whispered.

Nymuë took the lamp. Behind the drider, orcs and goblins also knelt down. "Return to where you came from," she commanded them. "Wait in the Underdark. When the Absolute reigns over this lands, she will call for you."

Kar'niss raised his head to pledge allegiance... when suddenly, the glyphs placed by the Harpers exploded. Four concentric circles appeared around the worshippers, releasing a torrent of flames. The blast struck Nymuë, sweeping her away like a straw! She and the lantern would have fallen into an abyss, if it hadn't been for Lae'zel.

Blood pounded in her ears. The power of the ultrasound was surpassed only by the cultists' screams. The musician briefly distinguished a few figures running through the inferno, but the largest, with his eight long legs, remained motionless. Kar'niss's many eyes stared up at the sky in despair as his body was consumed.

The last howls died away quickly. The dark elf limped towards Branthos: "What were you thinking?" she shouted. "I had sent them miles away! They were going to leave!"

"For how long?" the Harper retorted. "His people killed countless numbers of my men, and without any hesitation! Why bother sparing them?"

"Those deaths were pointless! They won't bring back your comrades, and you took the risk of signalling our position! If the cultists come to investigate..."

"Let them come," Branthos hissed.

"Jaheira hired you to help us recover the moon lantern," Shadowheart intervened. "Not to organise a personal vendetta."

"Not to mention that your little explosion almost destroyed the lantern and its bearer," Astarion added. "That would have been a real waste of magic. And of our leader, of course."

The Harpers gathered together. "You have your lantern," Branthos spat, "and the servants of the Absolute are dead. This mission is a success."

"We should go back to the Last Light Inn," said one of his companions. "Report to Jaheira..."

"Yes, go ahead," Lae'zel replied. "We've had enough cowardice for today."

Nymuë was struggling to breathe, still reeling from the surprise attack. Shadowheart attended to her burns. After searching the charred bodies, Branthos and his men left without a glance for the adventurers.

"Damned idiots!" Nymuë bellowed.

"You should be more concerned about yourself than a few dead cultists," the rogue responded. "Your good heart will be our downfall. This Branthos is an imbecile, but he's right about one thing: this massacre wasn't our problem."

"Nor was it necessary!" the young woman protested.

"You're a survivor," Lae'zel declared. "You know perfectly that this kind of sentimentality has no place here."

The dark elf held her tongue, letting her fury tinge with bitterness. Was she too emotional in treating the followers of the Absolute as victims? Was she putting her companions in danger by showing mercy? Their combat against Nere had proven that she wasn't a symbol of purity, far from it; yet, she couldn't help fighting that part of herself that wanted to let go. It would be too easy to attack anyone who got in her way. But she refused to be what the world expected of her; she wouldn't sow the seeds that Lady Seri had planted in her childhood. Neither heroine nor murderer: she would be something else.

"Holy patriars' pourch!," Shadowheart exclaimed. "Something's moving in there!"

She pointed to the lantern: inside, emitting a light so bright that it was blinding, stood a little pixie.

"A fairy!" Astarion cried with delight. "A real fairy!"

"Oh please, oh golly, me-oh-my!" the creature chirped. "You must release me or I'll die! This lantern only lights the way, when I'm hurting night and day!"

"She's talking in rhyme," Lae'zel grumbled. "Of course she does."

"What's your name?" Nymuë asked.

The pixie eyed her suspiciously, and the musician held back a laugh. She was well aware of the immense power of names in Faerie... Elyon herself had never revealed her real surname to her.

"My name? My name is Dolly thrice," she finally answered. "Now, won't you free me from this vice?"

"I need help with this curse." the dark elf negotiated. "If I free you, will you take us through the shadows?"

"You can't be serious darling! Are you really going to release our safe-conduct?"

"My dear Astarion, you should know that fairies attach great importance to services rendered. They are always rewarded..."

The vampire snorted, unconvinced. The pixie squeaked again: "It would be my pleasure, truly! Once I'm freed I'll help you duly."

Under the exasperated gaze of her comrades, Nymuë opened the lamp's door. Dolly Thrice flapped her wings as she escaped from her prison. "FINALLY!" she exclaimed. "Been trapped in that coffin with no one but a mad drider and my own farts for company..."

"No more rhymes?" Shadowheart scoffed.

"Uh-huh. Did me a good turn there, didn't you. What do I owe you?"

"We must cross the curse where the shadows are at their strongest. Could you help us?"

"I can... But do I want to? Oh, yes I do! But only two of you will benefit from my donations, because the other half already has a benediction."

Instinctively, the priestess and the musician looked at each other: was the pixie alluding to their strange immunity?

"The daughter of darkness knows who protects her, but have you forgotten, Snow Flower?"

Nymuë's eyes widened. Souvenirs gripped her violently, and she didn't realise that her parasite was manifesting itself again, connecting her mind to that of her companions. A green-eyed little fairy appeared in her memory. Arms around her waist in a shared bed inside a caravan. Emerald and golden wings unfurled in a trapeze act. A sigh after yet another humiliating performance. The promise of a better tomorrow.

A crowd. A knife reserved for another.

"I can protect you too," Elyon's voice whispered like an echo.

"No!" the dark elf breathed.

The scene had changed; she was back in that cave, her hands covered in blood.

"I saw a setting sun and a river on fire. I saw a sky full of rocks and stars. And there was a city, a big one; some people were laughing, others were crying."

"SHUT UP!" Nymuë shouted.

She recoiled abruptly, as the cursed lands, the remains of the lantern and her companions reappeared. A hand touched her shoulder, which she pushed away. Ignoring the pixie's shrill laughter, the young woman searched in her bag and took out a purple satin pouch, shining with a translucent glow.

"Fairies have a very rare ability, for those who are lost in obscurity!" the creature sang.

"Nymuë," Shadowheart murmured. "I'm really sorry about..."

"Not a word," she roared. "Don't say her name. Don't say anything at all."

She was breathing heavily, struggling to regain control. With a sharp tug, she broke the tadpole's connection.

"For the rest of you, the promise is granted. March through the shadows undefeated!"

An intense glow enveloped Lae'zel and Astarion. The vampire regarded the light warily, while the githyanki pursed her lips at this foreign magic. Without hesitation, Dolly Thrice disappeared into the night.

The adventurers glanced uneasily at their leader. Nymuë had her back to them. The day before, she had already opened up with fear. But this? This brutal and shameless exposure? It was not a choice; her memories had imposed themselves on her and - by extension – on her surroundings. She hadn't had the luxury of being prepared.

She silently packed away the bag containing Elyon's ashes and walked down the main road. She let Lae'zel and Astarion take the lead, while Shadowheart ensured their direction. She remained quiet.

The path gave way to muddy ground, littered with bones and rusty weapons. On them, they recognised the symbols of the Harpers and the Dark Justiciars. The ancient battle that Jaheira told them about - the one she and Ketheric Thorm had fought - had taken place here. The songs evoked the bravery of the combatants and the justice guiding their arms. Very few mentioned the curse preventing these soldiers from having a decent burial. After a hundred years, only the dead still bore witness to the events.

They stopped once they had passed what looked like a tollgate; the stone building was gigantic, and contained goods from all over the world. Here, precious gems from Thay; there, silk produced in Waterdeep... This checkpoint must have been bustling with life in the past, when the region was still flourishing. How sad that misery had replaced the effervescence.

Beyond their makeshift shelter, a huge facade dominated the desolate landscape. Moonrise Towers were only a few hours' walk away, finally within reach. A faint light emanated from them. The cultists had also found a way to protect their headquarters from the curse.

Dolly Thrice had kept her word: all along the way, the shadows had thickened without threatening the companions. Nymuë had remained silent, speaking only to point the group in a new direction.

The day's events weighed heavily on her heart. More than sadness, she felt anger towards the last person worthy of her grievances: Elyon. Why, when she was on her deathbed, had she chosen to protect her? Why hadn't she saved her own life instead? Did she really think that her noble sacrifice would spare her sorrow or loneliness?

"I saw a setting sun and a river on fire. I saw a sky full of rocks and stars..." A vision. Elyon had chosen to sacrifice herself for a stupid, ridiculous vision. Had she witnessed her abduction on the Nautiloid, or the rise of the Absolute, Nymuë didn't know. It was true that their small team was fighting forces far too powerful for them... As if they were the epicentre of a tornado. But despite all this, they were just a bunch of individuals struggling for survival. They weren't heroes, and they had no desire to save the world. In the place of the gods, Nymuë certainly wouldn't have bet on herself. It was stupid that Elyon had agreed to die for that.

Finishing setting up her tent, the young woman sat down in front of her improvised dressing table. The mirror reflected a tired expression, tarnished by memories.

"Do you like what you see?"

She jumped; without making the slightest sound, Astarion had slipped inside her shelter. He was even more discreet than a thief! The musician flinched as her eyes fell on the mirror. No, it was more than just stealth; the rogue simply had no reflection.

"How?" she murmured.

He laughed bitterly: "Another quirk of my affliction."

The dark elf didn't know that vampires couldn't see their own images. How on earth had Astarion managed to conceal it for almost two hundred years? It was a miracle. She wondered what it felt like. To note his absence in every window, as if he had vanished. To no longer be able to anchor himself in reality with a simple glance, gone from the world of the living...

"Do you miss it?" she asked. "Seeing your face, I mean."

For a moment, her companion seemed surprised. He knelt down beside her, but Nymuë only saw her own gaze in the mirror. Astarion studied the movement of her grey irises, detailing the space that he should have occupied.

"Preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity? Of course I miss it. I've never even seen this face. Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red."

"What colour were they before?"

The rogue frowned, as if concentrating. "I... I don't know," he admitted. "I can't remember. My face is just some dark shape in my past."

He turned away, clenching his fists: "Another thing I've lost."

Nymuë studied each of his features intensely. His piercing ruby eyes, with their predatory aura... and something like a fragile, flickering sparkle. She also observed his smile, brandished like a shield. The young woman had noticed that her companion regularly put on a mask to blend in, while his genuine laughter was much rarer. During these moments, his amusement caused his lips to part and his fangs to show. He then seemed almost... juvenile.

She examined the square lines of his jaw, the unnatural pallor of his skin, the silver of his hair. She almost giggled: for heaven's sake, without a mirror, how many hours a day did he spend styling his hair?

"What?" he questioned.

"I see you," she replied simply.

"And what do you see, exactly?"

The dark elf pretended to think: "I began my thoughts with your strong, piercing eyes..."

"Oh," he appreciated. "Go on."

"... Then I continued with that dangerous smile..."

"Very good. Now just tell me I'm beautiful and we can call it a day."

"... And in my conclusion, you're no match for Shadowheart, even if you're pretty good."

He put on an indignant air, forcing her to hold back a laugh. "How dare you!" he exclaimed theatrically. "And I thought we had something special!"

"Competition never hurts," Nymuë grinned.

"That's true. Let's see how I can defend myself..."

He raised his hand towards her and placed a lock of hair behind her ear. His movements were cautious, devoid of his usual confidence. He watched her: "You always look pensive. Kind. Sometimes to the point of being simplistic."

"That's not a compliment at all!" the musician protested.

"Hush, now. You're made of steel, too. Your lines reflect your survival. Every battle, every day."

"So... I have wrinkles."

He tapped her on the forehead. "They only disappear when you play music. Then, you almost seem... serene."

He hesitated for a second, before adding: "In your memories, the little girl had the same expression. You were her violin."

Nymuë felt her hand close around his. She fought against the instinct to push him away and end the conversation. Instead, she took a deep breath. "Ironic," she said in a falsely amused voice. "Your observations don't match with what people say about drows."

"I don't see you as a drow," he retorted.

The musician didn't understand. Everyone had always seen her as a drow. They looked at her without even considering that there might be something else. If that wasn't what he perceived... then what else? When she met his gaze, Astarion simply smiled. "Good night, Nymuë," he told her.

The young woman then realised that she didn't know why he had come in the first place. She dared not ask him; in the mirror, it was as if the canvas of her shelter had been moved by a gust of wind.

Chapter Text

Up close, Moonrise Towers partially disappeared through the clouds. The main edifice had been built in a square form, and was almost three storeys high. The second tower was smaller, and followed the rampart to a private port. The huge stone bridge at the entrance allowed horses and carts to pass through: a remnant of when this place could still be visited.

During their journey, the adventurers had wondered where the power of the Absolute could be hiding. They quickly came to the conclusion that it must be in a discreet place, concealed from most of the cultists; undoubtedly, few of them would appreciate the true origin of their devotion... The catacombs or prisons seemed a good starting point for their research.

"Our main target remains Ketheric," Nymuë reminded.

"Darling, it would be ridiculous to miss the opportunity of controlling such a useful cult..."

"You won't be controlling anything, Astarion, if the general gets between you and our objective," Lae'zel retorted.

"Not to mention that his whole army will be on guard," Shadowheart added. "Better to investigate and eliminate the mastermind first."

The rogue sighed, disappointed once again by his teammates' lack of ambition. They were always so cautious! A little chaos had never hurt anyone...

As True Souls, the companions hoped to have the occasion to snoop around and observe the enemy's military strategy. Two zealots stopped them as they finished crossing the bridge: "Not a step further!" said one of them.

Their parasite manifested at once. As they approached the Towers, the adventurers had sensed its impatience growing; Halsin hadn't been mistaken.

Nymuë and her comrades submitted to the guard's inspection: "I see you're blessed," he said. "What news from the field?"

"Everything's calm," the dark elf replied. "And inside?"

"Disciple Balthazar went off on a mission, and Z'rell is in charge 'til he gets back. You'll find her in the audience chamber, True Souls. She'll be wanting to hear from you."

"Praise the Absolute!" Astarion concluded.

The musician glanced at him. The influence of their tadpole was like an ocean: constantly changing, and deceptive. Yet, the vampire was bathing in it, revelling in their little comedy. When he had insinuated that they should take over the cult of the Absolute the night before, Lae'zel and Shadowheart hadn't taken him seriously. For her part, Nymuë was more wary of his thirst for greatness. Announce a free buffet, and the first to rush will always be the hungry.

"I long to draw my sword and slaughter every last one of those cultists," the githyanki hissed as they entered a vast hall.

The dark elf looked around nervously, but no one seemed to have heard her. The entrance was so crowded that their words were drowned out by the hubbub. The faithful of the Absolute had gathered from all over the world: warriors, merchants, all social classes and all trades were represented. The Absolute had chosen her disciples with frightening efficiency.

"Restrain yourself," the priestess warned. "Some adepts are more useful to us alive."

"I know how to control my impulses, Shadowheart. But when the time comes, they will feel my blade."

On the other side of the room, two large doors led to the audience chamber. They weren't the only ones who wanted to meet the famous Ketheric Thorm; when the zealots escorted them inside, protests erupted from everywhere. The small team moved diligently towards their meeting...

The hall where they were welcomed was small. A few soldiers stood guard near what was to be the day's session. Sitting on the throne, towering over his subordinates, was a man who hovered between life and death.

Ketheric Thorm's presence left no doubt as who was the master of the house. The composure of his stance, the calm of his face; he exuded such authority that Nymuë wasn't surprised that he had discouraged death itself.

And yet... his figure looked prematurely aged. His cold eyes gauged his underlings without seeing them. A general, a strategist, a warrior whose arm served punishment: that was all what remained of him. But what had become of the leader, the legendary fighter who inspired the masses, the guardian of justice in these lands? That individual seemed to have perished long ago.

"We did as we were told, general! Followed every order we were given!"

The sentries parted, allowing the adventurers to catch sight of a group of goblins kneeling before the throne. With horror, the musician recognised those they had questioned near the abandoned village. Had they heard about the poisoning that had wiped out their camp? Had they witnessed the battle of the Emerald Grove? One thing was certain, they knew their faces...

Standing straight behind Ketheric, a half-orc spoke up: "The facts suggest otherwise. You were ordered to retrieve the artefact, you failed to do so!"

"Failed? No, no, it was Minthara! We were at the village, Your Majesty! We didn't..."

"Enough!"

A wave of energy surrounded the goblins, filling the entire room. In the corner of their minds, the companions' parasite begged them to submit. This woman, probably disciple Z'rell, knew how to master her tadpoles's abilities. This was going to complicate their mascarade!

"You have failed on every level," she continued. "You do not deserve to live."

"Please, general," one of them begged. "Have mercy!"

As if waking from a long sleep, Ketheric Thorm gestured towards the newcomers. Zealots and goblins alike immediately turned in their direction. Nymuë's parasite urged her to bow before the general's implacable gaze. She forced herself to remain unyielding.

"Let our newest True Souls speak," the master of the house ordered.

The three goblins were staring at them with wide eyes, when the one in the middle let out a high-pitched scream. Ketheric noted this reaction: "You have seen what these creatures are capable of, and you have seen their inadequacies, isn't that so? What is your judgement?"

The dark elf swallowed. The goblins looked at her in despair, their hands joined. She said: "I saw the atrocities they committed in the Absolute's name."

There was nothing in the general's expression to indicate whether or not this was the right answer. Still impassive, he pursued his interrogation: "No doubt they were extremely... enthusiastic. But zeal, without efficiency, is anaemic. We are too close to the ending... and the new beginning. I can coddle failure no longer."

He rose, giving Nymuë a chance to observe the details of his armour: the steel chainmail cut like a ribcage; the knee pads depicting a golden skull, surrounded by a triangle; and finally, the purple gem at the centre of his chest, connecting the various elements together.

"Kill them," he commanded his advisor. "Quickly."

The goblins whined, and the zealots drew their weapons. One of the creatures glared at Ketheric with hateful eyes: "You creaking old bag of shit!" she yelled.

Snatching the axe from one of the cultists, she threw it with all her might at the general. A perfect aim, which harpooning him to the throne. Nymuë watched their enemy in shock: a blow like this would have split a less massive individual in two. Ketheric's chest slowly turned red, and the goblins roared joyously.

Too soon. And too optimistic.

The general opened his eyes again. Without even glancing at his tattered torso, he withdrew the axe and stood up. His dislocated body was restored in an instant.

Nymuë had already seen a marionette show one winter, at Baldur's Gate. They moved their mechanical limbs regardless of rain, wind or snow, to the delight of the spectators. One of the oldest models had dislocated its leg during a pirouette, but had continued to spin as if nothing had happened. Ketheric Thorm seemed as unaffected as that machine... He was animated to give the illusion of life, but alive he was no longer.

"I'm so sorry, my lord," Z'rell murmured uneasily. "She's an unbeliever, outside of my control."

The general approached the goblin. Slowly, he dropped the axe: "Try again," he told her.

Fear took over the creature's face, and she grapped the weapon at her feet. This time, she plunged it straight into her opponent's neck. Nymuë felt her companions tremble as they watched the man nonchalantly reposition his own vertebrae. Was this the power of the Absolute?

The calm of the zealots indicated that they weren't witnessing this scene for the first time. A scream filled the room when Ketheric, tired of this demonstration, crushed the goblin's skull with his bare hands. The guards immediately sprang into action. Soon, the floor of the court chamber was covered in blood.

"Put those True Souls to use," the general ordered his disciple. "You have far more important matters to attend to... or have you forgotten?"

"Of course not, my lord," Z'rell murmured. "Thank you."

Servants entered the room stealthily to clean up the massacre. The councillor quickly regained her composure: "General Thorm will now retire for his prayers and preparations. The rooftop is off-limits to everyone. Keep watch and ensure that nobody passes."

Her gaze then fell on the adventurers, whom she invited to approach: "Excellent timing, True Souls. You had the honour of witnessing those wretches' elimination."

Nymuë tried not to show her disgust.

"If General Thorm had asked me , I could have destroyed them with a single thought," the half-orc regretted. "That would have been delicious... Thanks to the Absolute, the desires of the mind can overcome those of the flesh. I have already been blessed to stand in Her presence. It was bliss. She gave me everything I wanted."

"What do you mean?" Shadowheart demanded.

"To take without asking, to feel without doubting, and to kill without consequence. In a word, freedom."

"Fascinating," Astarion smiled. "Can you show us?"

The vampire had trouble hiding his admiration, despite the disaproving looks from his comrades. Z'rell, on the other hand, seemed delighted by his enthusiasm: "Oh, why not? What's the point in power if you don't get to have a little fun every now and again? The Absolute gave me the gift to cut the thread of life with a thought."

She crossed her fingers and an intense violet light materialised between her palms. At the same moment, a retainer groaned in pain; he staggered, his limbs trembling. Z'rell clapped her hands, and a spray of blood spurted from the servant's eyes. He collapsed, dead, at the feet of his terrified colleagues.

Nymuë clenched her fists: if she hadn't witnessed Ketheric Thorm's power, she would gladly have thrown herself at his advisor. This woman's sadism was equalled only by her contempt for the lives of her subordinates. A contempt that Astarion must have shared somehow, for he applauded joyfully. The musician knew how seductive this power could be. It made you feel invincible, to the point of believing that the world, and its inhabitants, had no choice but to bow to your will.

But in truth, it blinded you; its aura was so dazzling that it eclipsed the leash insidiously sliding around your neck. The rogue would do well to remember that.

"I can caress as well as cut," Z'rell whispered. "That's why you should stay on my good side. And the best way to do that is to serve General Thorm. I have a mission for you."

"We're here to help," Nymuë replied obediently. "What do we need to do?"

"There is a relic that the General requires. He sent his most trusted advisor, disciple Balthazar, to retrieve it. It's beneath the Thorm family mausoleum; that is where you will find Balthazar. But we have lost contact with him. Go there, aid him if you can, and bring the relic home."

The adventurers looked at each other, united by the same thought: the mausoleum was where the orthon they had to kill was... If what Raphael had told them was true, then the so-called Balthazar had probably come up against something stronger than him.

"What if Balthazar's dead?" Lae'zel questioned cautiously.

"Death would not silence him for long. Whatever has become of him, it is the relic that matters."

"And what is it, exactly?" Shadowheart asked.

Z'rell's frowned: she almost seemed nervous, as if the mere mention of this object made her feel uncomfortable. "It is something that General Thorm desires, and that he has ordered us to retrieve," she answered hastily. "That is all you need to know."

"I'm sure a disciple as loyal as you can tell us more," Nymuë said with a fake smile. "And any additional information will be useful to satisfy the General as quickly as possible..."

"I am... in awe of the power the relic must hold to be of such importance," she admitted. "Our troops have been ready for weeks, but General Thorm will not leave Moonrise without it."

The dark elf nodded thoughtfully: this was their chance to delve further into the cult's business. If Ketheric wanted this artefact so badly, it must be priceless... Something similar to their astral prism, perhaps? Or maybe an instrument directly related to his immortality...

"You can count on us," she declared. "We'll leave first thing tomorrow, once we've filled up."

"You'll find food and a place to sleep on the first floor. However, the shadows around the mausoleum are deep and hungry. You will need a moon lantern to survive them."

The companions realised that, from a stranger's point of view, the blessing granted by Dolly Thrice must be invisible. And it would certainly be in very bad taste to inform their interlocutor of the attack on a certain convoy...

"You're free to help yourself in Balthazar's chambers," Z'rell continued. "But don't pry. The last person who snooped into his secrets lost their head. Literally. Balthazar has been using them as a chamber pot ever since."

The adventurers acquiesced, barely containing their excitement; this Balthazar, whoever he was, was important enough for Ketheric to send him on a mission personally...

And they had just been accorded an official visit to his private quarters.

A zealot escorted them upstairs to an isolate room. The surroundings were deserted, not to say avoided. When the guard closed the heavy wooden door behind them, the adventurers quickly understood why.

Balthazar's office looked exactly like a torture chamber: blood stains covered the floor, and a number of hard-to-identify organs were kept in jars. The smell made the companions' stomachs turn, and even Astarion - despite his penchant for haemoglobin- had to pinch his nose. Ustensils were hanging on the wall, among bookshelves describing in detail the anatomy of the different species of Faerun. Shadowheart pointed to a work table, where alchemical instruments, divination stones and dark pentacles were piled up. This Balthazar was a necromancer. A dubious branch of magic, drawing its source from corpses and other decomposing entities.

"No wonder he and Ketheric get along so well," Astarion grumbled. "An immortal general must be fascinating for someone in his profession."

"Is that why he's invulnerable?" Nymuë asked.

"I don't think so," the priestess replied. "Such power is beyond the knowledge of a single man. His experiments, however, may have led the general in the right direction..."

As they approached the large secretary in the centre of the room, the adventurers made a macabre discovery once again. Next to a moon lantern - the very one Z'rell expected them to take - lay the bloody remains of a pixie. The creature had been carefully dissected.

"This cult is full of degenerates," the dark elf hissed. "Still impressed by their gifts, Astarion?"

"Darling, sometimes you have to get your hands dirty to achieve anything. If defeating death meant drawing rainbows and petting bunnies, everyone would do it."

The musician was about to retort sharply when a scream of rage made her turn around. Ignoring the bones and other questionable residues at her feet, Lae'zel crossed the room towards a cluttered shelf.

"Shka'keth!" she cried. "Where did he find that?"

Several objects were stacked on top of each other. They were unlike anything Nymuë had ever seen. One of them, small and hollow, reminded her of a whistle; two others, disc-shaped, were engraved with strange markings.

"These are githyankis," the warrior explained. "My people crafted them!"

The companions drew closer: what were gith artefacts doing on the Material Plane, in the midst of the shadow curse? From the little Lae'zel had told them, they knew that the gith lived on rock formations scattered throughout the Astral Plane. This was the source of their vast knowledge. Their presence in Faerun had already been noted on numerous occasions, but nothing was known about their customs. Had the Absolute's interest in their prism led her to attack some of their patrols?

"They were here," Lae'zel guessed, as she examined the first disc. "These markings are what we call tir'su. It is our writing."

"What does it say?" Shadowheart demanded.

The warrior gave her an inscrutable look: "This message mentions githyanki troops on a mission in this territory... to find the artefact. To find us."

"Does your people know who we are?" Nymuë inquired.

"Not directly; they just know that the thief is from this world. They'll never stop hunting us until they get what they want. This order comes from Vlaakith herself!"

"And I suppose you intend to take the prism back to your queen?" the priestess provoked.

To the dark elf's great surprise, the warrior shook her head: "No. It is now very clear that the artefact is connected to the cult of the Absolute, and therefore to the ghaik. If my sovereign wants to recover it, it's certainly to stop what the illithids call the 'Grand Design'. I will carry out Vlaakith's will, but not blindly. I want to discover how these fanatics were able to defeat an entire squad of highly-trained githyankis!"

"And what exactly is this?" Astarion asked, pointing to the whistle. Lae'zel's eyes lit up: "This ... is a qua'nith, a psionic beacon. When silver swords get lost in unknown territory, they can use this device to alert their creche. If it works, my people should be able to find us!"

The warrior stared at them, euphoric: Nymuë could see the hope on her face. Separated from her family for several weeks, Lae'zel was eager to call on the githyanki's knowledge. The group had already turned away from the nearest creche in order to head to Moonrise Towers; it would be cruel to deny her this new opportunity.

"Can you guarantee that your people won't just slit our throats?"

"You can't be serious!" Shadowheart protested. "If they don't kill us immediately, the gith will take the artefact, which is just the same!"

"My kin will listen to me," Lae'zel assured. "And since you're with me, you will not be harmed. I'm willing to overlook your crime, Shadowheart, but we must do everything we can to defeat the ghaik threat!"

"If we learn more about the astral prism, we'll be better prepared to defend ourselves against the Absolute..." Astarion suggested.

Nymuë reflected, hardly able to ignore the glances of her companions. On one hand, the gith weren't known for their friendliness. On the other hand, Lae'zel had proved her worth as an ally since the beginning of this adventure. The musician was more than inclined to trust her. They had seen the power of the Absolute with their own eyes, and an army was coming…

They could not face the cult alone. Even if Jaheira's Harpers came to their rescue, they would be outnumbered.

"Very well," she decided. "Let's see if this qua'nith works."

Shadowheart sighed, but didn't argue any further. Lae'zel raised the device to her lips without making the slightest sound. It must have had some effect however, because she quickly smiled: "Now all we have to do is wait for a patrol to spot us."

"If they don't kill us first," the priestess sneered.

"Look on the bright side," Astarion quipped. "If your goddess really has big plans for you, you shouldn't die."

"And if the githyankis slaughter us, we won't have to face your orthon."

The rogue grimaced at this backlash. Ignoring her comrades, Nymuë pointed to the second disc: "Can you translate this one too, Lae'zel?"

The gith complied and, almost immediately, her good mood disappeared. Her skin paled and her eyes widened. "What's going on?" the dark elf worried. "Tell us!"

"It can't be true..."

The warrior dropped the tablet as if it had burnt her; when she turned around, her companions saw her bewilderment. "This disc is a report on the astral prism... and its origins."

"Oh!" Astarion exclaimed. "So what? Where did it come from?"

"It once belonged to the greatest traitor the githyankis have ever known. The one who had dared to rebel against Vlaakith in the darkest hours of our history... Orpheus, Prince of the Comet."

Chapter Text

Nymuë had always considered Lae'zel a force of nature. Even after she found herself lost in a strange world, far from her people and infected by a parasite, the warrior remained an unshakeable pillar of their team, on and off the battlefield.

However, the mere mention of this former prince - Orpheus - was enough to make her lose her temper. She paced back and forth in Balthazar's office, unable to control her anger.

"This text is heresy!" she cried. "An affront to the Undying Queen!"

"Calm down, Lae'zel. What does it say?"

The name Orpheus meant nothing to the three Baldurians, nor did the slightest allusion to a gith rebellion. For centuries, these people had been enslaved by illithids, until their first sovereign - from whom they took their name - freed them. On her death, the very first Vlaakith replaced her, and all the queens who succeeded her were thus called. But none of the rare treaties had ever mentioned the existence of a prince.

"It is said that when Mother Gith passed away, the kith'rak jhe'stil Voss pierced her son through with his silver sword. Orpheus, the Prince of the Comet, was then dismembered and fed to Ephelomon, his great red dragon. Such is our history, as it has been lived and taught. Commander Voss is still one of Vlaakith's most loyal warriors today."

"What does this have to do with our artefact?" Astarion asked.

"The astral prism is the subject of a prophecy made by hshar'lak, traitors opposed to Vlaakith's reign.

The Prince of the Comet is not dead.

The Prince of the Comet will come again

The Prince of the Comet will liberate us from Vlaakith's tyranny.

All lies. Propaganda designed for the gullible!"

"Why was Orpheus eliminated by your people?" Nymuë inquired. "As a descendant of Gith, shouldn't he have inherited the throne?"

"He wasn't worthy of it! His power was unequaled: he could bring a thousand githyankis to their knees with a single word. But he was unable to tolerate the sacrifice of the first sovereign. To free us from our ghaik oppressors, Mother Gith forged an alliance with the dragon Tiamat, in the Hells. Gith remained there, and her emissary proclaimed Vlaakith as the next queen."

"Which his son didn't like," Astarion guessed.

Lae'zel nodded: "At the head of his honour guard, he attempted a coup against Vlaakith, the first of her name. History tells us that the kith'rak Voss vanquished him in a terrible battle. Orpheus got his nickname because of his incredible psionic strength, leaving a shimmering trail in the sky when he rode his dragon. But the Prince of the Comet was also fascinated by the powers of the ghaik, and this greed almost led my people to their downfall."

"Do you think the artefact contains... a fragment of Orpheus' gift?" Shadowheart exclaimed

"It's either that, or a weapon designed by the prince during his revolt..."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Nymuë tempered. "You seem to forget that an entity lives inside this prism: our night visitor. They have never expressed the desire to lead a githyanki mutiny."

"This guardian isn't showing their true self," Astarion retorted.

"And they're encouraging us to use our tadpole..." the priestess continued.

The companions exchanged a knowing look: "Whatever their intentions, we have no choice but to go along with them," the musician resumed. "If the astral prism contains even a fraction of Orpheus's abilities, it could explain why it protects us from our parasites' influence... And why the Absolute seeks it. Imagine, if it could multiply the power of illithid worms?"

"The Grand Design," Lae'zel whispered. "The end of free will, on this Plane as on all the others. Illithids' perfect rule."

"If your people find us, perhaps we can figure out a solution. After all, your kin have already defeated the mind flayers! But in the meantime, we cannot allow the cultists to find this artefact."

The adventurers acquiesced, their faces darkening: it would have been nice to have simple answers for once... But their discoveries only increased their questions. And the number of threats they faced.

Back on the main floor, the companions decided to head for the dormitories. Most of the rooms were packed, but their status as True Souls allowed them to negotiate a secluded spot, large enough to pitch their tents. A real godsend... except for its awful smell.

"What is that horror?" Shadowheart winced. "It stinks like molten metal mixed with intestines..."

"Blood," Astarion informed them. "Seriously tainted, if I may say so."

The adventurers made their way to the adjoining chambers. The storage room next to their resting place was lit by a few candles. A large desk had been pushed in front of an old fireplace. Leaning over the stills, a dark elf was preparing concoctions; this was the source of the putrid aroma.

She turned to them at the sound of their footsteps. She didn't seem upset at being interrupted in her work, and instead displayed a cordial expression: "Araj Oblodra," she introduced herself, "trader in blood and the sanguineous arts. It is a pleasure to stand before a True Soul... Included you, pale one."

Nymuë looked at Astarion, expecting him to radiate pure vanity... However, he backed away. Araj's intense gaze seemed to make him feel uncomfortable.

"I'd like to offer my services," the drow continued.

"What are they?"

"I deal with blood and the potions that can be wrung from it. I'm more than happy to make you one, if you'd honour me with your blood. With one drop, I can brew a rather potent potion for you. The rest, I keep for myself."

"And what will you do with the blood you keep, exactly?" the priestess questioned.

"Research, naturally. A little experimentation, perhaps. I have an innate curiosity for all things sanguine. The effects of my potion will be unique to you, I garantee it: your blood essence and the Absolute's blessing intertwined."

"That's very kind of you," replied Nymuë politely, "but I'm afraid I'm not interested."

If the potion in question smelled the same as the alchemist's other concoctions, the young woman was happy to pass on it. The adventurers would have to accept the stench for the night...

As she was about to leave, Nymuë noticed a pendant on the trader's armour: the motif represented a black widow, a drop of blood replacing the red mark on its abdomen.

"Your coat of arms..." she murmured. "Does the House of Oblodra come from Menzoberranzan?"

The merchant's eyes sparkled with curiosity, and Nymuë was glad she had hidden her necklace under her doublet.

"The House Oblodra was destroyed a century ago," she explained calmly. "Thankfully, I wasn't there at the time. My cousins did like to boast about their view over the Clawrift. Now their bones decorate the bottom."

"Do you happen to know... the House Asenred?" the young woman dared to ask.

Her interlocutor smiled sweetly: "Oh, but all the dark elves have heard of the ancient Fourth House... and its fall. But we shouldn't spoil our conversation with drow politics. There are so many other things we could discuss... your friend, for example."

Araj turned to Astarion and studied him from top to bottom. Her grin became greedy: "He's a vampire, isn't he? At least, one of their spawn."

The companions jumped: it was true that their companion's red eyes and pale complexion were suspicious... but how could she have guessed his nature at a single glance? This woman had a remarkable sense of observation. Or perhaps she had studied her subject well.

"Don't worry," the rogue scoffed. "We're all friends under the Absolute. I won't bite."

"Oh, I'd prefer if you did..." the drow suggested.

This had the merit of confusing the vampire, who looked at her in disbelief: "I'm sorry? You want to be bitten?"

"Of course. I've dreamt about it since I was a young girl."

The blood trader then addressed to Nymuë: "I assume he belongs to you?"

The musician remained silent, stunned for a few seconds. She felt Astarion's gaze on her, and was dismayed not to hear him react. It was when she opened her mouth to reprimand him that she understood.

The vampire had never had the opportunity to assert himself as an individual. Prisoner of a master whose every word had on influence on him; constantly hungry, his vision tinged with red; subjected to torture. He needed to hear her answer.

The young woman's eyes narrowed when they met Araj's: "He's his own person," she retorted harshly.

"I'm sure he really believes that," the drow laughed. "How utterly adorable. Do you have a name, spawn?"

"Astarion," he replied mechanically. "But hold on!"

"Now, Astarion," she interrupted him. "I long to feel my life's blood slipping away… To dance on the edge between life and death. I'll even compensate you, sister: a potion of legendary power, that forever increases the strenght of the one who consumes it. It's not for sale, but it's yours if your toy bites me."

"I will have to decline," responded the rogue coldly.

"Excuse me? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you're squandering it"

"I gave you my answer!"

The drow once again took Nymuë as witness: "Can't you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?"

The musician looked at her calmly. If Araj wanted to dance between life and death, she would be delighted to offer her a waltz of her own invention. Oh, it would be simple to give her a taste of her own medicine; the four of them could easily make her regret her despicable behaviour.

But no. In terms of companions, Astarion deserved better.

"He said no, I think? There's nothing more to discuss."

"What if I increase my offer? Persuade your friend here, and... I'll tell you everything I know about the House Asenred."

The young woman's heart skipped a beat. Behind her, Shadowheart and Lae'zel held back a curse. The storm inside Nymuë roared.

"Think about it," Araj continued. "All those who saw these events are either sworn to secrecy by Lolth or dead. You won't find a soul more charitable than me..."

The musician clenched her jaws, instinctively turning to Astarion. She expected to see anger on his face; anguish, perhaps.

But he looked weary. His eyes were two empty windows, hiding him from the rest of the world. She had already seen him with that expression, the night they met in the forest. She had felt like she was touching an automaton, a puppet hanging on a string. She had needed to push him with all her might to bring him back to life.

Astarion smiled. That awful, fake smile that she had seen him use so many times. He pivoted towards Araj with a long, exhausting practice. He'd done this before, Nymuë realised: to retreat into the depths of his mind. If he allowed himself to be overwhelmed, perhaps then he could pretend that it was all happening to someone else. How far had he let himself sink?

The rogue opened his mouth, ready to accept: "My companion refused," Nymuë suddenly intervened. "Offer or not, you've had your answer. Accept it."

Without a word of farewell, the dark elf walked back. Her comrades quickly followed. She could hear Araj's indignant exclamations as they returned to the camp. She didn't care; for the moment, she was concentrating on avoiding Astarion's gaze.

Turning her back to the rest of the group, she grabbed her pack and left.

"Do you intend to hide all night?" he asked her, several hours later.

Astarion had climbed onto her perch, as silent as ever. Without her night vision, the musician wouldn't have been able to spot him. There was no torch in this part of Moonrise, and their two other companions had long since extinguished their candles.

"I'm not hiding," she growled.

"But that's what you always do," the vampire replied.

Nymuë sat down on her bunk: "What do you want, Astarion?"

He seemed to hesitate. The pale moonlight - the only source of illumination available to them- revealed his drawn features. Despite his acerbic approach, the rogue seemed almost... disoriented.

"I... I want to thank you," he said awkwardly.

"For what?"

"For what you said, in front of that vile drow... No offence intended."

The dark elf brushed the insult aside, too confused to pay it any attention.

"You're not angry?" she wondered.

"Angry? I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my 'Master'. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered. You could have asked me to do the same: to throw myself at her, what I wished be damned. But you didn't. And I'm grateful."

Nymuë stood up, her legs trembling. Astarion's eyes betrayed a confusion as great as hers. It was as if he expected her to have regrets or, even worse, to take him back to Araj to correct her previous impulse.

The young woman placed a hand on the beams: "You shouldn't have to act against your will, whatever the request."

"It's a novel concept, I admit," the rogue smiled. "And a little intimidating. It would have been so easy to bite her. To just go along with what I was being told to do. A moment of digust, to force myself through… And then I could have carried on, just like before."

"But it would have been wrong," the dark elf objected.

"It's been ages since I've had to make these decisions for myself: no one had ever questioned whether it was 'wrong' before. And I don't understand why you've done it. Wasn't it your only chance to learn more about your family?"

"Because you think I would have chosen them over you?"

The vampire looked at her wordlessly: of course he expected her to put her interests before his. That was what everyone had always done. That was what he would have done if the roles had been reversed.

"Have you always been disgusted by your targets?" Nymuë continued.

"I tried to pick beautiful people where I could, but there were so many over the years... After a while, you stop caring."

The musician met his gaze, not daring to formulate her next question. If this were true... what could be deduced from the night they had shared? Astarion turned away. Perhaps he had no answer.

"What I mean," he said laboriously, "is that their names and faces have faded with time. I regarded them as they regarded me. A fleeting occupation… a necessity. What they saw was the promise of a night in my company. A moment of oblivion, an escape, and nothing more."

"So, they missed the best of you."

There was so much fear behind his eyes. Panic. Contempt, lust and violence were concepts that Astarion understood and mastered. He would have been able to handle the situation if the musician had requested compensation. Perhaps it would even have reassured him. But compassion was something unknown; it made him want to run away.

"I don't know... what you want from me," he breathed at last.

"What do I want from you?"

"I have to pay my debt, don't I? Reward you by spending another night with you? Or should I just... leave you and pretend nothing happened?"

"What would you like?" asked the young woman calmly.

"None of that," the rogue confessed.

Nymuë smiled and sat down on her bunk, leaving a free space for him: "None of that, then. You can just stay here. It's up you."

Astarion wavered, before settling down beside her. His movements were stiff, nervous. After a while, he relaxed and leaned against his comrade. He lay awake, watching the moonbeams through the rickety walls. Long after Nymuë had fallen asleep, he was still thinking.

Until today, he hadn't realised that he still considered himself Cazador's slave. All his instincts told him that nothing had changed. And what he was beginning to understand about the dark elf was a complication he hadn't foreseen...

It did awaken something in him, though; something Astarion thought was dead. Perhaps tonight was the first night his freedom truly began.

Chapter Text

When Nymuë woke up the next morning, Astarion was by her side. Lost in thought, he looked like he hadn't slept all night.

"Good morning, darling. Before you denigrate my honour as a gentleman, know that it's only because you fell asleep against me that I took the liberty of moving you. You sleep heavily, for an elf."

"You didn't get any rest?" the young woman inquired.

"I needed to think. And you're fun to watch, when you're not snoring."

"I don't..."

"Morning training" roared a voice from below them.

With laughter in his eyes, the rogue climbed down from his perch before his companion threw the first object within reach at him - preferably a blunt one. Neither the gith nor the priestess commented as they joined them. The former was too busy planning a gruelling session.

After a series of exercises that exhausted them more than they awoke them, the adventurers prepared to leave Moonrise. Their next destination was the Thorm mausoleum. Shadowheart and Nymuë stocked up on provisions, healing herbs and magic scrolls. They also obtained a map of the village, which enabled them to identify the tollgate they had crossed the previous day.

In the past, Reithwin was a place where foreign emissaries were received. The Towers were surrounded by a house of healing, a tavern, a stonemason's workshop and - near the road to Baldur's Gate - a cemetery. That was where they had to go.

The darkness outside descended upon them like a cloak of night. The shadows were deep around Moonrise, drawn voraciously by the protected souls within. It would take them at least half a day to reach the mausoleum...

The terrain was difficult, distorted by the curse. It was as if gigantic roots had suddenly sprouted from the ground, cracking the stone paving and the buildings. As the companions finished making their way to an imposing statue, a shrill whistling sound escaped from Lae'zel's pack.

"The qua'nith," she cried. "My people are trying contact us!"

The device trembled, emitting an ominous glow. When the warrior examined it, a flash of light blinded them like a lighthouse in the dark.

"You weren't easy to find, my child", said an authoritative voice.

The adventurers opened their eyes to the projection of a giant githyanki. She dominated the landscape, her silhouette made of scarlet filaments. Her armour was far more sophisticated than that of Lae'zel, with a three-pointed crown on the top of her head. Her skin was ivory, so pale that it seemed unearthly. Nymuë couldn't have told her age.

"My Queen..." the warrior whispered reverently. "Shkath zai!" She fell to her knees.

"You are permitted to look upon me. Although I must admit that your choice of allies is surprising, Lae'zel. According to our patrol's report, they paint a very tender picture of you."

"Ch'mar, zal'a Vlaakith. You know me?"

"Urlon of K'liir speaks most highly. As did Al'chaia before him. You seek purity, Lae'zel... I may yet grant it."

Nymuë didn't know if her little tremors had betrayed her, for the immortal queen knelt before them. Her eyes burned like coals as she examined them from every angle.

"Istiks," she continued. "You bear something which is ours. But are you friend, or are you thief?"

"What is this prism?" the musician asked.

Vlaakith frowned briefly.

"Don't question my Queen," Lae'zel hissed. "You will obey!"

But Nymuë remained on her guard. The group had followed Lae'zel's instincts regarding the qua'nith, and had agreed to find her people in exchange for answers. There was no question of giving up their protection without them.

"The astral prism is the solution to prevent the illithid infection from invading this Plane," Vlaakith replied. "Thanks to it, this plague can be stopped before it even begins. On one condition, however..."

She rose, materialising an exact copy of the artefact in her palm: "That 'weapon' you carry… it is corrupted. There is someone inside it. Their mind is warped, broken, a blight."

"I will cleanse it for you, my Queen," Lae'zel promised. "Tell me how."

"Kill them. There are an agent of the Grand Design, sent to sabotage the Astral Prism. As long as they live, the artefact is compromised. Do this, and I will purify you and your allies. Do this... and ascend."

Nymuë felt Shadowheart tense up beside her. Vlaakith wanted them to attack their nocturnal visitor... but there was something wrong with what she was saying. If their benefactor was really an illithid servant, why had they protected them until now? It would have been simpler to let them transform, handing over the artefact to the Absolute at the same time...

The dark elf remembered her last conversation with the false Elyon. She had confessed to stealing her power from the githyankis... and had implied that they would stop at nothing to get it back. What else was Vlaakith hiding from them? Her gaze fell on Lae'zel, whose eyes were full of fervour. The warrior was too blinded by her loyalty to share their doubts.

"An honour gained, a burden borne," the gith breathed.

"Commander Voss is on his way as we speak. Disappoint me and you will pay the price. My wrath is carried with each of my faithful."

The artefact left Shadowheart's satchel and floated obediently in the air. The faint presence of the nocturnal visitor became apparent; the dark elf wasn't sure, but they seemed... nervous. When Vlaakith snapped her fingers, the prism released a silver portal. The sovereign gave them a last imperious look before disappearing.

"Come," Lae'zel ordered. "We must enter the prism. It's time to learn its secrets."

"Something's wrong, Lae'zel," the musician intervened. "We shouldn't..."

"Enough! Vlaakith's gaze extends beyond the Planes, remember?"

Nymuë remained silent, exchanging meaningful glances with her comrades. Shadowheart looked nervous; as for Astarion, his greed was palpable. What wouldn't they do with the power contained in the prism! Nymuë didn't share his eagerness, but she had to admit that she too was curious. They needed answers, if only to understand why this object was so coveted. As the dark elf approached the gate, the false Elyon whispered in her ear: "Don't do it!"

This didn't stop Lae'zel, and they followed suit.

Nymuë thought she was falling, as if the passage to the prism opened onto nothingness. A strange feeling of weightlessness came over her as she landed on a rocky platform. No breeze caressed her skin, and the sounds were muffled; she knew this place. The starry ocean surrounded her endlessly. Behind a succession of scattered meteors, a skull-shaped vessel shone under a protective dome.

A dimension where time had no course, circumscribed and compressed in a retreat from reality. The Astral Plane, where each of her encounters with the nocturnal visitor had taken place.

"A mosaic of disparate elements stitched together as in a dream," the warrior murmured softly. "I am home."

"You won't enjoy it for long," Astarion taunted. "That orb... it's going to explode!"

The rogue was right; already weakened by past attacks, the force field was flickering weakly. A group of githyankis were running towards the dome, bouncing from rock to rock. Gravity didn't seem to constrain them; it was as if they were floating, full of grace and determination. When they reached the skull, some climbed to the top, while others armed themselves with sticks. In a single movement, they struck the orb... and broke it! The companions threw themselves to the ground, but the explosion dissipated into the surrounding atmosphere without even touching them.

"So, Vlaakith's soldiers have been in the artefact all along?" Shadowheart shouted.

"They're not Vlaakith's men," Lae'zel corrected. "Look!"

She pointed to the remains of a warrior: clipped to his tunic, the adventurers saw a brooch representing a flying comet. "Orpheus", the dark elf understood. So the prophecy was partly true: the Astral Prism did have a connexion with the githyanki prince.

"Where's our guardian?" Astarion asked.

The gith squad had entered the ship. When Nymuë stood up, the voice of the false Elyon called out to her: "I'm here..." she begged. "I'm under attack!"

The companions rushed towards the stone skull. The toothless mouth was the backdrop for a strange spectacle...

Fighting bravely against six adversaries, a mind flayer confronted the githyankis. With one hand, the creature levitated a rock; with the other, it sent a psionic blast at its attackers. Another githyanki was floating at the rear of the battle, among the remains of the force field. Two beams of red energy were binding its limbs.

Despite all her efforts, Nymuë could see no trace of Elyon or any other 'guardian'; only the illithid stood facing them, finishing off the warriors with disconcerting ease. When its purple eyes turned their way, it seemed to recognise them: "Before you do anything, know that I am your ally," it declared.

"Vlaakith was right!" Lae'zel roared. "The prism has been corrupted by an agent of the ghaik! By the one true sky, let's end this!"

"We are in danger!" the monster insisted. "The githyanki, in his cell... He's the source of our protection against the Absolute. I must subdue him, or everything we've worked towards is lost! Don't let my form deceive you: I am the one that's been protecting you. I am the one that came to you in your dreams."

"Elyon?" the dark elf breathed.

The young woman had always known that this dream visitor couldn't be her little fairy. This appearance was just a mask designed to facilitate their interaction. A most devious manipulation to hide its true nature... that of an illithid. Yet, Nymuë had hoped that a trace Elyon remained somewhere. There was nothing worse than convincing yourself of your own lies.

"Help me," the mind flayer resumed.

"Prove it," she replied. "Show us that you really are who you say."

"You saved a group of tieflings back in the druids' grove. Confronted a True Soul in the ruins of Grymforge. You've allied yourself with the Harpers and fought a drider. I know what keeps you going, despite everything. The battle rage, the thirst for revenge, the zealotry, the hope of a community. Your continued existence as yourselves and not a mind flayer should be all the proof you need."

"Help a ghaik?" the warrior spat. "Impossible! That githyanki should have died long ago… The Prince of the Comet!"

"Your blind loyalty will be your undoing, Lae'zel. Act by my side; together, we can turn the tide."

The adventurers hesitated. The gith was seething with rage, but her eyes never left Orpheus in his glass prison. If her queen's words were nothing but truth, why was the traitor still alive? Nymuë could sense her confusion and pain. Who was the liar here? The mind flayer who had taken on familiar features to deceive them, or Vlaakith herself, desperate enough to employ strangers as mercenaries? The dark elf placed her hand on Lae'zel's shoulder and gave her a determined nod: the decision was hers. Whatever her choice, the group would follow.

The gith took a deep breath, then let out a scream. Rushing towards the glass cell, she held the fragments in place. Her comrades quickly helped her. The illithid sent out a mental wave powerful enough to make the Prince of the Comet tremble. He pulled on his bindings, before throwing his head back. The pieces of his prison joined together.

"Thank you," the mind flayer whispered. "That was close."

Seeing their stubborn expressions, it sighed: "Don't look at me like that. I'm a mind flayer, yes. And the one who saved you, again."

"It's obscene..." Lae'zel hissed. "Do I really owe my life to a damned ghaik? No more lies, no more tricks! I demand answers!"

The companions nodded, forming a united front against their so-called 'protector'. If it knew them as well as it claimed, it would have to be convincing.

"You may call me the Emperor," the illithid replied. "I was once an adventurer from Baldur's Gate, though I was never one to be constrained by circumstance. I longed for more. That longing brought me to the Underdarks, on a search for treasure... but the truth was darker. I came across a colony of mind flayers who captured me and changed me into what I am now."

"How have you been able to preserve your true self, despite your transformation?" Shadowheart asked.

"I broke free. For years, I served the supreme being governing the colony: the one you know as the 'Absolute'. I was a thrall like any other, but I was fortunate, and able to start a new life."

"How?" Astarion questioned.

"On one mission, I found the Astral Prism. The moment I touched it, I felt a change. My free will returning. I followed the feeling inside... and came across the githyanki. I realised what the prism was for: containment. While my body was within, my mind was free. I could resist the Absolute. Better yet, I could plan to overthrow her."

"Who is she?" Nymuë demanded. "Who is the Absolute?"

"Even I don't know that. I was made to be a fragment of a whole, an obedient pawn, and that's what I was. Who is at the head of this power, and what their intentions are remains a mystery to me. That's why I had subdued the githyanki and found allies in the outer world. You."

"This gith… Impossible!" Lae'zel murmured. "He was slain by jhe'stil kith'rak himself!"

"And yet, here he is before your very eyes. As I understand it, Commander Voss is in his way to join you. Ask him, Lae'zel, and you'll see where his true loyalties lie."

"How can Orpheus protect us from our parasites?" the dark elf insisted.

"That's how powerful he is. The Prince of the Comet can disrupt hivemind communications, destroy the bonds of collective consciousness... It's what keeps you sane in the face of the voice of the Absolute. It's also what enabled Orpheus' mother to bring about the fall of the illithid empire aeons ago. When she left, a usurper took her place... Vlaakith."

"The first of her name," Astarion recalled.

The Emperor gave him an unfathomable look: "There has never been a 'First of her name'. There was, and still is, only one Vlaakith. A single entity traversing the course of time by mistreating her own people."

"Lies!" Lae'zel shouted.

"Vlaakith wanted power, but Orpheus rose against her. And so she sealed him and his honour guard within this prism."

It gestured towards the bodies of the githyankis who had attacked it. Nymuë gasped: so it was they who had laid siege to the ship in her first dream? For centuries, they had fought tirelessly to free their prince...

"Bound by infernal chains, Orpheus could never leave," the Emperor recounted. "Bound by duty, his guards never would. They were close to breaking my hold on their prince, and if they had succeeded, we would be lost. Alone, Orpheus will be much easier to control..."

"To control?" Lae'zel repeated. "Tsk'va! If what you say is true, he must be sent back to my people! Tell his side of the story! My kin deserve to know what really happened... Vlaakith can explain!"

"That would be a very bad idea," the illithid contradicted. "Who do you think Vlaakith really wanted dead when she sent you here? Orpheus is a threat to her reign. You've seen the prophecy: some githyankis still revere him, in defiance of their Queen's teachings. Vlaakith was safe as long as they believed him to be dead. But if they learn he's very much alive..."

"But the stories claim the prince was burned to ash in the skies..."

"The histories of your kind is fabrications: the Prince was not killed. Vlaakith kept him this way because she was reluctant to eradicate his power, power that she might one day wish to take for herself. And if the githyankis realise what she has done... civil war will break out."

The Emperor turned its head sharply towards the silver portal. "We are no longer alone. The rest of your answers await you outside. Don't forget that only my protection will enable you to survive the Absolute: don't let your reservations about my nature fool you. You must continue what you have started. Go to the Thorm mausoleum and put an end to the general's immortality. Then discover the source of the power of the Absolute, and destroy it."

It stretched out its arm, and Nymuë and her companions rose into the air. "Our survival depends on it," the mind flayer reminded them.

With her eyes fixed on the githyanki prince, the dark elf plunged once more into the starry sky. An infinite fall with no point of impact.

And deep in her skull, the parasite hummed: "Soon, soon, soon..."

They landed on the cold, hard ground of the village of Reithwin. The darkness contrasted sharply with the brightness of the Astral Plane.

Lae'zel was the first to get up. Rage animated her every steps as she drew her weapon, shouting to the sky: "Voss, Knight Supreme! I will have my answers!"

The adventurers realised that the shadows enveloping them weren't the result of the curse; a gigantic creature was perched on a roof, towering over them. A red dragon.

According to Lae'zel, obtaining one of these beasts was a great honour among githyankis. If a silver blade lost a battle, a mark was made on the claws of its steed. In this way, anyone could know a warrior's worth at a single glance.

Voss dragon's claws were intact.

The jhe'stil kith'rak was quite old, but his posture commanded respect. He wore heavy silver armour, adorned with a ruby. His sword crossed his back and a diadem encircled his forehead. His hair was almost as red as Lae'zel's, although streaked with grey.

He leapt from his mount: "Are the rumours true? The artefact... the prince... Is Orpheus really a prisoner?"

The commander stopped suddently: Lae'zel had lowered her weapon to the junction of his neck, waiting only for a signal to finish the job. That would have made men more massive than Voss tremble, but he simply waited for her answer.

"That's true," Nymuë said.

The githyanki nodded. In turn, he drew his silver blade. The pressure on his throat increased, but he presented his sword in his hands: "Ska'kek kir Gith shabell'eth. My blade rests. Mother Gith compels you to listen."

"Is this a trick?" Lae'zel hissed. "Has Vlaakith sent you to exterminate us?"

"The order to fly to you is the last one I shall ever receive from the usurper. The tenant of the prism is the instrument of her downfall, and I intend to help him in his task."

"So he doesn't know that an illithid has also taken up residence inside," Nymuë mused. How long had this warrior been pretenting? Obeying by day, while searching for his true ruler by night? What had happened when he and Orpheus had faced each other?

"I'm asking you to help me... and to trust me," Voss continued. "The usurper informed me of your refusal to kill the Prince of the Comet. You chose to let him live, and he decided to protect you despite your infection. I've sought his freedom for aeons... When the prism went missing, I feared the worst. Instead, you've granted the opportunity I've so long awaited. All that remains is the key to unchains our sovereign, and I happen to have it."

The Commander's gaze never left Lae'zel's: "Together, sister, we will break our chains. We will be Vlaakith's slaves no longer."

"I am no slave, jhe'stil kith'rak. The Undying Queen is my freedom. It is she who will purify me, and she who will ascend me!"

"Lies, Lae'zel, every last one!" Voss protested. "There is no purification, no ascension! The zaith'isk does not purify, it extracts memory and kills the infected. Nor does the lich queen glorify the ascended. She feeds on most of them to grow her power and pursue godhood."

"Madness. You flood me with this... this heresy! I will hear no more of it."

The warrior raised her weapon, then hesitated for a second. Turning her head, she glanced at her companions. Astarion looked anxious; Shadowheart was nervously clutching the artefact to her chest; as for Nymuë, she was waiting. She studied her comrade's face, aware of what must be going through her mind. They had seen too much evidence and heard too many different stories not to question Vlaakith's sanctity. In addition to the prophecy discovered at Moonrise, they had seen the Prince of the Comet with their own eyes. The words of the Emperor and Commander Voss coincided on many aspects, and this unity was perhaps a first for an illithid and a githyanki.

For Lae'zel however, this was tantamount to admitting that her whole life had been a lie. She, the terrifying warrior, a wolf among sheep, was in reality a lamb like any other... Destined for the slaughter, to feed the ambitions of a false ruler. She could deny it, slit the commander's throat and return the artefact to Vlaakith. It was much simpler to consider these revelations as a test of her loyalty. But she could also mark a change for her people. Lae'zel held in the palm of her hand the possibility of finally freeing them. Two choices fraught with uncertainty, and in no way guaranteeing her survival.

Her allies were ready to follow her. Restraining her trembling, the warrior sheathed her weapon: "I served Vlaakith the whole of my life," she began. "Learned her words, fought her battles. And yet... your words carry truth. I will help you in your fight. Do not make me regret it."

Voss smiled. He got up and stretched out his arm towards his red dragon. The dark elf feared that Lae'zel had made the wrong decision, but the commander simply retrieved a large package from the mouth of his mount.

"Lae'zel," he continued. "I see T'lak'ma Ghir in you: sister in freedom. Together, we will be our people's light."

He held out the parcel, as long as his silver sword: "Take this," he commanded. "This is the Orphic Hammer, the key to free the Prince of the Comet. Know that I obtained it at a terrible cost: an entire brood of red dragons, promised to a cambion in exchange for our salvation."

"Let me guess," Shadowheart whispered discreetly, "the devil in question had a dubious taste for poetry?"

"So you see, it proves beneficial to make a pact with Raphael," Astarion replied.

"For him!"

Nymuë silenced them with a wave of her hand, while Voss addressed the whole company: "Vlaakith's gaze is piercing enough to cross the seas and skies. The fate of my people is in your hands. I beg you to bring the Prince of the Comet back to us at the first opportunity."

A familiar pressure was exerted on the adventurers' minds: "It won't be soon," the Emperor murmured. "You saw Orpheus in his cell, and the hatred of his men. You carry a tadpole: as far as the Prince of the Comet is concerned, you are already illithid, a sworn enemy. Your salvation rests on me."

The dark elf grimaced: of course... Their 'nocturnal visitor' won't give up their golden egg so easily. But that would be a problem for later. There was no guarantee that they would return inside the prism, and their first objective was still survival.

Their list of enemies had grown considerably in just a few weeks…

"Keep the Astral Prism close," Voss continued. "Let no one take it from you. I will gather our troops, the partisans of the true sovereign. We'll be waiting for you where the entity calling herself the Absolute intends to claim this world."

"Where?" Nymuë asked, with knots in her stomach.

The jhe'stil kith'rak gave them an inscrutable look; deep down, the companions already knew the answer.

"Baldur's Gate", he declared.

Chapter Text

It was long after the departure of Commander Voss that the adventurers allowed themselves a break, the morning's events weighing on their minds. They now had an excellent view of the mausoleum, whose façade towered over the cemetery. Nothing in the building suggested that it was a playground for necromancers and infernal warriors.

Nymuë was thinking. She sincerely believed that Lae'zel had made the right choice by not eliminating the Emperor or Orpheus. Yet she was far from trusting their illithid 'friend'. Petty manipulations aside, the dark elf didn't approve of its methods. The Prince of the Comet had been imprisoned for over a century, and was now being exploited without any remorse. Of course, it would have been hypocritical to deny the benefit that she and her comrades derived from this power... But the musician was tempted to rally the githyanki to their cause. Even if this decision wasn't without risk.

To cap it all, Baldur's Gate was the cultists' next target. Thousands of people infected and

enslaved, if not slaughtered. The young woman shivered as the thought of Revan and their last conversation. If these words turned out to be their last...

Their fate depended on chance, once again. From the start, their destinies were shaped by dice rolls. The Emperor, Vlaakith, the Absolute, Raphael: all these players wanted to see them realise their schemes.

"Listen carefully," Lae'zel said suddenly. "The Emperor is only offering us half-truths. It claims that the Prince of the Comet would kill us as soon as we break his chains. But jhe'stil kith'rak Voss has assured me that the interests of the githyankis will always come first for Orpheus..."

"We can't free him, Lae'zel," Shadowheart retorted. "Not yet, anyway. With those parasites and a cult about to attack Baldur's Gate, we need to keep all the advantages we have."

"I am no fool, half elf. I'm well aware that facing Vlaakith's wrath would be pointless, not when my kin don't know that their true sovereign is still alive. But mark my words: whatever this so-called 'Emperor' says, my people will only be free when the Prince of the Comet is by their side. Orpheus will live, and I will hear what he has to say. This, I promise."

Rising abruptly, the warrior seized the qua'nith used to contact Vlaakith. She threw it into a pit and let the false words of the undying queen fade in the shadows.

"There," she gasped. "It is done. No turning back now."

"No regrets?" Astarion asked.

"As long as Vlaakith reigns, I will never rise above the Astral Sea. But a short life based on truth is worth more than an immortality full of lies."

"I'd never thought I'd say this to you," the priestess smiled, "but cheers!"

She raised her goblet and paused, meeting the rogue's mocking gaze: "What? It's not my fault if we only have water to drink!"

The dark elf watched Lae'zel in the flickering campfire light. Despite her fierce speech, the githyanki seemed bitter, even... distraught. For years, Vlaakith had been the centre of her life: everything she believed to be true and pure. This had just been taken from her. The warrior regretted both the loss of who she had been and who she could never be again. She needed a new cause to be Lae'zel of K'liir.

Nymuë raised her glass. She glanced at Astarion, who reluctantly produced one of his personal flasks. The githyanki was unfamiliar with the concept of camaraderie; with an irritated grunt however, she joined her companions in a toast.

"I guess I haven't lost everything along the way," she grumbled. "I have a new regent, and new allies."

"I didn't hear the last part," Astarion scoffed. "Could you repeat it?"

The musician held back a laugh as Lae'zel set off after him. Her fears subsided, and she settled down next to Shadowheart to bet on the winner.

The mausoleum's exterior looked more like a battlefield than a sacred place. Several skeletons still bore Shar's emblem. Desecrated graves and rusty weapons were all what remained of Ketheric's vast army.

"What are all these disciples doing here?" Nymuë exclaimed. "The Harpers and the Dark Justiciars fought near Moonrise..."

"This place must be more than a mausoleum," Shadowheart replied. "Think about it: a relic and an orthon would have been discovered long ago otherwhise. There has to be something else. A secret passage, a portal, anything."

The adventurers cautiously entered the family vault. They were assailed by a distinct smell of dust and decay, which was quickly explained by the profusion of skulls all around. "A most appropriate decor for an immortal," Nymuë thought. The catacombs reflected the splendour of a once glorious but now corrupt household. A heavy iron door led to the heart of the crypt.

"Nere, Z'rell, Minthara..." growled a voice. "Whoever you are, leave. I shall carry out General Thorm's will alone."

The companions froze. At the top of a pile of bones, a skull gleamed with a purple glow. Its eye sockets were illuminated by an enchanted fire, and stared intensely at the newcomers.

"I suppose it's a means of communication like any other for a necromancer,"Astarion said.

The dark elf cocked her head: if Balthazar had arrived at his destination, it wasn't the shadows that had got the better of him... Looking around, she saw several burial chambers, one for each member of the Thorm family. The room they were in consisted of a single sarcophagus on which a female figure had been carved, with features more human than elvish: "Here lies Melodia Thorm," Nymuë read. "Beloved wife and mother. Ai armiel telere maenen hir."

"What does that mean?" Lae'zel asked.

"'My heart will be yours forever'," Astarion translated. "Gods, I can't believe Ketheric was married."

"To a Selûnite, on top of that," Shadowheart added.

She pointed to a half-moon symbol on the tomb, which time had almost erased.

"We already know that Moonrise was once a Selûnite stronghold," the dark elf mused. "Perhaps the Thorm family has not always been loyal to Shar..."

"How much faith does this man have?" the priestess hissed. "Selûne, Lady Shar, and now the Absolute? He changes religions faster than a courtesan changes her sheets."

In the adjacent chamber, the adventurers came across a strange pentacle representing a skeleton's head surrounded by a triangle. They had already seen this emblem on the general's

armour. As for this unholy, putrid aura...

"Necromantic rites," Lae'zel spat. "That's how Thorm came back to life."

"I doubt that Balthazar could have accomplished such a feat on his own," Nymuë tempered. "This drawing... it's not the symbol of the Absolute, and yet Ketheric bears it on him."

Her comrades were equally confused. The musician avoided the ritual to crouch down near the altar. On the rock itself, an inscription had been carved in blood:

"Forgetting is the only possibility.

From splendour to tragedy,

And from tragedy to infamy."

"Forgetting..." Shadowheart repeated softly. "Loss is Lady Shar's greatest reward."

"Do you think Ketheric turned to her to heal his despair? After the death of his family?"

The priestess didn't answer, but her eyes narrowed with conflicting emotions. For Shar's followers, oblivion was a gift and an honour. It was how the faithful drowned their sorrows, their grief. So why did it make her so sad?

"I feel my Mistress' presence all around us," she eventually murmured. "We're close."

The companions made their way to the last room, at the back of the mausoleum. Three paintings adorned the walls, large enough to reach the ceiling. In the centre of the chamber, the last tomb awaited them wide open.

"Now that's worrying..." the dark elf hissed.

"Is it Ketheric monument?" Lae'zel wondered.

"I don't think so, The elven name seems different. Wait..."

The rogue knelt down next to the commemorative plaque, whispering to himself: "Ssussun elgg oloth. Light in the darkness. This tomb... it's in Isobel's name."

His comrades looked at him in astonishment: "Surely not the one from the Last Light Inn?" Nymuë asked.

"Of course not," Shadowheart retorted. "No one could survive this curse for a hundred years!"

"Isobel is a Selûnite, though..." Astarion hinted.

The musician remembered their conversation with the moon priestess, her knowledge of the area, her anger at the mention of Ketheric... and the black stains on her handkerchiefs.

"Maybe whatever brought the general back didn't just wake him up," she said.

"So, Ketheric was a disciple of Selûne before losing his wife and daughter..." Lae'zel summarised aloud.

From splendour to tragedy.

" … And because loss didn't make his grief go away, he turned to the Absolute to resurrect his family."

And from tragedy to infamy.

Nymuë glanced around her: "For some gods, despair is just another form of worship."

Like Shadowheart, the musician approached the murals. The one in front of her depicted two towers glistening in the moonlight. "Moonrise," she recognised, "before the curse." The second showed a man kneeling before a funeral veil. The stars above him were eclipsed by a sphere of darkness."Ketheric Thorm, about to offer himself to Lady Shar," the priestess described.

As for the last painting, Astarion was already examining it: "The general and his army, liberating the shadows on these lands," he observed. "Here we have the three segments of his

life: splendour, tragedy and infamy."

"There's a lever under each one," Lae'zel pointed out.

The adventurers exchanged a look, then Nymuë cautiously flicked the switch next to her. Shadowheart did the same with her mural, and finally the rogue closed the ball game. A scraping sound was heard behind the paintings, and the walls lowered. The mausoleum revealed a series of staircases stretching as far as the eye could see.

"Why are all our destinations underground?" Astarion complained. "The goblin camp, the Underdark, Grymforge..."

"I thought it would be a natural environment for a vampire," the priestess scoffed.

His companion didn't reply, but Nymuë saw his features tighten. She gently handed him her torch: "Your answers are down there," she reminded him. "As is our asset against the general."

Astarion accepted her light with a mischievous smile: "I'd hate to keep him waiting."

Nymuë had the impression that they were descending for hours, as each new step pushed them lower. The architect of this structure must have had a sinister sense of humour: they were sinking into their own tomb.

When they emerged, the adventurers needed a moment to adapt to the sudden brightness. The building around them had nothing in common with Thorm's crypt. Here, the high ceiling was adorned with grey and purple colonnades, reminiscent of the elegant constructions they had seen in Grymforge. The same majesty, the same rounded doors, the same purple lamps. The General's sepulchre housed not only a relic… but a gigantic temple of Shar.

"The Dark Lady..." Shadowheart murmured. "She guided me here. She wanted me to find this place. By all the saints, I thought it was a legend..."

"Do you know where we are?" the dark elf asked.

The priestess pointed to several golden plaques above the main entrance: "The Gauntlet of Shar," she read. "Overcome her trials and you will be reborn as a Dark Justiciar."

She turned to her comrades with an ecstatic smile: "Even with my memory loss, I remember what I learned about this temple. My Mistress's finest warriors trained here. And now it's my turn..."

"What are these tests?" Lae'zel inquired.

"To become one of Lady Shar's elite, you must prove your worth and make a sacrifice in her most holy sanctuary. Very few succeed... But this is my destiny!"

"Someone's losing sight of our objective," Astarion laughed.

"Oh, because you're here for purely altruistic reasons perhaps?" the half-elf retorted. "If I become a Dark Justiciar, it will serve our interests. I would receive Lady Shar's ultimate blessing, as well as the full arsenal she offers to her greatest warriors. Our power will be increased tenfold, and we could defeat the Absolute once and for all!"

Nymuë bit her lip sceptically. It was certainly tempting to have a deity on their side, but the Dark Lady wasn't renowned for her reliability, as evidenced by Shadowheart's wound. What was her purpose in sending her followers in search of the artefact? Was she also involved in the fight against the Absolute?

"Let's continue our exploration," the musician suggested. "We have to find this Balthazar and this orthon..."

"If they don't find us first," the warrior growled.

"If we come across these trials on the way, we may as well take a look."

Shadowheart gave her a grateful look, and the companions followed her as she passed through the temple porch. Nymuë could already imagine a torrent of traps falling on the visitors like a rain of fire. But the great hall was terribly silent. Two paths opened up to them, to the left and to the right, each leading deeper down. And straight ahead... nothing but emptiness. The building had been constructed in a square, its sides surrounding a huge space where a giant statue of the goddess stood. Only Shar herself filled this abyss. Her head reached the ceiling high above them, her gaze almost judgemental. There must have been thousands of people to build such a monument, the dark elf thought. Ketheric's tribute was perfect, a complete expression of his faith and despair. No one could stand before the Dark Lady without feeling infinitely small.

"Blood and tears must have flowed in abundance to shape this face," Shadowheart whispered. "It's magnificent..."

Not far away, a faint glow emanated from a pedestal. There was nothing on it, no inscription nor offering. Only four holes, oval in shape.

"It must have something to do with the tests," Astarion guessed. "Four trials, four rewards."

"This should lead us to the sanctuary," Shadowheart agreed. "Don't you see? We must prove ourselves worthy of my Mistress if we are to progress. The relic is surely there. We'd better..."

She paused as a sharp snapping drowned out her words. Four skeletons emerged from the

path on the left, trailed by a dark figure in armour. "A Dark Justiciar!" Nymuë realised. "Or at least... what's left of him." Shar's sentinel brought down his heavy sword on one of the undead, before turning his empty eyes towards the newcomers. Slowly, he approached.

"What is that thing?" Astarion hissed. "Aren't Shar's men supposed to be dead?"

"They protect the place," the priestess replied. "But why is he attacking us? My Lady, is this my first test?"

The companions drew their weapons, Lae'zel already charging their assailant. Nymuë swung her chained dagger and wrapped it around their enemy's wrist. As he raised his shield, he found himself immobilised, leaving the field free to his opponents. Three crossbow bolts pierced his armour without weakening him in the slightest. A shot struck him between the eyes with the same result. Suddently, Lae'zel separated the Justiciar's head from his body with a sweeping gesture. Astarion and Shadowheart moved closer, pointing arrows and fiery sparks at the skeletons. The deads merely turned their heads in their direction: "You do not belong here," whispered the first creature in a voice from beyond the grave.

The back of its neck turned at an alarming angle as it examined the visitors. The dark elf shuddered: somewhere, in the putrefied remains of the deceased, a tadpole had made its home. Another presence was acting on it, manipulating the skeleton as it saw fit.

"Balthazar?" Nymuë ventured. "Z'rell sent us."

The carcass twisted towards the musician, completely breaking its vertebrae.

"Z'rell lacks imagination," it retorted.

"Z'rell lacks faith," added another.

"This is the Dark Lady's house," Shadowheart spat. "You did not belong! She has no use for old, faithless bones!"

Nymuë looked at the three skeletons who didn't seem impressed by this accusation. The necromancer had decided to hide.

"You might be promising specimens, even if you are made of flesh," said the first creature. "Not just any True Soul would have succeeded in following my path though this place. You should be pleased."

"General Thorm asked us to..."

"The general? Nonsense. The situation is perfectly under control. Z'rell is merely jealous of the general's faith in me. It is true that I am essential to his plan... "

Nymuë snorted disdainfully. In life as in death, Balthazar seemed to cruelly lack modesty.

"Since you're here however, I might as well make use of your body," one of the undead said. "Do you know what is at stake here?"

"Z'rell spoke of a relic," the dark elf replied cautiously.

"Yes, and it is of vital interest. Ignorant as you may be, you made it this far. So I'm sending you on a mission."

The young woman bit the inside of her cheek to suppress a well-placed retort. Judging by the expression on her companions' faces, her antipathy was shared.

"The relic must be recovered before the general's enemies attempt to exploit it. It's what lends him his strenght, you see."

"Fascinating..." Astarion grinned.

"It's close, but the way is barred and Shar's deads are… uncooperative. Better yet, a monster haunts these walls. When the Justiciars don't attack me, this creature eliminates my minions. Kill it, then clear a path for me, by blade or cunning."

The adventurers didn't need to confer to decide what to respond. All things considered, they were at a turning point... Nymuë gave a brief nod to the three skulls.

"I will remain hidden until you have succeeded..." the skeletons cackled. "Or fallen."

They pointed a long, white finger towards the left-hand path, before collapsing into a pile of bones.

Shadowheart's features were stern, determined to complete her trials. Lae'zel was watching the alleyway on the right, where the orthon was probably waiting for them... As for Astarion, he was advancing through the rubble, ready to get his answers.

Nymuë sighed at the irony of things. There was nothing more logical than a Hellish encounter after visiting a tomb.

Chapter Text

The right aisle of the temple was nothing more than a field of ruins. In this part of the building, the sculptures and altars in honour of Shar had been replaced by rubble, bones and a strong smell of sulphur. The orthon they were chasing was certainly not far.

When the corridor came to an end, the companions realised that they were being followed. The yellow irises of a displacer beast were watching them intently. The creature looked like a panther, but had six legs and two tentacles on its shoulders. Nymuë only knew them by name, but she had heard of their grim reputation... As they approached, the animal rushed into the adjacent hallway.

"This is not a good sign," the priestess warned. "Displacer beasts are used to hiding in the shadows. If it is voluntarily exposing itself..."

"... Then, it's a trap," Astarion concluded. "We are expected."

Nymuë had a terrible feeling. Raphael had warned them that their chances of victory were slim. She gripped her chain dagger and tried to suppress her apprehension. There was no hiding place, no possible diversions in this part of the temple. If the fiend had decided to play with them, they had no choice but to face him.

They reached a vast chamber littered with broken shields, spears and blood. A massacre had taken place here, eliminating most of the Dark Justiciars. The surrounding chaos suggested a sudden, ferocious attack. These soldiers had been caught off guard in their own home.

The displacer beast lay lazily at the other end of the room. Behind it, a collection of corpses had been gathered together to form - almost artistically - a throne. The smell was appalling, and the companions quickly protected their faces with their cloaks. The musician's gaze fell on a small luminous stone next to the bloody mass. It was rounded in shape, and radiated the same glow as Shar's altar. Four empty cavities, four gems to fill them...

One of the trials' rewards!

"You burrowed too depp, little rabbits..."

The adventurers gasped; above their heads stood the most gigantic fiend they had ever seen. The creature was as tall as a troll, and just as broad. He wore a horned helmet, and his reddish skin was covered in black leather and bones... unmistakably humanoid.

Astarion bent his bow, but a brief click dissuaded him from using it. Emerging from the shadows, a dozen Merregons pointed their blades at them.

"But you're too fresh for this place, aren't you?" the monster observed. "There's a whiff of the surface to you..."

He flared his nostrils, as if trying to sniff out their party: "There's something else, almost hidden by your fear-stink… Cherries, musk… and sulphur."

The orthon widened his orange eyes: "Raphael!" he roared. "I can smell him all over you. Where is he?"

Nymuë cautiously raised her hands. The cambion had told them that he had known their target for a very long time. It was therefore not difficult to guess that they had not parted on very good terms.

"He wants you dead," she answered honestly.

In their situation, she didn't see the point in lying. The mere mention of Raphael had dissuaded the creature from striking.

"That perfumed trickster swindled me... trapped me," the orthon spat. "Where is he now? Spit it out!"

A familiar headache seized Nymuë as she opened her mouth. Astarion's voice was furious: "What are you doing?" he hissed. "The devil told us to kill this thing, so let's stop chatting and kill it!"

"Trust me!" she replied.

"Let's share our experiences about Raphael," the musician resumed. "Perhaps we can help each other."

The monster burst out laughing.

"Bargaining, are you? A Kara-Tur warlord once tried the same. I made him watch as I ate his concubines and young, then fashioned a codpiece from his skull."

"Charming," Shadowheart whispered.

Next to her, Lae'zel gave an admiring look.

"You can't help," Yurgir said. "Its not just walls that keep me here. Not the traps, the dark or the creatures it hides. Something stronger..."

"A contract?" Nymuë guessed.

She took a deep breath as the fiend tightened his grip on his crossbow. It was a business negotiation, nothing more. She'd got out of similar situations before... The only difference was that the price at stake here was their lives. What exactly had Raphael told them? 'In the darkness, there is a stage upon which a great drama has suspended itself in time. There, its actors dwell there still, mired in the languor of their long-tired scenes.'

A great drama suspended in time…

"You have been given a mission," she thought out loud. "Until it's accomplished, you will remain chained to this place. But every demonic pact has a flaw. Devils always prepare a way out in case their plans change."

"Raphael is no foolish story-devil," Yurgir objected. "His mind is different. Sneaky. Now, listen..."

Lowering his weapon, he sang:

"Spill all the blood sworn to the night.
Silence all prayers, smother each rite.
Wander Shar's halls, hungry to slay.
Leave no Justiciars alive to obey.
Leave none to hear it, then be set free.
This song is your oath, swear, swear it to me."

Yurgir paused, out of breath. The dark elf felt Shadowheart tense up. If the orthon's objective was to eradicate all the Dark Justiciars, what would he do to an aspirant?

'Leave no Justiciars alive to obey...' This was a particularly difficult clause to fulfil. At what point did a goddess fail to have followers? The mere presence of former disciples proved that even death was not an obstacle. This was the duplicity of this contract... It could not be revoked, unless Shar simply ceased to exist. A subtlety that Yurgir didn't seem to have understood. Fortunatly, songs were the speciality of musicians.

"These words couldn't be clearer," she declared. "'Leave none to hear it, then be set free': all those who took part in the old battle and heard the song must die."

"Then it's time for you to perish..." the creature sneered.

"We weren't there when you fought the Dark Justiciars," Nymuë retorted. "Your Merregons, on the other hand..."

Yurgir turned to his men. Shadowheart and Lae'zel held their breath, while Astarion concealed his impatience.

"Them?" the fiend exclaimed. "They barely have a thought to share among themselves… but they do have ears."

Pointing to the nearest warrior, he shouted: "Kill yourselves, back to the Hells with you!"

Without hesitation, the Merregons plunged their spears into their stomachs. Their infernal bodies disintegrated in multiple ashen particles.

"I still heart it!" Yurgir shouted. "Seems your theory is wrong."

"Very clever, but the trick won't last," Astarion stormed. "We must attack him now!"

Nymuë ignored him: "My theory is correct, you're just not finished yet. Your displacer beast knows the song too. Kill it."

"Nessa?" the orthon whispered.

The panther sat up with a plaintive growl. Yurgir murmured: "Stay very still, my beauty..."

A crossbow bolt struck the animal in the heart. The fiend let out a roar: "I still hear it!"

Nymuë was so close to success. They were rid of the soldiers; rid of the Familiar. Just one last step...

"Enough!" Astarion interrupted. "Let's kill him and get it over with!"

Shoving her away, the rogue fired an arrow at Yurgir. He caught it mid-flight.

The orthon's growl shook the foundations of the temple: "You will regret this mistake!"

The dark elf gasped in horror as the creature charged straight at Astarion. Throwing her dagger, she wrapped her chains around the vampire and pulled him back at the last second. Yurgir hit a dilapidated wall that collapsed under the impact. He pivoted, his hand already on his crossbow, but his fingers froze: purple runes had just appeared around him.

"Lae'zel!" Shadowheart called, concentrating on her target.

"Hta'zith!" the gith shouted.

Her blade cut through the enemy with enough force to split him in two. But Yurgir was no mortal, and his skin deflected the attack. The pain partially freed him from his immobility, and his cry was a promise of blood and carnage. The githyanki tried to withdraw her sword, but alas, the orthon gripped it firmly. His orange eyes fixed the two elves hatefully.

It was then that Nymuë saw the grenade.

"Look out!" she shouted, pushing the rogue aside.

The blast threw her against a pillar with a strange crack. Her right arm suddenly burned with a sharp, bright fire, starting from the middle of her back, going up to her shoulder. Her scream almost drowned out the sound of the explosion.

Something was stuck in her stomach.

The tumult around her disappeared, replaced by ultrasound. Smoke rushed down her throat and blinded her. A whole part of her body no longer responded. Silhouettes surrounded her, and one of them was murmuring incomprehensible words. A green glow slid over her wounds like water. Whatever was piercing her body rejected all forms of healing.

Nymuë felt a palm brush her face, the only place where she still had sensations. The stranger was clinging to her urgently; he seemed to be ordering her to do something. The darkness placed a hand as soft as a feather over her eyes.

And she let go.

The clattering of the mechanism woke her.

Nymuë's limbs were heavy. Her head and torso were both leaning forward, giving her an unobstructed view of the floor of the marquee. The ground beneath her feet was slowly rotating, forming a circle of which she was the centre.

It was a performance evening. She was wearing her most beautiful dress, black with bluish reflections and yellow embroidery. "Chickadee", whispered a voice in her ear. She looked to the right, then to the left: no one else was on stage. Violin in hand, she prepared to entertain the crowd.

The click sounded a second time. As if they had a will of their own, the dark elf's arms moved into position. Her bow slid over the strings, and she began to play.

Her music echoed faintly, as if muffled. The lights came on and she saw how numerous the audience was tonight: tons of silhouettes with obscured faces. They prowled around the stage like wolves, stopped short by the glass dome that surrounded her.

It was strange that she hadn't noticed it before. The sphere felt like an impenetrable sanctuary. In its embrace, Nymuë recognised the song she was playing… She could even remembered the lyrics:

"I pirouette in the dark,
I see the stars through a mirror.
Tired mechanical heart,
Beats 'til the song disappears."

The last note rang out with a creaking sound, as her body grew heavy. Her hands fell back to her hips and she leaned forward: asleep once more.

A noise made her straighten up.

How many days had passed since the first show? One, ten, hundreds? Nymuë felt anxiety tighten her throat as her movements again escaped her control. She had already performed this act before, perhaps many times. Alarmed, the musician turned her head, but the stage continued its eternal rotation from the audience to the backstage. She examined the mechanisms under the floorboards, the magnets and springs hidden by the curtain. Then, she understood.

It wasn't the marquee that was spinning, it was her. Attached to some sort of machinery, she was whirling around like a dancer in a music box. And someone was starting the melody over and over again...

"If only my chains could speak,

I wouldn't be so alone.

In spite of myself, I seek

To always escape the unknown."

When she regained consciousness for the third time, Nymuë had a plan. The figures around her glass bubble had multiplied, pressing their palms against its fragile surface. The dark elf could feel the discreet tremors of her instrument. Raising her violin, she produced a shrill sound.

A crack appeared in the ice. The young woman continued to play. A new rhythm, with more energy, more... vigour. Her movements became frenetic. The crackles transformed into silvery lines with each variation of her bow. She was a painter in front of her canvas.

Suddenly, her device stopped moving. The scene beneath her feet became stable. When Nymuë turned to find out why, she saw that the floor had simply disappeared. A black, endless abyss was about to devour her. The crowd outside the dome was banging on the walls of her cell.

Any minute now, they would come in. She had to choose between being submerged... or falling.

"If I break the glass, then I'll have to fly.

There's no one to catch me if I take a dive.

I'm scared of changing, so the days stay the same,
The world is spinning, but only in gray."

She continued to play, on the fourth and fifth wake. Fissures were now appearing on her legs, stomach and arms. She too was made of glass. Whether she fell or left her prison, her collapse would come irrevocably.

For a moment, Nymuë studied the marks on her blue skin, like ice on a frozen lake. In the reflection of the glass bubble, she saw several Nymuës. One for each day, each second that she had agreed to restart her own mechanism, getting up to perform the same show. What exactly had she been so afraid of? The void, or the implosion?

Both led to the same result.

"Somebody shine a light,

I'm frozen by the fear in me.

Somebody make me feel alive,

And shatter me.

So cut me from the line,

Dizzy, spinning endlessly.

Somebody make me feel alive,

And shatter me."

This time, the sphere exploded. A thousand shards pierced her skin. The crowd didn't have time to catch her, for she had already fallen.

Surprisingly, the abyss wasn't that deep. Nymuë just had time to see the light from the marquee fade before landing on a bouncing surface. It was so dark that even her night vision couldn't pierce the gloom. The murmur of water echoed the discreet trickling of a cave, but there was also... something else. A shapeless, shifting presence. The creature's movements were furtive, almost impossible to detect, but the musician was certain of it: whatever was hiding was monstrous.

"I felt your presence as soon as you entered my sanctuary, my child," whispered a voice in her ear.

The dark elf turned round: there was nothing. The stranger had a feminine intonation, but her speech was slurred, as if her words were struggling to escape her vocal cords.

"Where am I?" Nymuë asked.

"Between the realms of the living and the dead. You find yourself where all your brothers and sisters end up being judged. Only the most deserving among the drows have the honour of sitting in the Demonweb Pits."

Nymuë felt a motion to her right; she tried to back away but her body rooted to the spot. There was a sticky mixture under her fingers; she was trapped in a huge web.

"I have been watching you," the creature hissed. "You show great promise, my child: tarnished, of course, by all those years spent on the surface, but... persistent. My other offspring are so used to my precepts that they kill without taste or rage. They are driven by ambition, and forget how much I appreciate anger. They fear each other, while you… oh you, you fear everyone. Every individual is hostile to you by nature, every new encounter may be an enemy. You have no side, which means, by definition, that you only have targets."

The noises were closer now. Nymuë saw the shadowy figure coming down towards her.

"You are Lolth," she whispered. "The Spider Queen."

A torso emerged from the darkness, nearer than she had suspected. The woman's black skin was as rough as bark. Her long white hair was coiled around a eight-pointed crown, connected to each other like spider legs. Her eyes were blood-red. Where her stomach should have been, Nymuë saw two enormous appendages.

"I am what lurks in the abyss and sneaks in the dark. I am what slides over your skin, like a caress, until my bite strikes. And you are the blood that should have always been mine."

The goddess Lolth tilted her head to the side, until her neck was completely twisted: "I remember the Asenreds," she continued. "I remember Sabrae. All drows, especially females, are mine by right. Your mother thought she could decide otherwise. Your life was denied to me, so the blood of your family was taken in penance."

"Are you here to finish the job?" the musician snarled.

"I am what hunts at night, and what weaves the threads of fate. Your future is not yet sewn, daughter, and my grudge can be softened. I could use someone like you: who knows the world from above without being devoted to it. Intelligent, but able to stay in her place. Full of rage, but without ever letting it show."

The arachnid's voice dropped an octave: "I can offer you anything you want, and much more. I can make you my most favourite. Be the mother you were deprived of. You and I will revive the House Asenred. We will unleash the chaos of the Underdark on Faerun. All will be but ruins when they bow at our feet. Our web will stretch across the Planes; I will help you destroy the Absolute, the treacherous usurper. Together, we will build a world in our image."

Nymuë could see this glorious future unfolding before her eyes. No more fleeing through the icy streets of Baldur's Gate. No more trembling at the curtain's rise. No more cold distances, or evasive looks. Just infinite love, an embrace, in a world perfect at last.

"The only thing I ask of you," Lolth murmured, "is to swear loyalty to me. My child, you cannot imagine how much they should fear us."

One memory pierced through the mass of visions. A reflection of her own face as Lady Seri styled her hair for a performance. "Oh my beautiful one," she had said. "If you only knew how much they will pay to hate you."

As if waking from a dream, Nymuë's thoughts were confused. She whispered: "I don't want to be feared."

The Mother of Lies' claws scratched her face.

"I just want to live," the dark elf continued. "I want a world where I can bring joy instead of terror."

"Don't turn your back on me, child. Think of what happened to your family. Refuse, and my followers will hunt you down, in the Underdark and beyond."

Other images now flashed through her mind. Nymuë could see a githyanki encouraging her to do another set of push-ups. A half elf with green eyes raising a cup in her honour. A white-haired man taking her hand in the privacy of her tent.

"So let them come, Mother of Pests. But I will never belong to you."

Lolth emerged fully from the shadows, like a gigantic nightmare. Her eight enormous legs were attached to her abdomen; her two appendages rattled menacingly.

"Know that you can never hide. I will always know where to find you."

She struck.

Chapter Text

Nymuë woke with a start. Her fingers struck the air, free of spider webs. She could still hear Lolth's soft voice in her ear and felt her monstrous appendages pierced her stomach…

But there was no Dark Mother around her. Her torso had been bandaged, and only a basin of bloodstained rags testified to the difficulty of the operation. The young woman remembered their confrontation with Yurgir... The explosion had thrown her against a pillar. The fact that she was still alive and in one piece was a miracle. Nevertheless, a simple movement was enough to remind her that wonders weren't without consequences: the pain overwhelmed her like a wave.

The musician would have fallen gracelessly if firm hands hadn't immediately caught her. Astarion was crouched beside her bunk, his usual grin gone. In fact, he looked almost angry.

"Drink this," he said, handed her a vial. "It's a painkiller. Shadowheart did everything she could to heal you, but one of the components of Yurgir's bomb prevented magic from working. If she hadn't acted immediately..."

"Bless Shadowheart and her medical knowledge," Nymuë sighed. "I'll make sure not to be a dead weight."

They were still inside Shar's temple. Although they had set up camp, the dark elf saw no sign of the priestess, or the githyanki warrior. "Where are the others?" she asked anxiously. "And... Yurgir?"

"Killed by his own explosion," Astarion replied curtly. "I hope that will be enough for Raphael. As for the other two, they have left to complete Shar's trials."

"Alone? But there are the Dark Justiciars! And traps! And..."

"Shadowheart is protected by Shar, so I doubt the Justiciars will attack her. To be honest, we didn't know how long you'd be unconscious. It was decided that she and our gith friend would explore the second wing of the temple while I watched over you."

He muttered to himself: "In case you feel like doing something stupid again..."

Nymuë held back a sharp retort and tried to stand up. This time, Astarion's cold hand came to support her. Walking was bearable, but moving her arm proved more difficult. The young woman would have to be careful when wielding her chained dagger. For a while, she might have to rely solely on her magic.

Astarion remained terribly silent. After a few steps, Nymuë gave in: "Go on," she sighed. "Spit it out. Tell me what you have to say, and let's get this over with."

"Is it really that simple? Not everyone has your talent for avoiding hot topics, darling."

"Just like you avoided trusting me when I asked you to?"

She could just as easily have hit him. Astarion had provoked the fight against Yurgir, and this was the price of his impulsiveness. Nymuë paused: "I am sorry, and I forgive you," she said softly.

"What do you mean?"

"I shouldn't have asked you to follow me blindly when this matter was so important to you. And you, after all we've been through, should have shown me more trust. So I am sorry, and I forgive you."

"Why did you save me?" he demanded.

The musician looked at him with round eyes: "Would you have preferred to die?"

"Of course not. But why did you take the risk? If you had left me, you would have been spared this rendez-vous with death."

"But then you would have been in danger."

"It was my cause, my answers. You had nothing to gain from it, so why sacrifice yourself?"

"I don't know!" Nymuë yelled. "I saw the bomb and my body reacted, that's all."

"That was a foolish decision."

"Says the man who acts like an idiot!"

They glared at each other, fists clenched. The musician was out of breath and her legs could barely support her. Damn her current infirmity! A fight with the rogue seemed an attractive prospect at the moment. Forcing herself to calm down, she went on: "What's really bothering you?"

Astarion turned his back on her, and replied in a whisper: "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"Like what?"

"This!" he roared. "I had a plan. A nice, simple plan. Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you'd never turn on me."

His anger had given way to a palpable, almost guilty unease.

"It was easy... Instinctive. Habits from two hundred years kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do was not... fall for you. Which is where my nice, simple plan fell appart."

His eyes searched for Nymuë's, alert to the slightest reaction. But the young woman felt nothing but a deep dizziness. She could sense the vampire's fear after exposing himself so crudely. She could hear his frustration at being caught at his own game. And his hope, though it was well contained.

"You... you're incredible," he murmured. "You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.

"Isn't that already the case?" she answered.

She could now see him with astonishing clarity. He too had performed every night, and his shows had filled him with resentment. The dark alleys of Baldur's Gate had been his stage; his body, his instrument. The audience hadn't vilified him, quite the contrary. Astarion had never stopped playing a role.

"Our bond, it's... I don't know what it is. Even though things between us are different, being with someone still feels... tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing. I don't know how else to be with someone... No matter how much I'd like to," he confessed.

In her dream, Nymuë had panicked when her glass prison shattered. Only two options had occurred to her: fly away, or fall. Now, as she looked at the medicinal herbs and clean linen next to her bunk, she realised her mistake. There had always been someone there to catch her.

"I care about you," she whispered. "Deeply."

"Really?"

The word escaped him, not even a breath. Astarion hoped, even though he didn't want to. The dark elf was ready to do without words if he wished. When she approached, he stepped back. She embraced him, and his arms floated uselessly around her. After a moment, a hand brushed her shoulders. Nymuë felt fingers caressing the muscles of her back, delicate where her wounds were. A nose nestled in the hollow of her neck, and it was as if the vampire was suddenly finding a part of himself again. It wasn't his yet, this soul he seemed to be rediscovering; not as long as Cazador lived. But perhaps for a while, that could be enough.

"You are full of surprises, aren't you?" he smiled.

Nymuë walked away. She too didn't know what she had just provoked. This confession was a leap into the unknown, but was it really such a bad thing? Sometimes, you just had to let yourself fall.

"Honestly, I have no idea what we're doing," Astarion giggled nervously. "Or what comes next."

He held out his hand, and the young woman found herself taking it spontaneously. The rogue seemed serene: "But this... this is nice."

She closed her eyes. Astarion's fingers felt real against hers. They were real, in this land devoured by shadows. She had nearly died fighting a fiend; they had a parasite in their skulls that they knew nothing about. She didn't even have a clue who their real enemies were ...

Yet Nymuë was sure of one thing. She wouldn' have changed her place for anything in the world.

If Shadowheart had wanted to describe what she was seeing, she would have called it 'a miracle set in stone'. The left wing of the temple led to a hall guarded on either side by statues of Lady Shar. Each one was of unparalleled magnificence. How many artists had attempted to capture her beauty? How many disciples had debated her perfection? The priestess marvelled at such majesty. She was there; Shar's trials were within reach, and she finally had the chance to prove her worth.

Her excitement subsided when she heard Lae'zel's growl behind her. Although the priestess hated to admit it, the githyanki had managed to surprise her on this journey. She would never have believed her capable of rebelling against her sovereign, proof that miracles weren't only of stone...

The half-elf looked up at the face of the Mother of Loss. In her bag, she could feel the weight of the first umbral gem retrieved from Yurgir. After the fight, the priestess had exhausted her energy to rescue Nymuë from the brink of death. Reason should have prompted her to rest, but the call of her destiny was much stronger. She focused on her inner voice. This presence, very different from her parasite, had always accompanied her during her prayers. A dark, authoritavie, yet reassuring whisper... "Everything of value has a price," the voice said. "Pass my trials and be worthy of my embrace."

"I will not disappoint you, my Lady. I will follow in the footsteps of your Justiciars." Shadowheart walked toward a huge door, the first of three. 'Her Most Sacred Treasure', indicated a plaque: the mantra of the Soft Step trial.

"Lady Shar appreciates those who remain unseen and still obtain what they want. Stealth is a virtue derived from her very essence. Not being noticed is the guarantee that no door will ever be closed to you," she explained.

Lae'zel nodded. Inside the chamber, a smaller statue awaited them, holding a tray stained with crimson marks. "Blood", the priestess guessed. The spot was round, as if the victim had poured it willingly.

"Let me," she ordered. The warrior handed her a dagger, which she used to cut the inside of her hand. The wound wasn't deep and, after all, pain was a gift. The statue's eyes lit up with a purple glow as a section of walls collapsed.

Behind it, there was only darkness... and murmurs. A song that the two adventurers knew all too well. "Shadow beings," Lae'zel hissed. "Given their numbers, this won't be an easy fight."

"You haven't been listening to a word I've said. The goal isn't to face them, but to avoid them. To reach the other side of the labyrinth, I must become one with the darkness."

"You're wearing armour," the warrior objected.

"I have other assets. Wait for my return."

The priestess made her way through the gloomy maze. She could hear the creatures growling around her, but she pressed on without fear. Her Lady protected her; she had welcomed her into her domain. The shadows could not reach her, for they were the servants of...

Her foot struck a mechanism, causing an ominous clanking sound. To her horror, it came from glyphs ready to unleash their sonic illusion at the slightest movement. She had two options: stay where she was, or draw all the shadows toward her.

She exhaled painfully. As she prepared to pounce, a bright light filled the obscurity. Lae'zel was waving a torch at the entrance of the labyrinth. "Here," she called, "come here!" The creatures advanced in her direction. Their moans seemed to grow louder as they reached out their ghostly fingers to the gith.

"This is my chance," Shadowheart thought. She ran as fast as she could. The glyphs activated, but she didn't stop. She turned right, then left, zigzagging so much that she didn't know if she'd be able to find her way back. After another fork in the path, she came to a lit area. A new statue stood there, its basin filled with an umbral gem. When the priestess placed her hand on it, a strange chill ran through her. She found herself facing its twin sculpture at the beginning of the trial. The wall closed, and Lae'zel shook her shoulder: "Did you find it?" she asked.

Shadowheart showed her the glittering stone: "Of course." The warrior grunted in approval, still holding the torch. Without her intervention, the priestess would have failed miserably. She opened her mouth, hesitating over what to say next, before turning away: "Let's not linger. We still have two tests to complete."

The second door bore the inscription: 'Her Most Sacred Mercy'. This time, they were facing the trial of the Same-Self. "The Dark Lady teaches us that we are our own worst enemy, much of the time. We can only win by getting rid of everything that holds us back."

"Self-discipline," Lae'zel agreed. "To control ourselves, so that no one else can."

The half-elf's eyes widened. Who would have thought that githyankis would make such perfect Shareens? The walls of the room parted as they entered, revealing a space resembling an arena. Two translucent figures were already waiting for them. Another Shadowheart, and another Lae'zel.

"I always knew I was death incarnate," the gith gloated.

"Look at that, Lae'zel. Finally, the perfect opportunity to kick your ass."

"Oh, go ahead an try, Shadowheart. My double is laughing at the prospect."

The two women drew their weapons, and their twins did the same. When the priestess summoned an enchanted blade, her alter-ego conjured up a trident. "Very well," she mused. The same spells, the same way of thinking. If she wanted to defeat herself, she had to get rid of her own reflexes. She threw her magic sword at her duplicate, but it only hit illusion. Three more Shadowhearts emerged from the darkness.

"A real nightmare," Lae'zel cursed.

"Focus on your fight!"

"You're not doing it right, can't your see? If you want to surprise yourself, jump into the fray! Or is your mace just decorative?"

The priestess didn't have time to reply, as her copy flooded her with a deluge of flames. She rolled to the side and grabbed her backpack. She sent a scroll of Magic Missile at Lae'zel: "Nothing will be more disconcerting to you than using your brain," she taunted.

"How dare..." The gith narrowly avoided her double's attack, feeling the edge of her own sword graze her cheek. She unfolded the spell: "Tormentum!"

Three red rays struck the ground near the githyankis. The arena shook and began to collapse into the abyss. Lae'zel clung to a section of wall, while the two Shadowheart flailed their arms to keep their balance. When the priestess fell to her knees, her replica conjured a blinding fire.

"Move, Shadowheart!" Lae'zel shouted. "Now!" The half-elf remained motionless. As the spell raced toward her, a faint whistling sound echoed behind the false Shadowheart. A dimensional door materialised, and the priestess sprang out, shield in hand. The imitation and its illusions collapsed, finally leaving an opening. The last thing her alter ego saw was the flash of a mace.

An umbral gem appeared in place of her opponent. Shadowheart grabbed it and fled the ruined arena: "Not bad," Lae'zel commented. "But it was clearly your shield that did all the work."

"Because my scroll didn't help you, perhaps?"

"That was just to end the fight quickly," the githyanki objected. "No doubt I would have triumphed."

Shadowheart chuckled, and she swore she saw the warrior's lips stretch into a smile. A few centuries of training, and perhaps her companion would become tolerable. The two women reached the third and final door. "Her Most Sacred Way," Lae'zel read.

"The Leap of Faith. The Dark Justiciars were said to be sure of foot, even in the darkest recesses of Lady Shar's embrace. I must have faith that she will guide me."

This time, no mysterious entrance appeared. There was only a gaping chasm in the room, so dark that it was impossible to see the bottom. And on the other side... the umbral gem, sparkling, as if to taunt them. "A leap of faith..." the warrior murmured. "Don't tell me..."

"Yes," Shadowheart confirmed. "It's exactly what you think."

The young woman approached the abyss with confidence. The vain, the faithless, and the cowards could all pass the first two tests. But to surrender completely to their goddess, naked and vulnerable? Only a true believer could do that.

Without hesitation, the priestess took a step into the void. Lae'zel's cry of surprise stifled when she realised that her comrade wasn't falling. Shadowheart pressed on, as if walking on a bridge that only she could see. With each pace, she listened for her inner voice: "Left", she whispered, or "No further". As she gained ground, the young woman felt her leg sink into the emptiness.

She staggered: she had received no instructions from her Mistress! She looked right, then left, but heard no suggestion. She had to breathe. Her Lady had helped her take her first steps, but this trial was meant to test her conviction, not her obedience.

"Pull yourself together," Lae'zel shouted. "Stop fidgeting!"

The priestess gritted her teeth. One foot in front of the other, she began to walk again without hesitation, or destination. All that mattered was to trust Lady Shar. The tip of her shoe hit a platform, and a thrill of excitement ran through her. She was there! She had crossed the chasm...

The invisible floor gave way beneath her feet, and only her years of training saved her. She clung desperately to an eroded rock. She heard Lae'zel curse as she pulled herself painfully out of abyss. Her fingers closed around the umbral gem.

When Shadowheart opened her eyes again, she found herself standing next to the warrior.

"Your people really do have strange customs," she spat.

"After what we've discovered about the githyanki, can you really afford to judge?"

Shadowheart examined the fourth and final gem with awe. She had succeeded. She had overcome Shar's trials like hundreds of disciples before her.

Lae'zel helped her stand, and the priestess wondered what the warrior had gained from all this. Not her friendship, that was certain, nor even her sympathy.

But perhaps she had begun to earn her respect.

Chapter Text

When the priestess and the warrior returned to camp, they found the two elves asleep, huddled together. Shadowheart smiled at the sight, and even Lae'zel merely sniffed disdainfully. Soon enough however, their companions awoke: "You're back," said the rogue.

"You're lucky it's us!" the gith grumbled. "The Dark Justiciars would have easily slit your throats."

"My friend, you're not paying attention..."

Proud of himself, Astarion pointed out a series of traps surrounding the bedrolls.

"What if I had wanted to examine Nymuë?" Shadowheart asked.

He suddenly lost his pompous airs.

"Did you succeed?" the musician inquired.

The priestess took the four umbral gems out of her backpack: "Lae'zel and I went back to the temple entrance. The pedestal must activate a mechanism leading to the santuary."

Nymuë nodded and stood up. She insisted on doing so without help, despite her comrades' outstretched hands. Now that her fever had broken, her wounds would heal. And if not, the potions provided by Shadowheart would ease the pain.

"I can't stay in bed forever," she declared. "We'll leave tomorrow."

The adventurers approved before gathering around the campfire. Shadowheart and Lae'zel hurried to recount Shar's trials, the former with reverence, the latter with stoicism. The dark elf noticed that, even though they bickered here and there, a kind of understanding seemed to have grown between the two women. It warmed her heart to see these two forces of nature finally in harmony.

Shar's doctrine was impressive. Stealth, strength and faith: the three pillars of her church. No wonder so few novices became Justiciars over the years...

"There's one last test," Shadowheart warned. "A sacrifice. Once they reach the sanctuary, Lady Shar's Chosen must plunge their blades into the heart of a Selûnite."

"I'd be surprised if there are any left," Nymuë tempered.

"The Justiciars have been dead for years," Astarion added. "The sanctuary will probably be empty. We'll be free to look for the relic..."

"The trials were operational, though. If Shar deemed it necessary to subject Shadowheart to her judgement, there must be a reason."

The companions remained silent, lost in their thoughts.

"Did Raphael visit you while we were away?" the priestess demanded.

"No, he didn't come to honour his promise immediatly," the rogue answered curtly. "I only hope that a suicide will fulfil the terms of our agreement..."

"He wanted the Orthon dead and so he is," the warrior replied.

"From the start, Raphael has appeared as he pleases. Since he has never attacked Yurgir himself, I am beginning to think that he simply cannot enter the temple."

"Lady Shar's influence," Shadowheart understood.

"Exactly. Let's wait and see what happens once we're out of this mausoleum; that devil will come to us when it suits him."

Once the meal was over, the priestess came to examine Nymuë's wounds, before forcing her to drink a series of distateful potions.

"No need to grimace," she scolded. "You're worse than a child."

"No one would give that to a child," the musician grumbled.

Shyly, she took the half-elf's hand: "Thank you. For everything. If you hadn't been there... well, I don't think I'd be able to complain about your remedies."

Shadowheart's eyes widened. Squeezing her comrade's fingers, she whispered: "There was no way I could have stayed alone with those two. I think the parasite is much better company!"

Nymuë burst out laughing. When she returned to Astarion, she felt like the luckiest woman in the world.

The next day, the adventurers returned to the temple entrance. To their great satisfaction, Balthazar's skeletons were nowhere to be seen. They had agreed to dispense with the necromancer until the relic had been recovered. The pedestal awaited them under Shar's watchful gaze. Shadowheart placed the gems reverently.

At first, nothing happened. The companions exchanged glances. Then, on the Dark Lady's side, a stone disc rose, surrounded by a purple glow.

"The passage to the sanctuary", the priestess murmured.

Nymuë climbed onto the strange vessel, trying not to think about the abyss beneath her feet, or the age of the mechanism. Once everyone was on board, the disc began to move of its own accord. It descended low, lower than the statue of Shar, so low that in the end only darkness surrounded them. When it stopped, the last remaining light came from a second pedestal in front of a large round door. On this altar were three empty cavities.

Shadowheart placed the gems inside, and the entrance revealed a corridor... followed by a vast expanse of water.

"This must be the last step..."

The priestess looked up: a voice was speaking to them, the same one that had always accompanied her prayers. The Mistress of Loss had chosen to emerge from the privacy of her thoughts to make herself heard by all: "One more test awaits. Descend to the Nightsong. Make a sacrifice. Rise again a Dark Justiciar."

"Nightsong..." Nymuë paused.

Where had she heard that name before?

"Halsin," the rogue remembered. "When they were looking for the Temple of Selûne, Aradin and his band hoped to find a relic called the Nightsong..."

"... Hidden in an ancient Shar's stronghold," the musician completed. "Could this Nightsong be the relic that grants Ketheric Thorm his immortality?"

"There's only one way to find out," the priestess declared, approaching the pool.

She headed towards the clear waters, her companions close behind. Nymuë waded in up to her knees. When she turned, her comrades had vanished. She stood alone in the dazzling pool, which suddenly drew her in.

Water seeped into her throat and enveloped her legs like a funeral shroud. The light was replaced by an unsettling darkness, rumbling in her ears like a storm.

As if to confirm, a clap of thunder made her jump to her feet. Nymuë put her hand to her chest: she had felt herself drowning, and yet she was... unharmed? Next to her, her companions were getting up, looking dazed. Lady Shar had her own way of welcoming those who had passed her trials...

They had landed on a pile of granite suspended in midair. Dark clouds filled their vision, briefly illuminated by flashes of lightning. Every weightless rock, every abandoned ruin seemed to orbit around the hurricane's eye. Chains stretched out towards it.

"Lady Shar…" Shadowheart breathed. "I can feel her all around. This is her domain… the Shadowfell."

A place where memories and history had faded away. Forgotten…

"You did well – better than I would have credited you with."

The adventurers spun around as a man rose from the pool. It was difficult to tell whether his face reflected amusement or contempt. Sharp cuts were carved into his skin, forming scars that had never healed. Most ran across his lips, the bridge of his nose, and his forehead. A triangle had been etched into his chest where his heart should have been. He was dressed in a long robe that hung loosely around his rigid limbs. It displayed the symbol of the Absolute.

An Undead: a creature that was neither living nor deceased. How fitting for a necromancer, Nymuë thought. She much preferred him in his skeletal form.

"Hurry along and bear witness to my masterpiece," Balthazar urged them.

"This is the Dark Lady's realm," Shadowheart spat. "How did you get here?"

The disciple sneered at this question, as if admiring its stupidity: "Simple: I followed you. It seems Shar bears a grudge against General Thorm, and so sought to prevent me from entering in his name. Luckily, you were the perfect agent in helping me slip past her defences. Now the Nightsong is within reach."

"You won't get out of here alive," Lae'zel roared.

"Alive? You haven't been paying attention, have you? You have done an acceptable job thus far, True Souls, but don't delude yourselves. Raise one finger to me and I'd sunder you like lightning would a rotten oak."

Not expecting a reply, Balthazar rose gracefully in the air. The dark elf tried to follow him, but an infinite void spread out beneath her feet.

"Gravity has no place in the Shadowfell," Shadowheart warned. "Come forth, and you will feel a weight lifted from your shoulders. My Mistress will protect us."

The priestess stretched out her arms and threw herself into the depths. She landed nearly thirty metres away. "So be it", Nymuë reflected. Now was a time for a leap of faith. As they plunged into the heart of the storm, the companions discerned shadows murmuring psalms as they passed: "Descend to her"; "Look upon her"; "Listen to her".

"Kill her."

Those words must have had meaning for Shadowheart, for she began to pray: "See my actions, Lady Shar. Hear my words of faith. Blessed Nightsinger, witness my adoration… I have emptied my heart of falsehoods. I have vanquished your foes. Your will shall be done, as sure as night will fall."

As they advanced, the adventurers could see the target of the lightning strikes. It was a disc engraved with silver runes. All the chains of the Shadowfell were attached to it, joining its centre.

Balthazar was already there, gesticulating near the relic.

"No..." Nymuë realised as she landed. Not a relic. A person.

"Balthazar," the stranger said in a calm voice. "Come to add more bars to my cage?"

The woman was an Aasimar. A celestial child born from a deity and a mortal. Her skin was milky white, streaked with silvery veins. Her hands and feet were shackled, but that did nothing to diminish her imposing stature. When their eyes met, the musician knew that the stranger's impassivity was only a facade.

"Or perhaps would you like to lead this Justiciar's blade directly to my heart?" the captive continued.

She took a threatening step towards Shadowheart, but her bonds held her back. Shar's final test required the sacrifice of a Selûnite...

"All this time, and you still fail to appreciate the gifts I bestowed on you, Aylin..." Balthazar sighed. "Sad to see a thing of beauty not recognise its own worth. But General Thorm, he appreciates you. And he wants you close at hand."

"Ketheric. I welcome the sight of him after these hundred years. He whose immortality I supply with my very soul."

The necromancer and the woman called Aylin conversed as if the adventurers were barely present. Intruders in a pattern a thousand times repeated. The dark elf was trying to put the pieces together: if this person - Aylin - was responsible for the general's invulnerability... then she and the Nightsong were one and the same. The relic wasn't an object, but a celestial being imprisoned inside Shar's domain... A daughter of Selûne, offered as an ultimate sacrifice.

Shadowheart wore a determined expression, her hand clenched around her mace. Did she also want to spill blood? Was she thinking of playing the gods' petty game, again and again?

"When referring to General Thorm, you will use the appropriate titles," the necromancer corrected curtly. "Just in case, I've taken some precautions..."

Balthazar turned to the companions, remembering their existence: "Keep back," he ordered. "It will take quite some concentration to secure Aylin for her little journey."

"No," Shadowheart replied.

The half-elf stepped towards the prisoner: "TheNightsong must be sacrificed to Shar! She is my destiny!"

"What do you intend to do?" the dark elf asked Balthazar.

He sighed: "Bringing her back to where she belongs, of course. Aylin's power is beyond your comprehension. She is an Aasimar, bound to a soulcage of my creation, and lending her immortal strength to General Thorm. Her power, his will and… my genius. An unsurpassable feat."

"Don't listen to poor Balthazar," Aylin sneered. "Maggots ate his brain long ago."

"Hold your tongue, Aylin, or I'll take it away from you again. And you, no more questions. No more interference."

The priestess turned to Nymuë, who nodded. Whatever her comrade decided, they couldn't let the necromancer take Aylin: now was their best chance to stop him.

Drawing their weapons, they moved in unison.

"Fools" Balthazar laughed. "You can't stop what is at stakes here."

The Undead's hands glowed: as the rogue fired an arrow at him, a cloud of smoke enveloped them. Circles of invocations appeared at once.

Skeletons, zombies, and rotting corpses invaded the Shadowfell. However, the priestess stood ready: "Vincere est vivere!" she shouted.

A blinding light banished the creatures, leaving only a handful standing. Shar was manifesting through Shadowheart with clear intentions.

The dark elf struck her nearest opponent. The blade sank into its chest like butter, but the monster didn't flinch. In fact, it didn't seem to feel any pain at all. Zigzagging from one corpse to another, the musician slipped her chains under their legs and over their shoulders. She circled faster and faster until the group of undead was bound together.

She tightened her grip, but her hands were shaking. Her shoulder continued to ache and, despite Shadowheart's potions, she was no match for so many adversaries. She had no choice but to come up with another plan.

She raised a hand toward the storm. Her magic flowed through her like a waterfall, drawing lightning to her palm: "Dolor!" she screamed.

The bolt spread along her chains to the trapped creatures. Nymuë felt her fingers tingle slightly from the static electricity, but the undead weren't so lucky: they exploded into a mass of charred flesh.

Lae'zel and Astarion faced the remaining corpses. The warrior reduced the skeletons to dust, while the rogue shot at the monsters from above. Meanwhile, the priestess was struggling. The necromancer teleported away from each of her attacks, like a gust of wind.

Nymuë turned to Aylin and, slowly, the Aasimar gave her a nod.

"Shadowheart!" the dark elf called.

She followed her comrade's instructions. Nymuë and her cast spell after spell, summoning flames and thunder alike. Each time, Balthazar disappeared in a cloud of smoke. But the two women pressed on, leaping to the right, moving to the left. Without even realising it, the necromancer was backing away.

"Let's finish this!" he snarled. "This little game has gone on long enough."

"Indeed, it has," roared a voice.

The Undead let out a cry of surprise when two hands grabbed his face. Aylin slid her arm under his throat, and used her own bounds to pin him down. The necromancer tried to scratch her, but she held him tight.

There were no more corpses to come to Balthazar's aid. The cuts on his cheeks were wide enough for Aylin to slip her fingers in. She crushed his skull into a bloody mass of bone and brain. His body collapsed with a spasm.

"Balthazar has drawn his final rancid breath," she declared. "He will never be raised, for even death didn't want him. And now..."

She stood up, waving her arm theatrically at Shadowheart: "Now, you have come to seek the praise of your wicked goddess. You, who hopes to drive a dagger through my heart..."

"Not a dagger." the priestess retorted. "A spear. My Lady Shar's spear."

A whispering breeze surrounded the companions. From the shadows, a spear darker than night appeared in Shadowheart's hand.

"You will be sealing your own fate," Nightsong observed. "To be a Dark Justiciar is to turn your heart from everything but loss. You will know no love, no joy… only servitude. Until, of course, your mistress inevitably discards you. And there is much she does not tell you… A terrible blood price that may extend beyond my own death."

"You're lying!" the half-elf spat.

"Am I? Do you even understand who I am, little assassin? For I know you, poor lost child, frightened by wolves in the dark."

Shadowheart's anger faded. She staggered: "What did you say?"

"Much has been promised to you, hasn't it? But what has been taken from you? What do you know of your own heart, your own life? I sense so much more in you..."

"Whatever you think you know of me won't matter once I become whom I'm meant to be!" the priestess shouted.

The musician remembered the vision shared by Shadowheart. The wolves in the woods; the moonless night. Shar's emissaries in exactly the right place at exactly the right time... What were the Dark Lady's plans in bringing the priestess here? She hadn't lifted a finger when her former followers were slaughtered by Yurgir, nor when her army was defeated by the druids and the Harpers. So why now? Why go to so much trouble for one disciple among many?

Nymuë could see the doubt in her comrade's eyes. She felt Shadowheart's hand squeeze hers hesitantly, waiting for instructions, for orders. Wasn't she their leader, after all? Not this time. The priestess would have to decide for herself: "Choose your own path, Shadowheart," the dark elf said. "Listen to your heart. We'll be there no matter what."

A purple flash struck the half-elf's palm. Shar was beginning to lose patience.

She glanced back and forth from Aylin to the spear, betraying an indefinable fear, like an animal in search for an escape route. Suddenly, she stepped forward... and threw the weapon over the cyclone. Despair was written all over her face.

"I can't believe it," she murmured. "Lady Shar will disown me... What will happen to me?"

"The real question is what will you do?" the child of Selûne replied. "Your past is not yet lost. And your future is not yet fixed. Lay a hand on me in friendship, not-quite-Sharran, and I will fight the battle that has been waiting for me this last century. Then… oh then, we will have much to discuss."

Shadowheart looked at her companions: Nymuë returned her gaze confidently; Astarion shrugged with a half-smile; and finally, Lae'zel nodded firmly. The priestess touched the Aasimar's shoulder.

The prisoner's chains vanished, and she collapsed. She stared down at her freed arms, longing for their former strenght… Her fists banged the ground.

"Our Lady of Silver, hear me!" she cried. "She Who Guides, the Moonmaiden Selûne. Mother of the so-called Nightsong. THE NIGHTSONG IS NO MORE!"

And the Moonmaiden heard. A silvery glow bathed her beloved child. For a second, and for the very first time, the Shadowfell was illuminated. For in the heart of the void, there was always light. Armour as bright as a moonbeam replaced the Aasimar's rags. Two white wings spread out.

The Nightsong was gone. In her place stood Dame Aylin.

Chapter Text

Selûne's light shimmered in the heart of the Shadowfell. A silver portal, a gift from the goddess herself, opened for the adventurers. Dame Aylin flew off to her final battle, crossing the night sky like a shooting star.

For a split second, Nymuë felt invisible hands grab her legs and wrists, pulling her toward the cyclone. Shar had no intention of letting them leave her domain so easily. Shadowheart screamed.

When freedom came, a familiar warmth drove away the cold. Several figures stood above the companions, the Harpers in full force. Some looked at the portal through which they had emerged, while others pointed to a bright glow in the air.

They were back at the Last Light Inn.

"Unshackled from shadows, she will rise in moonlight glory and carve a path of brightness to the accursed one's second death," Jaheira recited. "So sayeth the wise Alaundo. That beacon of angelic wrath will take the fight to Ketheric, and she will not face him alone. You have done the impossible. You have journeyed to the heart of the cursed lands, and freed the silver child they held captive. For the first time in ages, the general is vulnerable."

"Let's show him how to bleed!" Lae'zel shouted.

She had already risen, less shaken than her comrades by this journey between Planes. The Harper nodded: "It is time for us to act. Taking the Towers won't be easy, and if we wait too long Ketheric will be able to retaliate. At dawn, we will leave for the final battle. Your light will guide our steps to Moonrise, and our blades will pierce the hearts of the cultists. At the ready, Harpers!"

The warriors roared in response, hurried to gather weapons, armour and traps. Nymuë struggled to catch her breath. Just minutes ago, they had been prisoners of the Shadowfell. And now they were going to war?

"The least we can say is that we never get bored with you," Astarion sighed.

"At last, the Absolute will pay!" the warrior smiled. "Her death will prove that even gods can perish."

"I appreciate your murderous zeal. Remind me to let you go first."

"Shadowheart?" Nymuë asked worriedly.

Away from her companions, the priestess clasped her hands to her chest. Her gaze seemed haunted: "When we left the Shadowfell... it was like a nightmare," she murmured. "I heard Lady Shar accusing me of treason. Even worse, she blamed me for defying her, based solely on the allegations of that Aasimar. She punished me, and I…"

She paused, looking at the wound on her palm as if it belonged to someone else: "I thought I knew the limit of plain that this uncurable wound could inflict, but I had no idea. It felt like I was suffering the agony of a thousand people, all at once. My blood was boiling, my hair was on fire... I thought I'd claw my own face off."

Astarion and Lae'zel stopped bickering and approached. The torture had drained Shadowheart's mind of all divine presence for the first time in her life.

"But then, she released me," she continued. "Banished me more like. She said I was an outcast, that all of her children would know me and revile me. I'm alone."

Nymuë gently took her hand: "Look closer, Shadowheart."

"I can't. Don't you understand? I'm a target now. What can I do?"

"What you do best. Have faith."

The priestess stared at her comrades, then raised her eyes to the silver dome above the inn. The moonmaiden's star twinkled overhead.

"I must hear what Aylin has to say," she decided. "All we have to do is hasten Ketheric Thorm's demise."

"At last!" the warrior approved. "Now you're talking like the fighter you are."

"I suppose we can add Shar to our list," Astarion said.

In a magnanimous voice, Lae'zel announced that the next day's training session was cancelled. The thanks she received were sarcastic, to say the least. As they made their way to their camp, Shadowheart's step was light.

It would have been overly optimistic to think that, even on the eve of a battle, the adventurers could enjoy a peaceful evening. No sooner had they pitched their tents than an unpleasant – and oh-so-familiar - voice broke the peace of their sanctuary: "Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming Plane of existence?" Raphael asked.

As usual, the cambion had appeared out of nowhere. He seemed in a cheerful mood, unlike his hosts. Nymuë hoped this was a good sign.

"It returns to the Hells," he went on. "To the very point where it last stood. In the case of our friend Yurgir, the orthon you so handily defeated, he manifested in my House of Hope. He returned to me chastened but intact, his wounds healed, his body restored."

"How fortunate," the dark elf retorted coldly.

The cambion grinned at her: "I can assure you that many of Yurgir's opponents would have liked to get off as lightly as you did. That simpleton thought I would dismember him, but he has his uses, so instead I am reeducating him."

"We delivered the devil," Astarion intervened. "Now I want what I'm owed. We had a deal."

"Indeed we did! I discovered all there is to know about those scars of yours. It's a rather grim tale… even for my tastes. Brace yourself, Astarion, we're about to unveil your destiny..."

The adventurers formed an attentive circle around the devil.

"Carved into that ivory skin of yours is one part of an infernal contract between the archdevil Mephistopheles and your former master, Cazador Szarr. In full, the contract states that Cazador will be granted knowledge of an infernal ritual so vile it has never been performed. The Rite of Profane Ascension."

Nymuë racked her brain, but the name didn't ring a bell. Nor did it for Astarion, judging by his impassive expression.

"It promises to be a marvellous ceremony. Very elaborate, incredibly ancient, and entirely diabolical. If he completes the rite, Lord Cazador will become a new kind of being: the Vampire Ascendant. All the strenghts of his vampiric form will be amplified, and alongside them he will enjoy the luxuries of the living."

"The living?" Shadowheart repeated.

The cambion nodded: "The arousals and appetites of man will return to him and, unlike Astarion, he will have no need of a parasite to protect him from the sun. But the ritual has its price, as all worthwhile things do. Lord Cazador will need to sacrifice a number of souls, including all of his vampiric spawn, if he is to ascend. Imagine how he felt then, when one of them simply disappeared into thin air."

Nymuë froze. A sacrifice? Did Astarion's scars mark him as prey destined for the slaughter? It was terrible to think that he and his siblings had survived centuries of horror, only to meet such an end...

It couldn't be. It wouldnt be. A monster like Cazador should never be given such power, and Astarion was no longer under his control. 'The arousals and appetites of man', Raphael had said... How cynical. Cazador's greed knew no bounds.

But something else troubled the musician. Something just as terrifying as a vampire lord roaming freely in the streets of Baldur's Gate.

"How many?" she demanded.

The cambion raised an eyebrow.

"How many souls must be sacrificed for the Rite of Profane Ascension?"

Raphael's smile was deceptively sweet: "How many would you estimate? It's a fascinating question... For the archdevil Mephistopheles, it's no less than seven thousand."

It was sublte, almost imperceptible, but the dark elf could have sworn she saw Astarion's face twitch. How could he remain so calm after such news? Seven thousand souls, including his own and those of his brothers and sisters! Was there no limit to Cazador's cruelty?

"The only missing ingredient is Astarion. You are the final piece he requires to complete the ritual; your scars bind you to it. Your soul will set off a very wave of death, bringing Cazador his twisted life. And that, my tragic and toothsome friend, is that."

Before they had time to ask one last question, Raphael snapped his fingers and disappeared. Shadowheart and Lae'zel immediately spoke up: "Vampires are formidable enemies. But you would be foolish to underestimate your allies, Astarion. No real power comes from Hellish rituals."

"The price of this ceremony is incredibly high. So high, in fact, that it must leave a mark on the person who performs it. In the end, it is seven thousand and one lives that are sacrificed. You should flee, Astarion."

The two women began to loudly express their views. Only the man whose life was at stake said nothing. Under the dark elf's scrutinising gaze, he merely uttered a thoughtful 'Hummm'.

"That's all you have to say?" Nymuë asked.

"It's a lot to take in."

For someone with his own death sentence engraved on his back, Astarion seemed relatively relaxed. His expression grew more serious as he turned away from their comrades: "What do you think I should do?"

Nymuë considered the options: Shadowheart suggested fleeing, while Lae'zel wanted to confront Cazador. She understood the priestess's reservations; she herself found this ritual utterly terrifying. But although their gith friend reacted passionately, there was an undeniable truth in her words.

Astarion's life would never be truly his as long as Cazador was alive. Everything they could share, joys and sorrows alike... It could never bloom. The vampire lord was too present, too powerful. The rogue's heart may have stopped beating, but it remained locked away, captive of his tormentor.

"You'll never be free if he lives," she whispered.

"I hate how right you are... "

He took a deep breath: "I already knew he'd never leave me alone when I was just one more wretched toy for him to play with. But if I'm the key to this power he craves, he'll hunt me to the ends of Faerun. I need to take the fight to him... and I need you to help me."

Lae'zel and Shadowheart stopped arguing. They nodded enthusiastically.

"You still owe me 40% of your loot," Nymuë reminded him.

"15," the rogue corrected softly.

"At this point, it would be a loss on investment. You can count on me."

"We will hunt down the vampire and kill him!" the warrior swore.

"Or we will fight valiantly while trying," the priestess sneered.

"Thank you."

Astarion's smile was sincere as he looked at his allies, but the musician couldn't help feeling a sense of... unease. There, deep in his scarlet pupils, was something the vampire didn't share with them. A thought born of Raphael's revelations.

Nymuë knew he would reveal more in due time. Yet, several hours later, the feeling remained.

In the early hours of morning, the adventurers marched with the Harpers towards Moonrise Towers. There were about fifty of them, a mere handful compared to Ketheric's army... but Jaheira was far from defeatist.

"Your report tells me that the general is concentrating his forces on Baldur's Gate," she said. "That means the Towers will be poorly guarded."

"Even so, we can't expect a warm welcome," Nymuë warned. "Dame Aylin's release hasn't gone unnoticed."

"That's why our troops will occupy the True Souls on the ground floor, while you join Selûne's daughter. There, at the top of the Towers, you will teach Ketheric how to die."

Their plan had taken shape as they passed the old outpost. Shadows closed in around their regiment, impatient and hungry. "They sense the conflict approaching," Nymuë realised. No matter who would win or lose, they were ready to devour what was left.

The Towers had much changed since their last visit. Only a few days had passed, but the translucent protection had almost disappeared. More ashes than flames, the light that bathed Moonrise had dissipated when the Nightsong had regained her freedom.

A few followers of the Absolute were waiting for them at the entrance. Their skin was rotten and their eyes glowed green. The curse was already beginning to spread. Near the companions, a group of Harpers took a few steps back. Facing a cult was one thing, fighting undead creatures was another!

The torch flames flickered. Nymuë heard Jaheira bark an order to restore calm, but to no avail. Soon, their troops would be reduced to panicked cohorts, and the darkness would eliminate them.

Shadowheart tried to summon a circle of light, but without faith, there were no spells. The priestess looked at her hands in horror. She had to believe, the musician understood; they all had to believe.

At first, her voice was only a whisper above the turmoil:

"Shadows fall,

And hope has fled.

Steel your heart,

The dawn will come.

The night is long

And the path is dark.

Look to the sky,

For one day soon…

The dawn will come."

The dark elf closed her eyes. She remembered the days spent with Elyon lying in the sun, the lessons with Revan near the Gray Harbor docks. She recalled the glistening ocean; she could almost feel the sea spray on her skin. The noise around her had subsided. The creatures continued to draw nearer, but the Harpers had regained their senses. They began to walk in her wake:

"The shepherd's lost,

And his home is far.

Keep to the stars,

The dawn will come.

The night is long,

And the path is dark.

Look to the sky,

For one day soon...

The dawn will come."

A muffled murmur rose. Above the battalion, the dull grey sky had suddenly cleared. A timid - but real - sun shone down on the moving army; the first in a century of darkness. The cultists scattered, as if burned. The musician's voice was firmer now, carrying her words far and wide. Other hymns joined hers:

"Bare your blade,

And raise it high!

Stand your ground,

The dawn will come.

The night is long,

And the path is dark.

Look to the sky,

For one day soon...

The dawn will come."

Her boot struck a stone step. Nymuë looked up: an imposing figure was watching them from the top of the building. When Ketheric Thorm stepped back, Dame Aylin's silver wings appeared.

It was time to storm Moonrise Towers.

Chapter Text

"At the ready Harpers! In this light, there will be victory! In this light, we will avenge the fallen!"

Jaheira's clamour accompanied the adventurers all the way to the Towers. They dodged arrows, repelled assaults, and blocked spells. Every cultist who tried to slow them down was inevitably attacked by a Harper. Soon, they climbed the last steps leading to the general's chambers and, from there, headed for the ramparts.

Dame Aylin and Ketheric were already celebrating their bitter reunion. The moon daughter was furious, while the general remained impassively calm.

"KETHERIC THORM!" she roared. "The Apotaste. At last you've found a god-master that suits you, it seems."

"Aylin. The thief. You stole Isobel from me, and now you think you'll take my life in the bargain?"

"You dare to speak her name? After your crimes innumerable, you would evoke her before me?"

Isobel, the sweet priestess of Selûne and protector of the Last Light Inn. Nymuë remembered the empty tomb in the Thorm mausoleum; the painting of the grieving general before a lifeless body… 'Ssussun elgg oloth'. Light in the darkness.

"Aylin doesn't know she survived," she realised.

Ketheric addressed them: "You! What exactly do you think you've achieved? Do you really believe you can harm me?"

"Be reasonable, Thorm," the musician pleaded. "This isn't who you used to be. This isn't the man Melodia and Isobel loved."

Ketheric seemed set in stone. He was old, and tired.

"It's far too late for that," he replied. "If Melodia could see all I've done, all I'm about to do… she'd know. She'd know her husband died long ago, with Isobel. And unlike her, he could not be brought back."

"Brought back?" Dame Aylin gasped. "What kind of lie is that?"

"The lie of the gods. The lie of hope. There is no redemption for the banished."

"That's not true."

Shadowheart's voice lacked confidence, but her posture was firm. When she met the gaze of the man who, like her, was no longer a disciple of Shar, she said: "Melodia is waiting for you in the afterlife. If Selû... if your ancient goddess forgives you, your souls can still be reunited."

Ketheric's expression softened, bringing him closer to what he must have been once: not just a general, but a man. A father who had been fulfilled by life, before that happiness was torn away from him.

"I wish it could be so," he breathed. "I do. But the Moonmaiden did not intervene when my life was dismantled piece by piece... And when I tried to buy it back, it cost me everything… Everything. To the gods, we are copper pieces in their belts. Tokens to be traded for scraps. You can try to beat me, True Souls, but the gods beat me first."

The ground began to quake; the Towers themselves vibrated as the parasite let out a cry in the companions' head. "They're coming!" it squeaked. "Here... they're coming!"

"What's happening?" Dame Aylin shouted.

"Power like mine comes at a price," Ketheric answered. "And I have long since agreed to pay it. This will end here and now."

The Aasimar took flight, narrowly escaping the increasingly violent tremors. Her silver wings glinted in the night.

"My lord calls me. You will return to your prison, and my daughter will be reclaimed."

On the general's armour, the purple gem sparkled brightly. The second tower near the adventurers exploded; a huge tentacle rose from its depths.

Only Astarion's unexpected intervention saved Nymuë. The appendage hurtled towards Dame Aylin, who threw herself to the side. Not fast enough; it grazed a feather on her back. As during the attack of the Nautiloid on Baldur's Gate, this mere touch disintegrated Selûne's child into a thousand of particles.

The companions rushed upon Ketheric, who made no attempt to avoid them. He disappeared just as the dark elf's chained dagger reached his face.

"What was that?" she exclaimed."The Absolute?"

"No. It was of ghaik origin. And it was... enormous."

"It came from beneath the Towers," Shadowheart added. "Perhaps it had been here all along…"

"Out of the question," Astarion protested. "We're not jumping in there."

The musician approached the gaping hole in the wall. Now that the tentacle had retracted inside, she could see that it was illuminated by a reddish glow. The surfaces were covered with a viscous liquid.

"I'm afraid we have no choice," she concluded.

Clinging to the organic filaments, Nymuë slid into the abyss. Her descent was swift, but the foul smell forced her to hold her breath. She understood quickly that what she had glimpsed from the top was not a light: it was the architecture itself who was red, pulsing like a gigantic intestine. The crimson galleries of the Nautiloid came back to her mind.

This time, they were not prisoners on an alien ship. They were in the heart of a real illithid colony.

"It's a nest," Shadowheart breathed.

Nymuë watched in amazement the hundreds of creatures wandering around them, all of different ages and origins… And all with the same blank, expressionless gaze. How many pilgrims had travelled to Moonrise only to end up in these hells?

"They are empty vessels," Lae'zel confirmed. "If they were once individuals, they now respond to nothing but the whims of the collective mind."

"Shouldn't they have turned into flayers?" the priestess asked.

"Yes... but like us, something is delaying the ceremorphosis. See how our tadpoles are wriggling; whatever created them is not far away."

"We must save Dame Aylin," Nymuë said. "Before she gets infected..."

Shadowheart grabbed her hand as they passed a group of followers slicing up corpses. Without the slightest emotion, they raised and lowered their arms tirelessly. "This is what happens to non-believers," the dark elf understood. Those who couldn't be converted, or who failed. The Absolute found a use for them, one way or another. They moved away from the horrific scene.

As they walked along the winding paths, they discovered a room filled with empty pods, identical to the ones they had been trapped in. Next to it, an antechamber contained several basins of yellowish water. "So this is where they generate parasites. Where they modify them with magic..." Strangely, the pools were empty. If Moonrise had been the starting point for the Absolute's operations, it no longer seemed to be active.

This could only mean one of two things: either the cult had found another place to settle... or it had gathered enough disciples to carry out its plan. The adventurers exchanged knowing glances.

The next rooms were old laboratories, long abandoned. The blood-red operating tables made Nymuë feel nauseous. She had no trouble imagining the horrible experiments that had been conducted there. The Absolute had probably not obtained excellent results on her first attempt. She must have used victims until she found one capable of surviving the intrusion.

They arrived in a hall. Descending further, it opened onto a stretch of brackish water. "Where could Ketheric have gone?" Nymuë wondered.

It had only been a matter of minutes since they had left the top of the Towers, but neither the general nor Dame Aylin had been seen in the colony.

"He can't be far. But... there's something else," Lae'zel declared, raising her hand to her head.

"Do you feel it too?" Astarion grimaced.

"The worms…" Shadowheart whispered. "It's here."

The murmur of the tadpoles grew into a roar. The Absolute. Whoever she was… Whatever she was, she was close.

So was their enemy. Ketheric's imposing stature suddenly emerged from the fetid vapours. Far from being alone…

Three individuals accompanied him: a dark-haired man with a sardonic smile; a pale-skinned woman, whose eyes looked almost blind; and finally, a third figure was kneeling, impossible to discern.

The companions hid in the shadows as the man advanced. He was dressed extravagantly, in a black coat entirely embroidered with gold. Despite his calm demeanour, his voice betrayed his discontent: "You said it was under control."

"It isn't you I answer to, Gortash," Ketheric replied.

"Oh, the general voice. Is this where we salute?"

The woman smiled grimly. Concealed by a cascade of blonde hair, her flesh seemed to move, as if it was made of smoke. What Nymuë had taken for a red leather armour was in fact pieces of human skin, stitched together. She resembled a corpse, dressed in the remains of other corpses.

"Salute, yes," she cackled. "With cleavers through his blood-starved flesh. How it crawls with failure like flies on lick-wet carrion."

"You forget yourself, Orin. I have played my part."

"You've built an army for our masters, true enough," Gortash said. "But what of the astral prism? Rogue True Souls have been flaunting it under your nose all this time... And you ran from them."

Shadowheart tightened her grip on her backpack. These cultists knew about their artefact! And, like Ketheric, they weren't infected. They served the Absolute of their own free will…

As if it was yesterday, the young woman remembered their first encounter with the false deity: "These are my Chosen," she had said. "They speak for me." An elf exuding authority and command; a younger man with a quick, easy smile; and a pale woman with even paler eyes…

These strangers were agents of the cult. The very people around whom this masquerade had been organised.

The sound of steel rang out as Lae'zel drew her blade. Astarion grabbed her arm, pointing to a spot a few metres away: Dame Aylin was kneeling in the middle of magical runes. The Chosen continued to argue: "You've wasted our time, Ketheric. Perhaps we never should have dug your daughter up."

This provocation shattered the general's composure. He rushed at Gortash, but the silver glint of a dagger stopped him ; Orin had moved with lightning speed. Her blade rested firmly against the belligerent's throat.

"So you haven't lost your edge," Gortash taunted. "But you're still not as sharp as Orin is, I wager. The slayer against the undying one. That would be fun to see!"

The woman - the killer, according to Gortash - caressed Ketheric's neck. Her breathing quickened: "His cryptbreath sings to my sinews! Again, again, again, AGAIN!"

The click of her partner's tongue made her step back: "Tss. But he must lead the murdermarch to Baldur's Grave."

"If the weapon is truly in your grasp, Ketheric, might I suggest closing your fist? Orin and I can't wait for you no longer. The plan proceeds: we're going to the city, and we expect you to follow, army and weapon in tow."

The two Chosen headed towards the pool. Looking down, Nymuë saw a vast expanse of water, large enough to accommodate several galleons. At the other end of the chamber, the shadowy figure of Astarion drew closer to Dame Aylin.

Gortash reached out his hand; hidden by the eccentricity of his clothing, his right arm was covered by an impressive golden gauntlet. Like Ketheric's armour, a purple stone was embedded in it. "The edict of Bane!" he shouted.

Orin stepped forward. A third gem was inserted in her dagger: "The lash of Bhaal!" she went on.

The floor trembled. Emerging from the murky waters, four tentacles clung to the corners of the room... finally allowing the companions to see what they were attached to.

The thing looked like a brain, but of phenomenal size. Its cerebral tissue was furrowed with pulsating blood veins. And atop its enormous head ... a crown. A tiara large enough to cover it, forged from a rock harder than steel.

When the creature roared, the jewels of Gortash and Orin flashed. It was as if they were trying to tame the monster, a battle they seem to be struggling with. The brain's tentacles thrashed violently until Ketheric approached the basin: "The testament of Myrkul!" he concluded.

The stone in his armour glowed, adding its power to the other two. Nymuë had forgotten how to breathe. She had even forgotten how to think, so unbelievable was what she was seeing. Her tadpole had fallen silent. It was the Emperor's voice that brought her back to reality: "An elder brain..." he murmured. "One of the cruellest and most powerful creatures in existence… enslaved by mere mortals."

There was almost envy in his tone. This thing controlled the illithid colony, giving orders to every infected being. It possessed tremendous magic... and its enemies could be subjugated using a simple worm.

The illithid Grand Design, manipulated from the shadows by three mortals. The very embodiment of total, sovereign, and absolute control. If all of this was true, Nymuë and her companions were dealing with the greatest religious fraud of all time.

The blood rushed to her head. The world was spinning around her; it took her a moment before she could focus on the Chosen again: "There we are," Gortash continued. "It wouldn't do to fight in front of our guest. Behold, Duke Ravengard... the Absolute!"

Shadowheart stifled a gasp. Nymuë herself had to crouch down, unable to stand on her trembling legs. She knew that name. She had seen that man's face posted all over the city. Grand Duke Ravengard was the protector of Baldur's Gate, the one who guaranteed peace and justice for the people and the patriars alike. The dark elf turned her head in his direction: he was a dark-skinned human, clad in steel armour adorned with the symbol of the Flaming Fists. Not only had the Chosen sent their army to the city, they had also neutralised its potential saviour.

One of the tentacles reached out towards the Duke. Orin clasped his skull between her white fingers: "You fight in vain, Ulderling," she whispered. "Once the worm holds the whip, your shredded flesh will serve us."

A parasite slid along the appendage, and Nymuë gritted her teeth to keep herself still. The creature's high-pitched squeaks reminded her of her own helplessness when she had been infected. The Grand Duke screamed as the worm slithered behind his eyeball. His body went limp.

"Now! It's really time we were going!" Gortash announced cheerfully.

With a leap, he and Orin climbed onto the creature. They stared at Ketheric: "We will empty this place and begin the march. You may catch up with the army once you've retrieved the weapon. And Ketheric: do try not to sulk. You're supposed to be the fearsome general come to conquer the city. And I am the hero who will save it."

Dominating their accomplice from the top of their perfect little monster, Gortash and Orin disappeared. The Chosen, the Grand Duke and the elder brain disintegrated in a matter of seconds.

But Nymuë knew that the Absolute was still there, beyond the Towers. She and her army had set off for Baldur's Gate.

Chapter Text

The illithid colony was eerily silent. Across the Towers, the sounds of battle had faded away. It was as if, with the disappearance of the elder brain, everything had suddenly evaporated.

The calm before the storm. The void preceding the apotheosis.

Even Ketheric was quiet. Astarion was halfway to Dame Aylin, while Shadowheart and Lae'zel waited for the dark elf's instructions. "Let's go," she decided. "Let's not keep the general waiting."

The three companions emerged from their hidings. Ketheric showed neither surprise nor anger. What they had witnessed was of no importance, for their fate would soon be sealed.

"There you are," he greeted them. "What is it, I wonder, that draws you toward death, like a moth to light? You could have run away. Absconded with the prism, the one thing that could prevent me from fulfilling my destiny. But the lure of one's destiny is irresistible, isn't it?"

The general pondered for a moment: "Perhaps you hoped to learn your place in history, before you are erased from it. A bright flash of clarity before the snuffing-out."

"And what is our place?" Nymuë asked.

"To die, so I might finally live. Let us speak plainly. My lord Myrkul gave me the one thing I desired, the one thing that no other god could grant me. My daughter's life returned. Her heart beating once more. For that, he asked that I serve as his Chosen, join Orin and Gortash to grow the cult of the Absolute, and then... take control of it."

Behind Ketheric, Astarion had almost reached the Aasimar's cell.

"You are planning on betraying your allies?" the musician questioned.

"Yes. My lord has never had a more devoted follower. I have fought great wars before, in the service of other gods, and other powers. But for Myrkul, I would condemn all of Faerûn to death. You are all that stands between me and my destiny, and you made the mistake of bringing the prism here. So I'm going to kill you. Then, I will raise you as my servant."

"That's not what you want," she murmured.

The young woman took a step forward without taking her eyes off the general. The runes around the Nightsong had stopped glowing.

"To see your wife and daughter again, you must become the man they once loved."

"There is no repentance," Ketheric denied. "No release… My debt can never be repaid."

He began to back away. Although ready to fight, the old man was tired. He resembled the god he served: ancient and decayed. His gaze shifted from the three women in front of him to the bottomless pit left behind by the brain after its departure. The dark elf's heart pounded wildly in her chest.

"He is here," the general whispered.

He stretched out his arms as if to embrace the invisible: "He is watching. He is listening. He is... He is... eternal."

Stunned, the musician watched him fall into the abyss. She leapt forward, but her fingers only brushed empty air. Astarion and Dame Aylin joined them: "It's not over," said the latter. "Death cannot take Ketheric, for he is his faithful apostle. He has merely hastened his destiny... and ours."

From the depths, a voice from beyond the grave echoed: "Who dares end one who belongs to me?"

A litany of screams exploded in their ears, like the howls of a thousand souls. At the bottom of the chasm, a green crack appeared. Something was making its way up from the catacombs.

"I am the smile of the worm-cleansed skull," the entity thundered. "I am the regrets of those who remain, and the restlessness of those who are gone. I am the haunt of mausoleums, the god of graves and age, of dust and dusk. I am Myrkul, Lord of Bones, and you... you have corrupted my Chosen."

The Father of the Dead, the Reaper, the Old Skull... so many titles for the god of decomposure and corruption. A god whose pantheon had ceased to exist years ago, reduced to nothing more than legends... Until now.

For it was indeed an avatar of his macabre divinity who stood before the companions. He resembled a huge skeleton, topped with a triangular crown. On each of his shoulders, a corpse held an urn. One of his hands emitted green flames, while the other brandished a scythe. He was Fatality itself, with his toothless smile and empty eyes... determined to seize them.

"I am Death," the creature continued. "And far more than the end, I am a beginning."

"Get ready," Nymuë warned.

The light in Myrkul's palm shattered. Emaciated figures rose in its wake, revealing five, seven, twelve undead. Shadowheart summoned celestial flames between the monsters and her comrades, Lae'zel brandished her sword, and Nymuë her chained dagger. Behind them, Dame Aylin flew towards Myrkul, while Astarion drew his bow.

An arrow pierced the skull of one of the corpses, and two more crashed into the priestess's shield. But the dead continued to rise.

"There's no point in exhausting ourselves against them," the dark elf realised. As long as Myrkul was there, they could only slow them down at best. But how could they reach the Lord of Bones? Lae'zel was thrown away by a powerful blow. The dead moved closer.

The musician prayed to every god she knew as she pointed her finger at the daughter of Selûne: "Extende!" she chanted.

The Aasimar's limbs lengthened. Her silhouette grew taller and taller, until she reached the shoulder of the Father of the Dead. The monster roared.

"Now we're even..." theNightsong smiled. "You have a face worthy of your soul, oathbreaker!"

She lunged at the creature, titan against titan, scythe against sword. Myrkul pushed her back and struck her in the stomach. When the Aasimar recoiled, her gigantic feet tore cracks in the ground.

Astarion and Lae'zel joined their companions. The undead now poured in from all sides, each corpse thinning the priestess's wall of flame a little more. Soon, they would break through.

Every ounce of Nymuë's energy was focused on Dame Aylin to maintain her spell. She had to hold on.

"Shadowheart!" Astarion shouted. "Expand your flames!"

"I can't create more!" the half-elf protested.

"Try harder!"

Any sharp retort died on her lips wen the rogue pulled two bottles of burning oil from his backpack. Infinitely rare, and highly flammable.

"The Harpers' private stash," the thief said.

"Can't you control yourself?" Lae'zel roared.

"Thank the gods for that, or I never would have found this."

Astarion threw a bottle at the githyanki and resumed his position. Shadowheart psalmodied. The flames grew, but too slowly. The dead continued to advance by dozens. Suddenly, like a wave, Dame Aylin's shadow rose above the corpses. Her legs swept them aside.

"Now!" Shadowheart ordered.

Lae'zel and Astarion launched their projectiles. The undead lit up like torches in the darkness, and then, they collapsed for good.

Nymuë's magic was slipping away, too weak to be sustained for so long. Dame Aylin began to shrink. Myrkul could not be defeated in single combat, he was a god; and even if the daughter of Selûne managed to wound him, he would simply regenerate. They had to strike him - just once – with enough force to send him back to his lair. The dark elf's eyes looked up at the ceiling, just below the foundations of the Towers.

"Dame Aylin!" she called.

The Aasimar turned her head briefly in her direction, parrying her opponent's scythe at the last second. When her gaze followed hers, she cursed: "Are you out of your mind?"

Nymuë ignored her protests: "Shadowheart, prepare a sanctuary!"

The half-elf nodded. Dame Aylin had returned to her normal size now, and was disengaging from her foe. Raising her hand, she released a light so bright that it blinded Myrkul's avatar. It was the signal Nymuë was waiting for.

"When you're ready, little bard!" the Aasimar shouted.

The dark elf rushed towards her, dodging blows and flames. She took her hand as the daughter of Selûne spread her wings: "Take me as high as you can," she said.

The two women flew away, illuminating the entire colony. The foundations of Moonrise drew closer. "Not yet," Nymuë thought. "Just a little more. Soon..."

Myrkul's scythe nearly split them in two. Impact with the surface was imminent. "Ten," the musician counted. "Seven, five..."

"Detono!" she screamed.

A gust of wind escaped from her hand and the ceiling exploded. Dame Aylin threw herself to the side as rock fragments as big as houses rained down on Myrkul's avatar. A few at first, then more and more until they formed a mountain.

"Enjoy your funeral!" the Aasimar hissed.

The celestial child rushed towards Shadowheart's shield, taking refuge inside at the last second. She reinforced the spell with her own light.

"Behind me!" she barked.

The God of Death howled in rage beneath the rubble. He struggled for a moment, long enough for what remained of Ketheric Thorm to be buried under his own home.

Silence returned to the illithid colony. Shadowheart and Dame Aylin's shared shield disappeared.

"The villain is DEAD!" the Nightsong roared.

She slammed her fist into the nearest rock, splitting it in two. "The wretch!" she screamed. "Together, we have crushed him, brain and body! And now… We pick our way toward our fates unleashed!"

The Aasimar destroyed everything in her path, debris, bones and illithid flesh. Her fury was as beautiful as it was terrible. But she was too quick to savour the death of her tormentor. She did not see the mountain of rock suddenly rising behind her.

"Dame Aylin!" tried to warn Shadowheart.

Emerging from the ruins like a devil out of a box, the Lord of Bones raised his weapon. Aylin couldn't avoid it, and he couldn't miss her. Time seemed to freeze.

"Ketheric, STOP!" cried a voice.

The blade of the scythe stopped just in front of its prey. Myrkul's avatar straightened up. Behind the companions, the cleric Isobel stepped forward.

"My love?" the Nightsong stammered.

Isobel Thorm stared at the creature that had once been her father. Bones, corpse, decay and death. All that remained was a cold, cruel puppet serving an even colder, crueller god.

"I loved you once," she whispered. "I will continue to love who you were. But you have died long ago."

The huge skeleton staggered. The embodiment of the Old Skull and his disciple clashed, pushing each other away. The monster dropped his scythe and the carcasses on his shoulders tremble.

"May the Moonmaiden have mercy on you," Isobel continued. "May she take what remains of your soul, and grant you the peace you have fled for too long. I am here, Ketheric, and I release you from your suffering. And I... I release myself from you."

The Lord of Bones was now screaming. But it was no longer the litany of a thousand souls; at times, it almost sounded like a man's voice. The creature shrank, taking on a humanoid form clad in heavy armour. Ketheric Thorm stared at his daughter: "Isobel..." he moaned.

A green fire burst from his lips and pupils. As easily as he had taken possession of his body, Myrkul now discarded his Chosen. Without a word, without a sound, the master of Moonrise Towers collapsed.

Only then did Nymuë realise she had been holding her breath. Her heart tightened and she reached out to Astarion. Their fingers intertwined.

"Is this real?" Dame Aylin murmured.

Isobel turned round. Various emotions flashed across her face.

"My love... You were dead. I saw your body..."

The cleric brushed the Aasimar's cheek with a hesitant finger, as it might crumble at her touch: "I'm here now," she said. "And... so are you. As for my father..."

She glanced at the body lying a few metres away: "... He can't hurt us any longer."

"I dreamt every night that you'd come back to me. That somehow it was all a nightmare dawn would undo."

"I had no dreams at all," Isobel replied. "Nothing but darkness. And when I awoke... my father said you were dead."

"His soul was poisoned by the God of Death," Shadowheart intervened.

The two lovers looked at the adventurers: "Isobel! These are the soldiers that freed me most valiantly from the Shadowfell. They fought well."

"I suppose you must have questions..." the cleric sighed. "Just know that... by killing Ketheric, you set him free. You set Aylin free, these lands... and myself."

"I'm sorry," Nymuë whispered softly.

"Don't be. I will mourn the man he once was. There was a time when he was everything to me."

"Until you die," Lae'zel guessed.

"I still don't know how, or why it happened. But when I awoke, I saw my father's face... horribly changed. Hideously warped. So..."

"You ran away."

Isobel took a deep breath: "I promise I'll tell you more but... Not now, not here. I just want to leave."

"I'll take you back to the surface, my love," Dame Aylin stated. "We have a lot of things to catch up, you and I... Will you follow us, companions?"

Nymuë exchanged glances with her comrades. On the former Chosen's armour, the purple gem sparkled brightly. The very same that had been able to control the elder brain…

"One more thing to do," she declared.

Chapter Text

Their pyre was nothing impressive. Using debris from the illithid colony, the adventurers had improvised a funeral bed. The ashes scattered as they laid Ketheric Thorm to rest. Nymuë had no speech, nor farewell for the former general. This wasn't his first grave, after all.

"If he had won, the Myrkulite wouldn't have bothered," Astarion grumbled.

"Correct. He would have brought us back to life so we could serve him," the dark elf confirmed. "But in his final moments, he fought against himself."

"For Isobel," Shadowheart said. "Not for us."

The musician looked at the corpse. Death had finally taken what was rightfully hers. Ketheric's body was already cold, and only his purple gem still gave off a little warmth. With her dagger, Nymuë removed it.

It was a strange object, as long as a hand and very light. The artefact vibrated with an energy that was both foreign and familiar. Her magic seemed to echo it.

The astral prism made a noise from Shadowheart's backpack. As the priestess examined it, a portal similar to the one summoned by Vlaakith materialised. The companions grabbed their weapons, but only the Emperor emerged.

"You're able to leave the astral prism now?" Nymuë exclaimed.

"A temporary reprieve," the flayer informed them. "With the brain on its way to the city, its influence here is weakened."

It couldn't take its eyes off the stone. When they had discovered the Absolute, the dark elf had detected greed in the illithid's voice. Now, she realised that it was fascination.

"Remarkable," it whispered. "Truly. The situation is finally clear. The Absolute is neither god or man. It is the elder brain you saw, held here by those three against its will... The crown it wears controls it, and these stones control the crown. It has been dominated."

Nymuë gazed for a moment at the sparkling gem in her hands. This thing – this tiny thing - was a fragment that allowed her to dominate a collective mind... She found it hard to believe. What unparalleled foes they faced, if they had managed to subdue such a creature!

"What are these stones?" Shadowheart asked.

"The crown's markings suggest it was forged in Netheril," the Emperor replied. "An ancient empire whose mastery over magic rivalled that of the gods."

"It didn't do them much good, from what I recall," the dark elf scoffed.

"Indeed. Nonetheless, some of their works remain... This is a crown of domination. The stones were taken from its crest… They are netherstones, imbued with the ability to control its wearer. They are the source of the parasites' abilities. This must be what elevates their potential."

"And the reason why nobody could heal us..." Nymuë understood.

Karsus, the former master of Netheril, was a renowned mage in his day. He had founded his own kingdom, aspiring above all else to join the pantheon. Legend said that he achieved it for a second... and nearly destroyed the entire world in the process.

This annihilated all magic for a time, and cost him his life. "What other creations had he made?", the musician wondered. "And what would happen if they fell into the wrong hands?"

"Do you know who our enemies are?" Astarion questioned.

"One of them only. Lord Enver Gortash, an arms dealer and a slaver. A worshipper of Bane, the god of Tyranny. The other is a mystery to me. But the way she spoke, it is most likely she follows Bhaal... the god of Murder."

"And Ketheric was a disciple of Myrkul..." Shadowheart thought aloud.

"The Absolute is a front. A façade for the three gods of death: the tyrant, the assassin and the necromancer. Dangerous when they are alone... Formidable when they are working together. Our real enemies are none other than their Chosen."

"They are not invulnerable," Lae'zel retorted. "We have just proven it!"

"And you have no choice but to continue," the illithid agreed. "We prepare for the fight of our lives, and the lives of everyone in Faerûn. The army of the Absolute is marching on Baldur's Gate as we speak. Within its wall, an elder brain brimming with power is ready to turn everyone within its reach into mind flayers. All it needs is an order. We must wrest control from the Chosen before that happens… we must take their stones. Our chances of success are slim, but failure is not an option. I will be your shield, and you will be my sword."

Nymuë suppressed a laugh. The Emperor had a way with words, she had to admit it... But what kind of shield could it be, well-hidden inside the astral prism? The musician wondered what it had to gain from all this. She was willing to believe that its former self was still present, but she was not naive enough to think it was acting out of altruism.

Originally, the elder brain served the illithid's ambition for conquest. Perhaps this particular one found the idea of replacing the collective mind with its own appealing.

When the Emperor returned to the artefact, the young woman looked at her netherstone. Hard battles awaited them... and she wasn't sure she knew all her enemies.

Part of the towers had collapsed. The throne room had survived, and was occupied by the victors. With the help of her Harpers, Jaheira had set up a camp to treat the wounded.

"What happened down there?" she asked the adventurers. "Something appeared in the sky... a brain. Ketheric's army followed it south, abandoning the fight! We eliminated as many True Souls as we could, but most of them fled."

"They're heading for Baldur's Gate," Nymuë answered.

The dark elf and her companions informed the veteran of what they had witnessed. The elder brain, the Chosen of the Dead Three, the netherstones... Jaheira did not interrupted them. She seemed neither amused nor incredulous at their report.

"History repeats itself," she declared, "and our enemies spread like rub-rot. Treat one patch, and two more bloom in its place! Reminds me of old times."

Noticing Nymuë's astonished look, the Harper smiled: "Need I remind you that Bhaal threatened Baldur's Gate a century ago? I've had my share of battles with the Dead Three. Mind flayers too. But I've never dreamed of seeing gods and illithids working in consort... It is most disturbing."

The adventurers exchanged grave glances. If even Jaheira had reservations... what chance did they have? Faced with gods and monsters, they were nothing...

"Take courage," the veteran continued. "You have killed a man who could not die, and stripped the Absolute's army of its general. You have a netherstone, and you're on the scent of two more. These Chosen have reason to fear you, and my men and I would like to be at your side when you confront them. Here."

She handed them a grey stone covered in enigmatic runes. A memory flashed through Nymuë's mind; a similar artefact that Revan had brutally rejected as she finished filling her backpack.

"It's a sending stone," Shadowheart recognised.

Things could have been so different. Would the musician have called her mentor for help after the Nautiloid crashed? Would he have come? The young woman's gaze fell on her companions, ending with the white-haired elf.

Would she have met them?

"Isobel and Dame Aylin have one too," Jaheira told them. "I took the liberty of sending a messenger to the Emerald Grove. You and I have old allies there. I have a feeling you will need them when the time comes to strike."

"Is that really a good idea?" the dark elf asked. "We don't know how strong our enemies are, or even the size of their army. We may be outnumbered. All those people... we can't be their hopes."

"Can't you now?" the Harper laughed. "But didn't you save them when you could? No battle is ever secured in advance. What is certain, however, is that you will be defeated if you give up now."

"How will your messenger reach the Grove? The shadows..."

"... will disappear soon enough. Now that Ketheric is gone, the curse that afflicted these lands will fade. It will take years for nature to reclaim its rights, but in time, life will return. The Risen Road should also be clear. It will lead you directly to Baldur's Gate."

"Jaheira..." Nymuë murmured. "Thank you."

For a moment, the veteran looked surprised. But that moment passed when a group of Harpers entered to report. With a final smile, she pointed to the throne room where the imposing figure of Dame Aylin had kept most of the warriors at bay.

The adventurers joined the Aasimar and the cleric, who were too busy gazing tenderly at each other to notice them. The daughter of Selûne greeted them with joy: "Ah, there you are! I have awaited your arrival with great anticipation. Feel my voice rattle your bones as I proclaim our victory! Moonmaiden, Selûne, hear me: Ketheric Thorm, traitor and apostle of Myrkul, is dead at last! My mate most high, darling Isobel, is safe and well, and returned to my embrace."

"Aylin!" exclaimed said mate.

"Blessings upon the slayers of the wicked one!"

"We couldn't have done it without you," Nymuë replied, holding back a laugh.

"We are a powerful party, indeed. Faerûn itself trembles at our touch! My darling Isobel says we will stay allied at your side, and I am pleased to hear it. We will set up camp at the Last Light Inn with Jaheira's troops. When your call comes, we will destroy your enemies."

"I was wondering... How did a divine child like you end up to be trapped in the Shadowfell?" Astarion questioned.

"A sad story, my friend... Ketheric Thorm never did trust me, even when he worshipped the Moonmaiden. From day one, he was threatened by my love for Isobel and her love for me."

"There was reason to be sceptical," the rogue retorted. "You are immortal, after all..."

Nymuë felt his gaze on her, but her companion quickly looked away. "What's his point?"

"I understand it's strange," Isobel intervened. "There's an imbalance between Aylin and me. But I suppose loving Aylin felt the same as loving myself. It was natural. I know that one day I will see Death again, but in the meantime... shouldn't we have the right to just be?"

The high elf frowned without answering. The Aasimar squeezed her beloved's hand: "When Isobel died – curse the day, the hour! -, I mourn bitterly, and so did Ketheric. But his pain could be touched by no aid, no boundary. He turned to wretched Shar, the Lady of Loss, for relief. And she whispered into his ear, poisoning his mind. He and his loathsome advisor Balthazar lured me into the Shadowfell, claiming they'd found someone in need of my aid. They trapped me in their infernal cage. I was killed, murdered, made dead, over and over by Justiciars of every make and kind. I was reborn each time, for it is my nature. And Ketheric fed upon my immortality all the while."

"Which brings us to an unanswered question..." Isobel murmured, pointing at Shadowheart.

Since the start of the conversation, the priestess had not stopped fidgeting. She seemed as frightened as she was nervous…

"What do you know about me?" she asked abruptly. "You spoke of my past, being chased by wolves. And apart from the audience present, I told no one about that."

"There is nothing I can tell you that you do not already know yourself," the Aasimar divulged. "They trained you well, trained you hard. Chiselled away any part of you that did not fit their plan. They made you forget."

"I chose to do that," Shadowheart protested. "For the mission. To protect Shar's..."

"Shar's secrets, yes. That is an old song, girl. Your goddess cares more for her precious plots than she does her devotees. When you freed me, you severed a bond between me and that dog, Thorm. A bond of pain, that he was inflicted upon me. When I laid eyes on you, I sensed a similar bond. You, tethered to two others, someplace distant. A bond that had been weakened during a Selûnite rite long ago."

"A rite?" Nymuë repeated.

Dame Aylin nodded: "It is a common tradition amongst Selûne's followers to send their children into the woods to find their way home, relying solely on the moonlight. But that night, Shadowheart... things had gone awry. One child never came back. She was taken."

"These two people..." the half-elf breathed. "Who are they?"

"You already know. You may have forgotten their faces, but they are a reflection of your own. Your mother and father live still."

"No, it can't be! I'm an orphan."

"And who told you that?" the Aasimar retorted. "Your adoptive family? You are not to blame. You were young, impressionable. They took you because they wanted to break and remake you. But you are a child no longer. You are a woman, one who knows what must be done."

"My parents..."

The priestess turned to her companions, her eyes wide: "... I need to save them," she whispered.

Nymuë smiled, while Astarion and Lae'zel shrugged resolutely: "Eliminate a vampire lord, save Orpheus, free your parents..." the gihtyanki muttered.

"You're forgetting the two dead gods and the elder brain," the dark elf noted innocently.

"Tch'k. Child's play."

"Your parents are with your abductors, Shadowheart," Dame Aylin continued. "You will need to return to their lair, but be warned... You may have once thought of them as comrades, mentors, friends, even lovers. They will all be enemies now."

"Then I'll need every advantage it seems…" the priestess replied. "Thank you."

"A debt repaid. You returned my life unto me. Now go and claim your own."

The Nightsong's expression darkened as she stared at the half-elf's wounded hand: "Shar will continue to torment you. She is a spiteful creature. This will not stop until you take action."

"I'm used to pain," Shadowheart retorted.

"It is not just physical pain, girl. As long as you bear that mark, part of you will still belong to the Lady of Loss. No other divine realm will open its gate to you after you die. The influence of your wound will grow with the years. So will the suffering. Many have gone mad fighting it. Your quest extends far beyond saving your parents: you will have to save yourself. Allow the Moonmaiden to guide you at last, as she has always wanted to."

"I've been lied to, my whole life," the priestess murmured. "And I was gullible enough to believe it."

Nymuë heard a sharp gasp to her right. Lae'zel was clenching her jaw. Despite their differences, the warrior and the priestess were enduring a very similar ordeal...

"I think a part of me always knew," the half-elf resumed. "A part that Shar denied to me. Let her send her faithfuls: I'll be ready."

She turned to her comrades. "We'll be ready," Nymuë confirmed.

Shortly after bidding farewell to the Harpers, the companions set off again. The timid sunbeams lit their way, caressing a land that had long been deprived of its embrace. Already, the effects of Ketheric Thorm's death were showing: shadows no longer lurked around the travellers, and the air was clearer. Birds fluttered above their heads. Jaheira was right: soon, life would return to Moonrise.

They walked for several days, stopping only to eat and sleep. The army of the Absolute had made no effort to cover its tracks, and the trail was easy to follow. At dusk on the sixth day, they arrived at an old, abandoned barn. Its roof was half-collapsed and its walls were fragile, but to the exhausted adventurers it was akin to a luxury inn.

"That's the first dwelling we've seen since we left Moonrise," Lae'zel remarked. "Baldur's Gate must not be far."

"Less than a day's walk," Nymuë answered.

"We'll go through Rivington first", Shadowheart informed them. "That's where we'll find the entrance to Wyrm's Rock fortress, the seat of the patriars."

The priestess contemplated the fire for a few seconds: "I think someone will be waiting for us there," she added.

Since they had left, the half-elf had not mentioned what Dame Aylin had revealed to them. She wasn't the only one who had taken refuge in silence: Astarion, just as Nymuë herself, had gradually withdrawn as they approached the city. Returning home had never seemed so frightening...

"Shar's followers should be watching for our arrival. I think we can use them to find my parents. Their invitation will be a trap, of course, but till we play along, they won't attack us."

"What should we look for?" Nymuë asked.

"Rivington is the most obvious crossing point. If I wanted to intercept a newcomer, I'd find a spot near the bridge."

"Speaking of family reunions..." Astarion muttered.

The dark elf turned to him. She hadn't had a chance to hear his opinion on the Rite of Ascension since Raphael's visit... and she suspected that this question was the reason for his taciturn mood.

"With Baldur's Gate so close, Cazador's influence is growing. I fear we may receive a... visit from my brothers and sisters. This would allow us to gather informations about this ritual..."

"Do you think the other spawn know how to stop it?" Shadowheart queried.

"There's a good chance they'll attack us by surprise," the rogue evaded. "Probably at night. Unless Cazador has changed their instructions, most of them will be in the lower city, looking for new prey. I suggest we remain vigilant even once we're in town."

He gave them his most angelic smile, but to no avail. Nymuë's grey eyes stared at him impenetrably.

"These Gortash and Orin," Lae'zel continued. "They have been based in Baldur's Gate for months. Years, perhaps; Bane's Chosen is supposed to be a politician. They must have a network, agents in every corner... And as much as I hate to admit it, they do have the upper hand."

"Lae'zel is right," Shadowheart agreed. "We risk being arrested - or worse - as soon as we pass through the city gates."

"I doubt it," the musician contradicted. "In the illithid colony, Gortash pretended to be the 'hero of Baldur's Gate'. The Dead Three's plan is a conspiracy. Which means they won't attack us openly."

"And they need the stone we're carrying," Astarion added.

"Exactly. What we need is our own information network. And I happen to have a few leads... "

The young woman immediately caught the full attention of her comrades.

"You're thinking of your mentor?" the priestess understood.

"Revan. He's been a member of the Guild for over twenty years."

The rogue whistled in admiration: "And I, who imagined a group of penniless thieves... You never cease to amaze me, darling."

"The Guild?" Lae'zel asked.

"One of the largest criminal organisations in Baldur's Gate. Fake titles, smuggling, mercenaries..."

"Charlatans, black markets..." Astarion hummed.

"... They rule from the city's sewers, in rivalry - or sometimes cooperation – with the Zentharim. Nine-Fingers jealously guards her business, and always keeps an eye on newcomers. If anyone knows what the Absolue is up to in the city, it's her."

"So, you lived in the sewers during your stay in Baldur's Gate?"

"Well, not really. I was never a full member of the Guild, just... 'Revan's kid'. I did odd jobs from time to time, provided diversions during the heists... But that's all. It earned me the honour of a room, an income, and direct access to underground passages to avoid any... unwelcome encounters on the surface. But I never had access to their headquarters."

"Did Revan refuse it?" Astarion inquired.

"No," the musician replied firmly. "I did."

The adventurers gazed at the horizon as the sun completed its long descent. Soon, a light appeared below. Then a second, and a third.

"What is that?" Shadowheart breathed.

Nymuë stood up. She walked towards the half-collapsed mill, and climbed the wall. The roof overlooked the valley.

"Incredible..." Astarion whispered behind her.

He had reached the top faster than the other two, whose angry cries suggested a perilous ascent. His hand brushed the dark elf's as Baldur's Gate shone before their eyes.

"Here we are," the rogue said. "Finally."

His fingers caressed Nymuë's cheek, placing a kiss as light as a feather on her lips. The young woman smiled before responding to his embrace.

They were home.