The sea breeze carries Harald’s voice as he strides off the ruin’s weathered roof, Karlach at his side, their silhouettes shrinking against the golden dawn. “Ocean’s calling,” he says, casual as you please. I stand near the edge of the stone, arms crossed, the Dragonbone Mace heavy at my side, its jagged weight a strange comfort against the chaos swirling in my mind. His parting words linger—don’t go poking around in there without me, might be a powerful lich sleeping inside—delivered with that infuriating nonchalance, as if dropping the possibility of a lich were no more remarkable than mentioning the weather.

Who is that man? I've asked myself this countless times since the Nautiloid, and I'm no closer to an answer. A man—or something more—plucked from nowhere, shirtless and smeared with demon blood, wielding power that defies all common sense. I saw him tear through that ship like a storm, rescuing me from the pod with his bare hands. I saw him move faster than thought, fists shattering devils, magic cast at lightning speeds without a hint of incantations… an adult Red Dragon fleeing at his command. I saw him command an arsenal of weapons, as he casually offered me what I know -- deep in my heart -- is the finest mace I have ever seen! I saw him pull out a dagger of an impossible sharpness – what must have been a legendary divine artifact – from thin air, like it was nothing at all. And now, here he stands, casually jesting with Karlach, parading around in that absurd fishing hat like it's some crown. It is…. Somehow infuriating.

My fingers brush the pendant at my chest, Shar’s silver sigil cool against my skin, grounding me. My mission—retrieve the Astral Prism, deliver it to the cloister—should be my focus. It’s all that matters, all the Dark Lady demands. Yet Harald’s presence gnaws at me, like an annoying splinter in my thoughts. He saw me snag the Prism from the pod’s wreckage, our eyes locking for that fleeting moment, and he said nothing. Does he know what it is? What I am? Or is he simply a fool, blundering through this mess, albeit one far too powerful to care?

The memory of our minds brushing—of his warmth seeping into me, a sunlit glade and peaceful, godless sky flickering behind my eyes—stirs something I can’t name. Our link felt… comforting. Gentle. Deliberate, like he was offering something I’ve never known. Was it a lie wrapped in a veneer of kindness? Was he merely seeking to lower my guard? I clench my jaw, pushing the sensation down, but it lingers, warm and insistent, a ghost of light in the dark corners of my mind.

And then there’s the name he called me—Jenevelle. It slipped from his lips back on the Nautiloid, casual yet pointed. The sound of it hit me like a half-remembered dream, a shiver of déjà vu that rippled through me, unsettling and familiar all at once. Did he know me from before? How could he?

My past is a void to me, a black expanse erased by the cloister’s rites before this mission began. They took my memories—nearly everything—leaving only Shar’s will to fill the gaps. Shadowheart is who I am now, a name I have chosen for myself, forged in her service, honed by her shadows. But Jenevelle… it echoes in my skull, a whisper against the silence, tugging at threads I didn’t know existed.

A wave of vertigo follows a shocking suspicion. Could I really have forgotten my own name?

The idea feels absurd, and yet… it clings to me, a nagging suspicion I can’t shake. I didn’t believe Harald’s excuse for a second – he knows something. But what? What does he see when he looks at me? Does he sense the fractures beneath my mask, the pieces I’ve lost to the Dark Lady’s altar? My chest tightens, a flicker of panic I refuse to name, and I press my palm harder against the pendant, willing Shar’s cold clarity to drown it out.

Her cold whispers coil tighter in my skull, a familiar hiss that wraps around my thoughts like thorns—trust is a blade turned inward, independence is your shield. I’ve survived the cloister’s shadows, the years of training that stripped me bare and rebuilt me in her image. Endless nights in those damp, stone halls, the air heavy with incense, my hands bloodied by tasks I can no longer recall.

Shar’s whispers aren’t as comforting as they once were. They do not quell the nagging doubts. I… I was a child once… wasn’t I? Before the cloister, before Shar—there must have been something else, someone else.

Did I ever have a family? I try to remember the faces blurred by time and divine will. But every time I reach for them, the void yawns wider, and Shar’s presence grows colder, sharper, cutting away the questions.

I don’t need Harald—or anyone. I’ve walked alone through darkness thicker than this, and I’ll do it again.

And yet… here I am, tethered to this group, to him, by a parasite and a promise I didn’t ask for, a chain I can’t break.

My hand twitches, a sudden, searing pain lancing through it, and I stifle a gasp. The Mark—a purple scar thick with Lady Shar’s presence—flares to life, a jagged wound etched into my hand, glowing faintly with a sickly purple light. I’ve wondered where it came from or its intended purpose. Was this some sort of rite of passage? A test by my Lady, meant to train or temper me? Sometimes, the pain seems to be guiding me – at other times, it feels purposeless; random.

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And yet, now, at this moment, I am certain that it’s not just pain: it’s a warning, a punishment rendered upon my flesh – and mind -- by the Dark Lady herself. The agony pulses in time with my heartbeat, sharp and electric, like needles driven through my skin, twisting deeper with every breath. I clench my fist, biting my lip to keep from crying out, the taste of freshly drawn blood sharp on my tongue.

Jenevelle.

The name dances behind my eyes again, and the pain spikes, a white-hot lash that steals my breath, and it is all I can do to keep from falling to my knees.

Did I know that name once? Was it mine? Shar’s whispers turn to a screech—forget, obey, serve—and I force the thoughts down with some effort, burying them beneath layers of discipline, of faith.

The mark ebbs, a dull throb lingering in my hand, a reminder of My Lady’s guidance. I straighten, shaking off the tremor, my gaze drifting to the ruin’s shadowed entrance below.

Harald’s warning rings in my ears—don’t go in there without me—but it only fuels the restless fire in my chest. He doesn’t command me. I’m no pawn in his game, no matter how many dragons he frightens away or how many devils he crushes. My fingers tighten around the mace’s handle, its weight grounding me, and I get ready to take a step toward the entrance, defiance burning away the last of my hesitation.

Lae’zel’s voice cuts through my reverie, sharp as her blade. “Tsk’va. You stand there, lost in your brooding, while the Kwe’vhar has given us a task.” She’s a pace away, her silver armor glinting in the sunrise, her golden eyes fixed on me with that irritating mix of disdain and expectation. Her posture’s rigid, a warrior’s stance, but there’s a subtle shift in it—less hostility, and more… deference?

Not to me, of course.

To Him.

I tilt my head, frowning. “Kwe’vhar? What’s that supposed to mean, Gith?”

She straightens, her chin lifting with pride. “It is a title among my people—‘Storm of Blades,’ one, who carves victory from the impossible. Harald has proven himself such. He felled the ghaik captain in single combat, crushed the devil commander Zhalk in a single blow, sent a Red Dragon fleeing with a mere word! I have seen gish’kai wield blade and spell, but none are like him. His strength is…” She pauses, searching for a right word, her lips curling slightly. “Unmatched. For now, his orders hold weight. We scout, as he commands.”

I blink, caught off guard. Lae’zel, the Githyanki warrior who’d sooner gut me than glance my way, respects Harald? It seems almost laughable—except it isn’t. I saw it too. The way he moved. The raw power in every strike. The ease with which he dismantled our enemies.

Still, her sudden deference prickles at me, a thorn under my skin. “So, you’re his loyal hound now?” I say, voice edged with mockery. “Following orders like a good little soldier?”

Her eyes narrow, a flash of anger sparking in their depths. “I follow strength, not weakness. You would do well to snap out of your daze and move, priestess. The perimeter will not scout itself.”

I bristle, my grip tightening on the mace’s handle. Priestess. The word’s meant as a jab, a reminder of the role she thinks defines me—my Lady’s servant – and nothing more. She’s not wrong, but I’ll be damned if I let her prod me around like some obedient acolyte.

Harald’s warning echoes again—don’t go in there—and something in me twists, defiant. If we’re setting up camp here, shouldn’t we know what’s inside? A lich, he said. A ridiculous jest (or was it, given everything else we’ve been through?). Either way, I’m not waiting for him to play hero again, swaggering back from the sea with that… Karlach on his arm, all grins and camaraderie.

The image stings me more than it should—Karlach’s carefree laugh, his easy trust in her. I’ve never learned to swim, never had the chance to in the cloister’s dark halls, and the thought of them down there, together, churns a bitter knot in my chest.

Jealousy? No, that’s absurd!

Annoyance, that’s what this is.

I’ll prove I don’t need his warnings—or his protection.

“Fine,” I snap, turning toward the ruin’s shadowed entrance, a jagged maw of stone beneath the roof, leading into the darkness. “But I’m not traipsing around the bushes like some two-bit ranger. If there’s danger here, it’s in there! I’ll go and clear it myself.”

Lae’zel’s hand shoots out, grabbing my arm, her grip iron-hard. “Tchk. You defy his words? He said to wait.”

I yank my arm free, glaring at her. “I’m not his pet, Gith. Remember that. If we’re camping here, I’d rather know what’s lurking below than sit on my hands waiting for him to save the day. You can go scout yourself, or stand guard up here if you’re so eager to please your… Kwe’vhar.”

Her lips press into a thin line—a rare tell of frustration. “You are reckless, istika. You may die in there, and I do not want to explain your foolishness to him.” She hesitates, then growls low in her throat. “Fine. I will follow—only to ensure you do not ruin his plans with your corpse.”

I smirk, turning away. “How noble of you.” My boots crunch against the stone as I descend the crumbling steps into what looks like a temple – or crypt – the air growing cooler, damper, the light fading to a dim, flickering glow from the walls. For a moment, I think I can feel some residual magic, or a fading Divine presence – then, the sensation fades. Perhaps it was merely my imagination. Lae’zel’s footsteps echo behind me, steady and deliberate, her sword half-drawn, ready for whatever we might find.

The interior opens into a cavernous chamber, its ceiling lost to shadow, its walls lined with cracked sarcophagi and faded carvings. The air’s thick with what feels like centuries-old dust that clings to the back of my throat. My heart beats faster—not fear, I tell myself, but anticipation. Shar’s presence hums faintly in my mind, a cold comfort, urging me forward. If there’s danger here, I’ll face it. I’m more than a tool, more than a shadow trailing Harald’s light. The Astral Prism, tucked against my hip, pulses faintly, a reminder of my purpose—one he can’t take from me, no matter how many dragons he cowers.

Lae’zel’s voice cuts through the silence, low and tense. “This place reeks of death. Keep your wits, or I will leave you to it.”

I don’t reply, my eyes scanning the darkness, the mace’s weight steady in my grip. Let’s see what secrets this ruin hides—and if Harald’s warning held any truth.