"That's disgusting. Ugh, the smell," Shadowheart muttered, her voice tinged with revulsion as she pinched her nose. The stench was overwhelming, so thick and putrid that even the most battle-hardened among them struggled to keep their last meal down. The air was tainted with the foul odor of decay, a scent that clung to their clothes and skin like a noxious fog. All, except Zeus, were visibly recoiling, their faces pale and drawn as they fought the urge to retch.
Zeus, unaffected by the stench, stared down at the grotesque remains of Thisobald, the bloated, rotting form now little more than a pile of decaying flesh. With a single, fluid motion, he leapt from the balcony, landing silently beside the corpse. The wood floor barely made a sound as his feet touched down with an almost unnatural grace. Without hesitation, he raised a hand, and a golden flame ignited in the air, flickering with an ethereal light. The flame consumed the remains, the putrid flesh burning away to ash in seconds, the stench mercifully dissipating into the night.
As the last of the remains crumbled to ash, something caught Zeus's eye. Among the pile of grey dust, a glint of metal shone through. He crouched down and plucked it from the ashes—a key, cold and heavy in his hand. His eyes flicked to the left, locking onto a metal door just a few steps ahead . He stood, ready to investigate further, but a sudden feeling made him freeze in place.
His eyes darted to the wooden rampart . His entire body tensed, and the rest of the party, sensing his unease, immediately readied their weapons. They expected an ambush, some new terror rising from the shadows, but what they saw surprised them.
Emerging from the darkness was not a horde of undead but a group of three githyanki, their forms almost blending into the darkness with their dark leather armor. The glow of the lanterns they carried gave them away, casting eerie, flickering light that resembled the enchanted glow of the poles they had seen near Moonrise Towers. The light illuminated the stern, weathered face of their leader, a male githyanki they all recognized. Voss, the dragon rider they had encountered at the Mountain Pass—the one who had told Lae'zel of the creche—led the group. His presence sent a ripple of tension through the party, but they held their ground.
Voss and his companions approached Zeus, stopping just a few steps before him. Their eyes flickered briefly to the rest of the party watching from the balcony, but they made no move to attack.
Lae'zel, her expression unreadable, jumped down to meet Voss, landing beside Zeus. She walked forward, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp, locked onto Voss. "Tl'a'Vlaakith—has our queen sent out a knight to slay me with his own blade?" she asked, her tone deceptively calm, but there was an edge to it, a challenge.
"Such informality, child," Voss responded, his lips curving into a small, warm smile that seemed almost paternal. He regarded Lae'zel with the air of an indulgent grandfather addressing a spirited granddaughter. The stark contrast between his current demeanor and the stern warrior they remembered left the party momentarily stunned.
"Does Jhe'stil Kith'rak not command your respect?" Voss continued, his voice gentle yet authoritative, as if reminding her of the weight of his station.
Lae'zel narrowed her eyes, her gaze unwavering. "Your blade speaks for you, Kith'rak. You've come for blood," she replied, her words tinged with suspicion, though less harsh than before.
Voss's expression softened further. "Child of Gith. I've not come to kill you. I've come to aid you."
In that instant, Zeus felt a tingling sensation in his mind, a warning. His psionic senses flared, picking up on a subtle intrusion—someone was speaking to his party , but not through words. The message echoed in the minds of those who carried the tadpole, the voice of a woman, firm and clear: "Don't trust him."
Voss unsheathed his sword from his back, the sound of metal sliding against metal causing everyone to tense, their hands tightening on their weapons. But instead of attacking, Voss knelt before them, raising his blade above his head in a gesture of submission. The sight was startling, unexpected.
"Ska'kek kir Gith shabell'eth. My blade rests. Mother Gith compels you to listen," Voss said, his voice filled with a solemnity that carried a deep, almost reverent sincerity.
Lae'zel glanced at Zeus, seeking his guidance. He gave a small nod, signaling her to listen.
"Speak. My ear is yours," Lae'zel responded, her tone measured, though her eyes remained wary.
Voss's gaze met hers, steady and unyielding. "I know you carry the Astral Prism, Lae'zel. Within it lies the seed of Vlaakith's demise. And I intend to help you bring it to fruition."
Lae'zel's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. Her grip tightened on the hilt of her sword. "Vlaakith's demise? Shka'keth. I should run you through for suggesting it," she snarled, her voice low and dangerous.
Wyll, unable to contain his curiosity, jumped down from the balcony as well, though his landing was far less graceful than Lae'zel's. He straightened himself and approached Voss. "Are you talking about the person inside? Do you know who that is?" he asked, his voice filled with urgency.
Zeus's mind raced, turning over Wyll's words. So there is someone inside the Astral Prism. Is this the one who has been speaking to them ? he wondered, piecing together the puzzle.
Voss's gaze shifted to Wyll, his expression inscrutable. "If they have not said, they must have a good reason. And I won't be the one to betray them. But the one inside has chosen you as an ally, protects you with their power," Voss explained. "That very power will be the end of Vlaakith's tyranny. The Prism's tenant must be let loose. I've sought their 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 that unchains them—and I've found someone who I believe can provide it. Bring the Prism to Baldur's Gate. I'll be waiting in a taproom called Sharess' Caress. That is where we decide the fate of my people."
His gaze landed on Lae'zel, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and determination. "Lae'zel—together we will break our chains and be Vlaakith's slaves no longer."
Lae'zel’s face hardened, a battle raging within her. "I am no slave, Jhe'stil Kith'rak. The Undying Queen is my freedom. It is she who will purify me, she who will ascend me," Lae'zel insisted, but her voice wavered, betraying the doubt she struggled to suppress.
Voss looked at her with a profound sadness, his voice soft yet resolute. "Lies...Lae'zel—every last one. 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 them, consumes their souls to fuel her quest for godhood."
Lae'zel suddenly clutched her head, her face contorting in pain. The echoes of the githyanki who had perished under the zaith'isk's screamed in her mind, the agony of their lost lives reverberating through her thoughts.
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"You flood me with this... this heresy!" she cried out, her voice a mixture of anger and desperation as she struggled to resist the truth. Her hand flew to the greatsword strapped to her back, the blade igniting with flames as she raised it high, ready to strike Voss down. But just as she was about to bring the sword down, she froze. Her eyes locked onto Voss's, and for a moment, everything else faded away.
Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision as the weight of reality crushed her spirit. With a choked sob, she let the sword slip from her grasp, the flames extinguishing as it clattered to the ground. She collapsed to her knees, her shoulders trembling as the tears flowed freely down her face.
"My life... dreams, aspirations, principles... all lies," she murmured, her voice broken, barely a whisper.
Voss stepped forward, kneeling beside her, and gently wrapped his arms around her trembling form, offering comfort where words could not. "I served Vlaakith for the whole of my life. Learned her words, fought her battles, yet she names me Hshar'lak," Lae'zel whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.
For a few moments, they remained like that—Lae'zel weeping quietly as Voss held her, offering her the silent support she so desperately needed. The others watched, their hearts heavy with empathy and sorrow for the once unshakable warrior who had just seen her world crumble before her eyes.
When Lae'zel finally calmed down, Voss helped her to her feet. Her face was tear-streaked, her eyes red and puffy, but there was a new resolve in her gaze. "Your words carry the truth. I will meet you in Baldur's Gate. Do not make me regret it," Lae'zel said, her voice hoarse but determined as she locked eyes with Voss.
Voss gave her a solemn nod. "Lae'zel. I see T'lak'ma Ghir in you—Sister in Freedom. Together, we will be our people's light." He reached into his cloak and produced a small trinket, its surface etched with intricate patterns. "Take this. It is a qua'nith—a psionic detector. The queen's warriors hunt you. The qua'nith will sound out when you come near their portals. Hear its cry, and prepare for battle—or slip away."
Voss glanced upward, his expression turning grave. "I should go. Vlaakith's gaze pierces the seas and skies. She believes me loyal—and I can't afford her mistrust. Keep the Astral Prism close. Let no one take it from you. Slay any who try. Now, to Baldur's Gate. I'll be waiting, Lae'zel," he said, his voice carrying the weight of finality.
With that, he turned away, and a portal shimmered into existence before him, swirling with the colors of distant stars and nebulae. They could see the endless expanse of blue clouds and stars beyond, a gateway to another world.
Voss took one last look at Lae'zel, his eyes filled with unspoken promises, and then he stepped through the portal.
“That must be the Astral Plane,” Zeus thought, his eyes narrowing as he watched the shimmering portal vanish as quickly as it had appeared. The last of the githyanki warriors stepped through, their figures dissolving into the swirling mist of stars and endless blue clouds. Then, as if the gateway had never existed, it was gone.
One by one, the others descended from the balcony . The atmosphere was thick with the weight of what had just transpired, each of them grappling with their own thoughts, their own turmoil. Karlach, her usually fiery spirit dimmed by the heavy air of grief, moved toward Lae’zel with a tenderness that belied her fierce exterior. Without a word, she wrapped her strong arms around the githyanki warrior, pulling her close in a gesture of comfort.
“Poor girl,” Karlach murmured, her voice soft, filled with genuine compassion as she held Lae’zel tightly. The tiefling’s warmth, both in spirit and body, seeped into Lae’zel, offering solace to the shattered warrior who had just seen the world as she knew it crumble to dust.
Minthara, usually so steely and cold, stepped forward, her eyes glinting with an unexpected emotion. “I can sympathize with Lae’zel,” she said, her voice steady but tinged with a sorrow that resonated deeply. “I, too, lost faith in everything I believed in. The betrayal of trust... the shattering of a once unshakeable belief... it leaves a scar that never fully heals.” Her words hung in the air, a rare admission of vulnerability from someone so accustomed to wielding power and control.
Even Astarion, who often kept his distance from the group’s more emotional moments, seemed shaken by what had transpired. His usual smug demeanor was gone, replaced by a somber expression as he stood quietly to the side.
Only Shadowheart appeared indifferent, her gaze cool and detached as she observed the scene. But even she couldn’t entirely mask the flicker of understanding in her eyes, the fleeting moment where her guarded heart almost seemed to crack open.
Lae’zel spoke, her voice carrying a weight of solemnity. “Vlaakith'ka sivim hrath krash'ht. ‘Only in Vlaakith may we find light.’ These were the first words I ever read on a tir'su slate,” she recited, her tone steady, yet there was something deeper beneath the surface—an echo of the indoctrination she had herself endured. “But they are no mere aphorism. They are law, they are creed—the root from which the ten-thousand protocols stem. Forsake one protocol, and forsake Vlaakith. Forsake Vlaakith, and be the blood and meat which sustains her dragons.”
Zeus/Alex—watched Lae’zel closely, his mind working quickly to draw parallels between her world and his own. The control Vlaakith exerted over her people was all too familiar, a grim echo of the dictators who had ruled back in his world. The cult of personality, the deification of the leader—if you believed your ruler was a god, rebellion wasn’t just unthinkable, it was impossible.
Lae’zel’s fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she spoke through gritted teeth. “The ascension is a lie, the tadpole purification a fairy tale... Then I have not sinned against Vlaakith. She has sinned against me.” Her voice, filled with a seething rage, cracked on the last words, the anger mingling with the pain of betrayal.
Zeus stepped closer, his voice calm yet probing, as he asked, “Voss called Vlaakith a tyrant. Does this mean you agree?”
He needed to assess Lae’zel’s beliefs, to understand just how deep her disillusionment ran. Was she stable? Or was she teetering on the edge of something darker?
“I never thought of Vlaakith as a tyrant, or of myself as a vassal,” Lae’zel began, her voice trembling with the effort to keep her emotions in check. “She was the source of my might, and I, the envoy of her will. A warrior. A champion. A destroyer. But if Voss is right... and Vlaakith consumed the ascended to gain power... Then I am no destroyer. I am mere livestock, bred to be harvested and devoured.” Her voice wavered, the sheer weight of her realization pressing down on her like a physical force.
She took a few deep breaths, trying to steady herself, to regain the composure that had defined her for so long. “Every githyanki is a slave with a singular purpose. Not to cull the ghaik, not to prevent their Grand Design—but to raise Vlaakith to true godhood,” she continued, her tone now laced with bitterness and a profound sense of loss.
Zeus’s curiosity was piqued, despite the grim context. “What does the ascension entail, exactly?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer, pieced together from the memories of the inquisitors . But he wanted to hear it from Lae’zel, to understand how she had viewed it before her faith was shattered.
“Ascension is a young githyanki’s greatest honor,” Lae’zel replied, her voice filled with a pride that quickly soured as she continued. “Long ago, the ghaik enslaved my people. They dominated our minds and bred us for war until great Mother Gith took a hammer to our bonds. From the day of our hatching, young gith have one purpose: to train hard, to slay a ghaik, and take its head. Then we speak the Rite of Ascension, and a red dragon comes to fly us to Vlaakith in Tu’narath, the City of Death. We are honored with an eternal home in the Astral, celebrated for our victory. We ascend. Or so I believed.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last words, the pride that once filled her now hollowed out by doubt.
Zeus didn’t miss the bitterness in her tone, the way her expression turned sour as she recounted what was supposed to be the pinnacle of her people’s existence.
He pressed on, “Who do you think is the one in the Prism?”
Before Lae’zel could answer, Zeus psionic senses flared as he heard the voice of the dream figure echoed in the party minds, firm and unyielding: “Don’t answer his question.”
Despite the warning, Lae’zel spoke, her voice tinged with frustration. “I don’t know. I can’t know. And that drives me mad. At first, I thought them an illithid deception, a trick of the tadpole. But the dream figure is real. It lives in the Prism. Voss believes they are the seed of Vlaakith’s demise, the agent of githyanki freedom. And I believe he may be right.”
Zeus fell silent, his mind racing to process the flood of new information. He could feel the pieces of the puzzle beginning to come together, forming patterns, leads—but there were still crucial gaps, vital truths that eluded him.
They stayed there for several minutes, the group quiet, giving Lae’zel the time she needed to steady herself, to pull the shattered pieces of her world back together. When she finally stood, her posture was still stiff with the tension of unresolved anger and sorrow, but there was also a new resolve in her eyes.