"She is dead."

Zeus’s words were like a hammer striking stone, sending shockwaves of silence rippling through the room. The air thickened, weighed down by disbelief. Every breath became harder, the weight of the reality suffocating them all.

Kalrach and Wyll instinctively reached for each other, their hands clasping tightly as they stared in shock at Minthara’s still form. Wyll’s usual bravado was gone, replaced by a quiet, quivering fear.

"No," Kalrach’s voice broke, strained and fragile. "She can’t be dead. Her body—look at her—it’s fine. She’s even breathing… she’s just… she’s resting, right?" But the crack in her voice betrayed her heart, and the pleading words fell into the hollow silence. There was no answer to comfort her.

Gale stood nearby, his gaze heavy with expectation, almost willing Alex to perform the same miracle he had before—like when he brought Alfira back to life. But the words that followed were as final and shattering as the coldest winter wind.

"The undead," Zeus’s voice was low and even, the sound almost void of emotion, yet every syllable cut through them. "It was the Hand of Myrkul, as the necromancers called it . When it kills, it sends the soul of the victim directly to Myrkul as a sacrifice, growing more powerful in return." His words hung in the air like a curse, a decree that could not be undone.

Her body was alive but without a soul ,it was just a empty shell.

Gale’s breath faltered, his chest tightening as the reality hit him like a punch to the gut. "She’s… not coming back," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper, the truth unraveling before him.

Shadowheart’s hand flew to her mouth, trembling fingers unable to hold back the horror that swept over her. She knew, more than anyone, that once a soul is claimed by a god—especially by one as malevolent as Myrkul—it is near impossible to retrieve. It was a fate sealed in darkness.

"She died like a true warrior," Lae'zel said softly from the side, her voice steely but respectful.

Even Astarion, always quick with a sarcastic remark or cold dismissal, found himself unnervingly quiet. His red eyes kept flickering to Minthara’s still body, as if waiting for her to sit up, smirk at them, and prove them all wrong. But she didn’t move. She would never move again.

It hadn’t been long since Minthara had joined their party, but that didn’t lessen the ache gnawing at their hearts. She was fierce, unsettling at times, her dark humor and cold demeanor a shield around a soul that had seen too much cruelty. Yet, in battle, she had bled beside them, laughed in their rare moments of respite, and fought with a ferocity that earned their respect, if not their love. She was one of them.

Zeus knelt beside her, gently lifting her body with a care that felt foreign to his monstrous strength. He carried her as if she were a precious relic, not a fallen warrior, and slowly, they began their solemn procession out of the laboratory, the air heavy with the finality of death. No one spoke.

They reached the platform overlooking the vast cavern below, where a suffocating green mist still rose from the decaying corpses littering the ground. Zeus walked to the edge, his body levitating downward, Minthara cradled in his arms like a broken angel. The rest of the party watched from above, unable to follow but unwilling to look away.

At the bottom, Glut was waiting , next to the tunnel they came from. Zeus handed Minthara’s body to him, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on all of them. Glut nodded silently, then disappeared into the tunnel, Minthara’s form swallowed by the darkness.

Zeus flew back up to the platform, his silence carried a weight that none could ignore. He paused, his gaze lingering for a brief moment on the iron door leading back to the morgue.

"The necromancers we killed," he said finally, his voice edged with frustration, "none of them was Balthazar."

The truth cut deeper than any blade. Wyll’s voice cracked as he muttered, "We lost Minthara… for nothing."

Alex, who had been standing quietly beside him, placed a hand on Wyll’s shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. "She didn’t die for nothing," Alex said, his voice soft but resolute. "If that undead had been released, who knows how many lives it would have taken. She saved them, Wyll."

Wyll nodded, but the weight of guilt still clung to him. It clung to all of them, heavy and unshakeable. Deep down, they all knew the truth—they weren’t strong enough, they weren’t careful enough, and Minthara had paid the ultimate price for their failures.

They thought that with Zeus by their side they would be invincible but it seems they were wrong.

Their thoughts spiraled into regret, into a storm of "what ifs" and "if only." If only they had been faster, if only they had been stronger, if only they had coordinated better, maybe—just maybe—she’d still be standing with them, alive and laughing that dark, unsettling laugh of hers.

But there was no undoing it now.

Zeus’s voice, stern and unwavering, sliced through their grief. "Let’s go," he commanded.

There would be no time for mourning. Not yet. The battle wasn’t over, and there were still enemies waiting in the shadows, ready to claim more lives. But in the silence that followed Zeus’s command, the weight of Minthara’s death lingered, heavy and suffocating, like a wound that would never fully heal.

Before they left, the group decided to investigate the door Lae'zel had pointed out earlier. Cautiously, they approached, unsure of what more this cursed place had to offer. The room beyond was dim and quiet, filled with the unmistakable stench of decay. Old caskets, now cracked and worn by time, lay scattered around. In the center of the room stood a tall figure, a man dressed in the distinctive, weathered garb of a Harper. His body had been mummified by the passage of years, skin stretched tight over bones, and his face a sunken, hollow mask.

Astarion knelt beside the body, his pale hands moving deftly over the remains. "Nothing here but a simple dagger and a golden ring," he murmured, though the intrigue in his voice didn’t waver. Still, the rest of the party waited, holding their breath, as Zeus's intense gaze bore down on the corpse.

“There’s something strange about this body,” Zeus muttered, his voice low and wary. Without hesitation, he knelt and consumed the corpse. There were no memories to glean, no flashes of life, but the moment the flesh melded into him, Zeus’s eyes flickered with realization. "It’s not human," he said, though the weight of the discovery felt anticlimactic.

The others shared glances but said nothing. They had grown accustomed to Zeus’s strange abilities, his consumption of knowledge through flesh , as Gale had explained them. It was unsettling, but in a world of living shadows and soul eating curses, such things became mundane.

They continued their search in silence, the eerie quiet of the room hanging over them like a shroud. On two nearby tables, they found two journals, dusty and fragile from age. The first journal chronicled the Harper’s final days, a chilling account of his slow descent into despair.

Day 2 of Darkness

I stood calm as Ketheric uttered his final curse and then withered. As my fellow Harpers dragged his putrid corpse from the battlefield, I allowed myself to feel relief, even solace. A wrong had been righted, an evil thwarted. Victory had come - but I had yet to know its true cost.

The darkness shrouded the land like a vast cloak. It began as a chill, as if the Claw of Winter had gripped us. Within hours, every breath was a dagger piercing my throat. I hungered for air like a wolf hungers for meat—yet I could still get my fill, thanks to my armor. Would that the men and women of Reithwin had been so well-equipped. One by one they fell, only to rise as shadows of themselves, intent on extinguishing all light, and all life.

The shadows hang less heavy in this place. It still takes some effort to fill my lungs, but better to expend effort than to unite with darkness. My traps should keep me safe—or at least, safe enough.

Shadowheart read aloud, her voice soft but strained as the reality of the Harper’s fate washed over them. “To die in such a way... swallowed by shadows, alone,” she whispered, her usually hardened exterior cracking just a little under the weight of empathy.

Karlach’s eyes darkened, her grip tightening on her axe. "Poor guy. Who knows how many died like him? Hiding somewhere, hoping someone would come to save them... only for help to never come. To die forgotten." Her words trembled with anger and grief.

Lae'zel, ever stoic, spoke coldly, but there was a grim respect in her tone. "I would rather kill myself than end like this."

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Gale flipped through the second journal, which contained the Harper’s futile attempts to lift the curse.

“This man was trying to find a spell to dispel the shadowcurse, but to no avail.” Gale sighed, his brow furrowing as he examined the notes scribbled across the pages. “Some sort of twisted combination of Remove Curse, Dispel Magic... He recorded various recitations and gestures. But they all failed.”

Gale read the incantations aloud, his voice filled with frustration as he recited failed spell after failed spell:

Umbra Recessit—ineffective.

Nox Exitus—ineffective.

Nox Fit Lux—potential.

Vita Cava—unintended consequences (living armor).

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. "Living armor… the man’s desperation is palpable." He turned to the others, shaking his head. "He tried without success, but in the end, the curse consumed him as they did so many others."

Zeus, having been scouring the room, pried open a nearby chest. Inside, they found a robe that looked remarkably intact, its fabric shimmering faintly with enchantment. Without hesitation, Zeus consumed the garment, its essence weaving into his flesh. “The robe was enchanted to increase the damage of spells after being hit by a melee attack,” he explained, though his tone lacked any excitement.

Gale examined the robe, his mind already calculating its usefulness. “Hmm… not worth the trouble of trying to trigger that effect consistently.” He paused, his eyes narrowing as a thought occurred to him. "Zeus, can you... consume enchantments?"

Zeus nodded. "Yes. By consuming them, I understand their magic and can replicate it."

A flicker of excitement sparked in Gale’s eyes. "Fascinating," he muttered, his mind already racing with the possibilities.

Those were the only significant items they found in the room, but the weight of the Harper’s final days hung over them like a dark cloud. The man had died alone, consumed by a curse that even his considerable knowledge couldn’t unravel. His final efforts, futile though they were, spoke of a will that refused to break until the very end.

As they prepared to leave, Shadowheart glanced back at where the body of the Harper had been , one last time, her expression solemn. "To die like that, without hope..." She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "It’s not a fate I would wish on anyone."

_____________

The laboratory had yielded little more than death, darkness, and despair, yet they still scoured the place, hoping for something—anything—useful. Among the clutter and the remnants of failed experiments, they stumbled upon a ring. Zeus absorbed it, his body breaking it down, understanding it. A moment later, his voice, cool and detached, cut through the silence.

“This ring grants immunity to blindness,” he announced.

Without pause, he replicated the ring for each member of the party, handing them identical copies. As Gale inspected his ring, then looked at Shadowheart’s, a small frown creased his brow. "They all look exactly the same," he remarked.

There was no time for further musings as they found a journal—a set of notes from a man called Malus Thorm. Most of its pages had been torn away, but what little remained painted a disturbing picture.

“I discovered all too late that I was making things much harder on myself than necessary. There was no need for such complex chemical experimentation; no, foolish me! I ought to have turned to that which has already been perfected by nature. Fortunately, my research led me to the carapace of the carrion crawler, which contains a paralytic agent so powerful I must be quite cautious not to breathe it in during the refinement process, lest I fall asleep at my workbench.”

Karlach squinted at the faded illustration within the journal’s final page. “Wait… this guy… he looks familiar,” she said, her voice trailing off.

Shadowheart, standing nearby, leaned in. “It’s the undead surgeon. The one we found in the House of Healing.” Her voice trembled with quiet disgust.

Next to the journal sat a bottle, filled with a viscous, pitch-black liquid—the very poison Malus had described. Without hesitation, Zeus snatched the bottle and, under the wide-eyed gaze of his companions, drank the tar-like substance as if it were water.

“Carrion poison,” he stated flatly. “Strong, but I’ve tasted stronger.”

Karlach leaned toward Wyll, whispering, “I think Minthara’s death is starting to get to him. He’s… not himself.”

Zeus didn’t respond. His face was a blank slate, his actions mechanical. He had even consumed the Hand of Myrkul, desperately hoping to find some way to reverse Minthara’s fate, to bring her soul back from the void. But it had been useless. The Hand had merely been a transmitter—a conduit for Myrkul’s will, not a key to restoring life.

The group headed toward the double doors at the far end of the corridor.

As they stepped through the doors, they were greeted by a grim sight: an open chamber, a ramp leading upward, offering a narrow escape from the morgue’s clutches. Yet on either side of the chamber were gruesome piles—dismembered bodies, heaped carelessly like refuse. Malus’s victims, strewn about without dignity or respect, their broken forms mingled with the remnants of armor, weapons, and gear. Among the fallen, the unmistakable insignia of Harpers and followers of Shar could be seen. The chaos spared no one.

Gale let out a weary sigh. "It seems Malus didn’t discriminate among his victims."

The air was thick with the stench of death. Their gazes instinctively shifted to Zeus, who had stopped dead in his tracks, his faceless head turning toward the right. Without a word, his arm swelled, bulging as his flesh twisted into the form of a massive hammerfist. With terrifying force, he slammed his fist into the stone wall. The impact sent tremors through the ground, like an earthquake. Cracks splintered through the wall until it crumbled, revealing a hidden chamber.

Inside, two charred bodies lay on the floor, one to the left, the other to the right. Without hesitation, Zeus’s flesh rippled, and two tendrils shot from his form, snatching up the bodies. He consumed them as easily as he had the poison, as easily as he consumed anything.

There was no ceremony, no reflection, no pause for grief.

From the chest that lay in the secret chamber’s center, Zeus tore open its lid, revealing an ancient amulet. Its metalwork pulsed with eldritch sigils. As the amulet was absorbed, a new spell etched itself into Zeus’s mind. But still, he said nothing. His companions followed him into the chamber, but they found nothing of use. The silence was unsettling, made worse by the distant sound of footsteps.

Undead nurses, their twisted forms clattering down the ramp toward them.

Before anyone could act, Zeus raised his hand. A dark mass swirled at the bottom of the ramp, and from it, tendrils of shadow—barbed and menacing—sprouted. Gale recognized the spell immediately: Evard’s Black Tentacles, though stronger, darker, more sinister than he had ever seen. The tentacles writhed and lashed out as the undead nurses approached, ensnaring them, crushing them with brutal efficiency. Their bones snapped, their bodies torn apart as the tendrils ripped them limb from limb.

Shadowheart, watching the carnage, whispered, “This… this is brutal.”

She turned to Zeus, whose faceless head was angled toward the scene, indifferent, unmoved. The last undead nurse was split in two, her body wrenched apart by the savage tendrils. As soon as the battle , if could even be called one , was over, the tentacles retracted, slithering back into the darkness from which they came. The void dissipated without a trace, leaving behind only a bloodied room and silence.

Without a word, Zeus turned and walked back toward the morgue corridor. The rest of the party followed closely behind, unease gnawing at their hearts. Zeus was not himself—his coldness, his indifference, his almost mechanical brutality weighed heavily on them all.

____________

Emerging from the cavern, they looked around. The air was still, and before them lay a dilapidated wooden shack, ravaged by time. Beyond it, the river flowed quietly, and in the distance, they could see the Last Light Inn—or rather, what was left of it. The building was engulfed in flames, thick smoke rising into the sky.

Without a word, golden liquid flowed from Zeus’s body, coalescing into a small, shimmering orb. It shot forward, disappearing into the distance before returning a moment later.

“There were some cursed Kuo-toa hiding in ambush,” Zeus explained, his voice hollow, as if his soul had retreated deep within him. He turned his gaze skyward, as if searching for something, anything that might give him purpose in this cold, unforgiving world.

Zeus crouched low, muscles coiling beneath his strange, shifting flesh. With a sudden burst of power, he leapt high into the air, soaring effortlessly a dozen meters upward. He landed with a soft thud on a ledge above them, far beyond their reach. A moment later, a silken rope dropped from the height, swaying gently as it hung before them. They climbed in silence.

When they reached the top, they found him a few steps ahead, his form still and silent as a statue itself. He was staring at something. As they approached, their eyes fell upon the broken remains of an old stone figure. The statue had been shattered from the waist down, and what was left of it stood with its back turned toward them, jagged and incomplete. There was something unsettling about it—something eerie about the way it still seemed to preside over the scene despite its destruction.

Stepping closer, they could see five graves, freshly dug, arranged in a solemn semicircle before the ruined monument. At the head of each grave was a golden-headed spear, glinting faintly in the dim light. The spears stood like silent sentinels, guarding the resting place of fallen warriors. There was an air of reverence here, of ancient sacrifice that lingered in the very ground beneath their feet.

Next to the statue, Zeus stood, his gaze fixed on a nearby standard bearing the symbol of Selûne: the silvery eye surrounded by six stars, each carefully arranged around it. The symbol shimmered faintly, as if the moon goddess herself was watching over this place. A second standard stood a little further off, emblazoned with the emblem of the Harpers—a sign of those who had fought in the name of freedom, justice, and light.

“These are the weapons wielded by Selûne’s warriors,” Shadowheart murmured, her voice hushed.

Wyll stepped forward, eye scanning the scene with a somber expression. “These graves… they must have been dug for those who died fighting against Ketheric Thorm more than a hundred years ago.”

The weight of history pressed down upon them. The graves before them were not just resting places—they were a testament to the lives lost, to the warriors who had stood against an ancient evil, only to fall in battle. Their weapons, still gleaming with an otherworldly light, were all that remained of their courage, their valor.

Their gazes turned to Zeus, who stood motionless before the statue, his faceless form still as stone. But there was something in the air around him—an intensity, a presence that was impossible to ignore. As they followed his gaze, they noticed something else: a trail of blood, fresh and wet, seeping from the jagged remains of the statue’s destruction. It dripped slowly, agonizingly, down the stone, pooling at the foot of the monument. From beneath the stone robes of the shattered figure, a single foot jutted out—crushing a skull beneath its heel.

The sight sent a chill down their spines.

The air grew heavy with the weight of it all—the ancient battle, the sacrifice of the warriors, the silent graves, and now the blood that dripped from the ruin before them. It felt as though the very ground beneath their feet was crying out for something—for justice, for vengeance, for peace that had never come.

Zeus stood like a silent sentinel before the graves, his body rigid, his thoughts unreadable. Yet they could feel it. The depth of his grief, the fury that churned beneath the surface of his faceless mask. The death of Minthara, the endless violence, the loss—they all weighed on him, pressing down on his shoulders like the broken statue behind him. He had become something more than life and death, and yet, in this moment, he seemed all too human. A soul burdened by loss, by the futility of it all.