The displacer beast, usually a creature of cold, calculating predation, now stood trembling before them, tears streaming from her otherworldly eyes. Her sleek, panther-like form seemed to shrink in on itself as she whimpered in a display of emotion so unlike her kind. The creature looked... broken.
"Strange," Gale murmured, his brows furrowing as he took in the sight before them. "Displacer beasts are heartless creatures. For her to show such strong emotion, she must have loved her master very much." His voice was filled with unspoken wonder, his thoughts lingering on the complex relationships even the most feared creatures could form.
But there was no compassion in Alex’s gaze. His sharp, predatory eyes fixed on the displacer beast, and with a single glare, the creature flinched, cowering before turning to flee into the darkness. As her lithe form disappeared into the shadows.
With a sickening squelch, Alex's tendril shot out to the massive skull that loomed above the room, like a grotesque arm reaching for something vital. It wrapped around a piece of the bone, consuming a piece of it in a pulsing, ravenous hunger. Another tendril lashed out, sinking into the bed made of rotting corpses, replenishing his lost biomass.
Without a word, Alex reached down and grabbed the Umbral Gem—the dark, pulsating object that had been the focal point of their mission. He tossed it casually to Shadowheart, who caught it with an unreadable expression. As the party turned to leave the forsaken chamber, Shadowheart suddenly paused, her gaze drifting back toward the path they had passed earlier.
“Wait,” she called softly, her voice almost drowned out by the eerie stillness of the temple. “Can we check the room we passed by? There’s something... something calling to me from there.” Her tone was quiet, but there was an urgency in her words.
Alex gave a curt nod. “Quick,” he muttered, already moving toward the edge of the chamber. The rest of the party followed silently behind him. With deft precision, Alex tied another silken rope and threw it towards the stone door’s entrance from above.
Before anyone descended, Alex pointed toward an open pavilion behind them, where bones and decaying carcasses were strewn about, the remains of past battles and hunts. “This must be where the displacer beast rested,” Shadowheart whispered.
Alex’s eyes scanned the scene, taking in the deep claw marks and jagged bite wounds on the scattered remains. He crouched down beside a dead spider, a massive creature long since killed and left to rot. With barely a moment’s hesitation, his tendrils extended once more, consuming a piece of the spider’s flesh. His senses flared as the magic within the meat coursed through him.
“The meat is charmed,” Alex explained, standing up slowly. “That’s why the displacer beast seemed so loyal to Yurgir. He was using it to control her.”
Gale's eyes lit up in realization. “So that’s why,” he muttered. “The Orthon... it makes sense now. He’s cunning, using magic to bind a creature like that to him.”
Karlach, her face hard with disgust , nodded. “Orthon don’t look it, but they’re smart. Real smart. They play the long game.”
Alex ignored their conversation, already moving toward a large chest a few steps ahead. He opened the heavy lid with little effort, revealing its contents—among them, a pair of boots with tiny bells sewn into the cuffs, enchanted to inspire its wearer’s allies. Without hesitation, his tendrils wrapped around the boots, consuming the magic within. ‘These could be useful for Alfira,’ Alex thought, as they were enchanted to inspire its wearer’s allies more easily.
Alex led them back to the rope and descended into the chamber below, the rest of the party following closely behind. The chamber they entered was unlike anything they had seen before. An intricately ornate door slid open, revealing a large, circular room with four round murals adorning the walls. Three were shattered beyond recognition, but one on the far right remained intact.
Hanging from the ceiling were ancient thuribles, their incense burning with a strange, ethereal purple light that cast eerie shadows across the stone floor. In the center of the room sat a stone table, slightly elevated on a short platform and surrounded by crumbling pillars. Scattered across the table were papers, scrolls, and books—remnants of long-forgotten studies and rituals.
But Shadowheart’s attention was elsewhere. She moved past everyone, her steps slow and deliberate as she approached the far right of the room. There, towering over her like a dark sentinel, stood a massive mirror. Its surface was shattered, its edges sharp and jagged like broken teeth. Above the mirror, a crescent-shaped dark mask loomed, casting a shadow over its reflective surface, which was so dark it seemed to absorb the very light around it. The air in the room felt heavier here, oppressive with the weight of dark magic.
“I can feel faint traces of very strong magic coming from that mirror,” Gale remarked, his voice reverberating softly through the room.
Shadowheart stood before the broken mirror, her eyes lost in its darkness, as if she were gazing into something far beyond the physical realm. “The mirror…” she murmured, her voice distant, as though she were speaking to someone—or something—far away. The dark surface of the mirror seemed to pulse slightly, as if it were alive, waiting for her to take the next step.
A sudden shudder ran through her body, breaking the spell. She blinked, shaking her head as if waking from a dream. “Let’s go,” she said quietly, her voice flat, but there was something haunted in her eyes.
Before anyone could move, Gale stepped forward, his gaze catching on a book that lay open on the stone table. He picked it up carefully, scanning its pages. “Wait a moment,” he said, his voice filled with curiosity. “This book... it’s titled Reflections Upon the Mirror of Loss.” He began to read aloud:
**“The original purpose of the sacred mirror has been lost to the ages. Some suppose that it was the result of Telamont Tanthul’s attempts to delve into the Shadowfell itself, in the time before the folly of his master, Karsus. Others claim it only became an object of devotion after the fall of Netheril, when the loss-stricken survivors of the floating cities found comfort in Lady Shar’s embrace.
What is certain is that many of the Nightsinger’s faithful claim to feel some echo of her power and majesty when in the presence of the mirror, even though it is shattered. They are often said to feel lesser once they step away from the mirror, hence the name it has become commonly known by.
Our scholars continue to study it, but alas, its true nature may continue to elude us. Perhaps if the Dark Lady indulges us, she shall reveal another of these holy relics for us, so that we may feel the full power of her embrace.”**
The party’s gaze shifted back to the broken mirror. Its ominous presence felt all the more dangerous now, like something left behind not by accident, but by purpose—a relic meant to ensnare and consume.
“That’s why Shadowheart was drawn to the mirror,” Gale said quietly, his voice filled with an unsettling understanding. The words hung heavy in the air.
Shadowheart took one last glance at the mirror, her face a mask of controlled emotion. She didn’t respond, turning her back to it, but the pull was still there. The darkness of the mirror reflected something within her—a part of herself that perhaps only Lady Shar could understand.
As the party walked out of the wing where the Orthon had resided, they found themselves bathed in the cold, dim light that filled the cursed temple. Their breath hung in the air like a spectral mist, the atmosphere heavy with foreboding. Suddenly, a massive, dark blur appeared to their left, moving swiftly through the shadows, causing the group to tense in unison, weapons drawn.
But as the figure slowed, they relaxed—it was the hunter. The creature approached Alex silently, its hulking form larger and more fearsome in the dim light. Yet, its posture was submissive. The beast dipped its massive head low, almost in reverence, as if acknowledging Alex as its superior before straightening its posture.
Alex merely nodded in return, a silent understanding passing between them, and began their ascent up a set of stairs.
With agile grace, they leapt over another set of broken stone steps, the remains of the battle that had torn the temple apart.
Gale, less nimble than the rest, felt the chasm yawning behind him as he stared down into the darkness. "Thank you," he breathed, his voice tight with lingering anxiety as Alex gently set him down on the other side. "Sorry, but I don't think I could have made that jump."
Alex offered no reply, just a curt nod, before turning and continuing his silent march up the intact portion of the staircase.
Karlach, her eyes wide with amazement, let out a low whistle. "Holy shit..."
"You can say that again," Wyll muttered, his eyes sweeping the hall they had now entered.
The place was an absolute wasteland. Craters, some large enough to swallow them whole, pocked the floor and walls. Shattered pillars and chunks of stone littered the ground like the aftermath of a cataclysm. This was the aftermath of the titanic struggle between Zeus and Ketheric—two beings of immense power, their duel scarring the very foundation of the temple.
"Where are they?" Astarion asked, his crimson eyes narrowing as he scanned the destruction, looking for signs of the titans who had caused such devastation.
But Alex paid no mind to the others, his focus fixed. He moved with purpose, stepping past the wreckage and turning right, descending a short set of stairs leading to a stone pedestal that seemed untouched by the chaos around it.
The party followed him cautiously, their footsteps echoing in the hollow silence. Alex stood before the pedestal. Aeerie purple glow temanated from the symbols etched along its concentric stone circles. The light pulsed like a heartbeat, casting strange, wavering shadows across the room.
"Slot the gem here," Alex instructed, his voice low but commanding. He pointed to the pedestal, where a gem was already embedded in one of the two raised circular slots.
Shadowheart stepped forward, the weight of the Umbral Gem heavy in her hand. Her expression was unreadable, but her movements were deliberate. With great care, she placed the second gem into the vacant slot.
There was a soft hum, barely audible at first, but then it grew louder, a vibration that seemed to resonate within their bones. Slowly, the statue of Shar that stood ahead of them—its cold, expressionless face turned toward the heavens—began to move. The disc it held aloft bloomed with a soft, otherworldly light, lifting from the statue’s grasp and floating towards the party, stopping just before them.
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"Go," Alex said simply, motioning toward the disc.
The party hesitated, stepping onto the disc one by one. The surface beneath their feet was smooth, polished like obsidian, and it vibrated faintly under their weight. The hunter, stepped onto the disc as well.
But something in Alex's posture made them pause. Gale, frowned. "Are you not coming with us?"
Alex shook his head, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. It was barely perceptible but there. "You can do it," he said softly, before turning on his heel and bolting down the wall with incredible speed, disappearing into the shadows.
For a moment, the party stood there, confused, unsure. But before they could question it, the disc beneath them began to descend, carrying them downward in silence.
As they turned around, their eyes fell on Shadowheart, who stood beside the gem embedded in the disc. Her expression was distant, her eyes shadowed with thoughts unspoken.
The disc finally came to a halt on a lower platform, where another pedestal, identical to the one above, awaited. Without hesitation, Shadowheart approached, her face a mask of quiet determination. She reached into her pack and carefully placed the remaining three Umbral Gems into the slots.
The soft hum of magic filled the air, vibrating through the stone beneath their feet as the round stone door slid into the floor with a heavy grind. Darkness stretched out before them, thick and oppressive, like the breath of a sleeping titan. But in the heart of that blackness, something shimmered—a pool of water glowing with an eerie azure light, casting long, flickering shadows against the chamber walls. The pool’s glow reflected off the statue of Shar looming above it, her dark figure eternal and impassive, a silent sentinel.
"The end draws near. You have great potential - do not falter now " Statue spoke.
Shadowheart’s voice broke the silence, low and hesitant, as she read aloud the inscription carved into the stone beneath their feet: "Spill the blood of Selûne and rise a warrior of Shar." Her words echoed eerily off the walls, hanging in the cold, stagnant air as though the temple itself was listening.
The pool rippled slightly, its unnaturally calm surface glistening in the dim light. Water continually cascaded from both the left and right, flowing like liquid shadow into the glowing depths. There, just a few meters beyond, they could see a door radiating with the same otherworldly glow.
Shadowheart’s heart pounded in her chest, her pulse matching the slow, rhythmic pulse of the pool's light. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the azure hue, illuminating the war inside her—the conflict between her past and the path she had chosen. This was more than a test of devotion. It was her moment of destiny, and the weight of it was suffocating.
The rest of the party stood frozen, tense, watching her every move. They knew the gravity of this moment as well. Whatever happened next, there would be no turning back.
"One more test awaits. Descend to the Nightsong. Make a sacrifice . Rise again as a Dark Justiciar." The statue of Shar spoke once more.
Without a word, Shadowheart plunged into the glowing pool, the water swallowing her whole. She swam with deliberate strokes, her movements smooth and unhurried, disappearing through the door bathed in azure light.
Karlach, leapt into the pool after her. The water hissed and steamed as soon as it made contact with her fiery skin, tendrils of vapor rising around her in a mist. She swam quickly, powerful, and fierce, vanishing through the door just behind Shadowheart.
One by one, the rest of the party followed. Lae'zel slipped into the water with barely a sound, moving through the azure glow like a wraith, her expression unreadable. Gale hesitated, casting one final look behind them before diving in, followed closely by his companions. Each of them swam through the glowing door, their shapes becoming silhouettes before vanishing entirely into the unknown.
But just as Wyll and the hunter prepared to follow, a heavy, metallic sound echoed through the chamber, the unmistakable clang of armor hitting stone. They turned, their eyes widening as they saw the source of the noise—a figure emerging from the shadows, bathed in an eerie green light. Flames of necrotic energy licked at the skeletal form clad in heavy, blackened armor, the dull glow of its eyes burning like embers.
"That’s Ketheric..." Wyll murmured . The skeletal figure, now fully revealed, stood tall and imposing, the sickly green flames casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to dance and flicker with malice.
Wyll’s breath caught in his throat as his rapier, bathed in a fierce purple glow, pulsed with raw energy. Ketheric was a being of immense power, once human, now something far worse—an undead abomination, sustained by dark forces that defied comprehension.
Ketheric's armored form advanced, the slow, deliberate thud of his boots against the stone echoing with each step. Wyll’s jaw clenched in resolve, his heart pounding in time with the pulsing light of his rapier. "I will not let you harm my friends!" he roared, his voice filled with defiance. With a sharp twist of his wrist, he unleashed a rapid succession of violet energy blasts, each one aimed directly at the skeletal figure before him.
But Ketheric was unfazed. The blasts slammed into his shield with a dull thud, dissipating harmlessly against the necrotic magic that protected him. His skeletal grin seemed to widen, the flames around him flaring briefly as if in amusement.
Wyll’s determination only grew. He readied himself for another attack, but before he could release the magic, reality itself seemed to tear apart. A rip in the fabric of space opened behind Ketheric, the air shimmering with arcane energy. In a blink, the skeletal figure was swallowed by the tear, vanishing into nothingness.
Wyll stood there, breathless, his rapier still glowing with the remnants of his magic. "Zeus..." he muttered, piecing together what must have happened. Only a force of such magnitude could have intervened so quickly.
The hunter, who had been watching silently, nodded towards the pool. "We need to move." Without waiting for a response, he plunged into the water, his form disappearing beneath the glowing surface.
Wyll hesitated for only a moment longer, casting one last glance toward where Ketheric had stood moments before. Then, with a final deep breath, he dove into the water, the cool liquid enveloping him as the azure glow guided him toward the door—and toward whatever awaited them on the other side.
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Wyll's eyes widened at the surreal scene unfolding before him. They were perched atop a floating fragment of stone, as if torn directly from the temple they had just escaped. More pieces of stone—some small as boulders, others large as towers—drifted around them, suspended in mid-air, as though frozen in time. Massive, dark, spiked chains jutted out from the swirling purple void surrounding them, anchoring the fragmented land to some unseen force below. The chains disappeared into the abyss, their cold, ominous presence a reminder that they were no longer in the world they knew.
His gaze shifted to his companions, who sat with him on the floating rock, their faces tense and eyes searching for answers. Except for Shadowheart. She stood apart from them, her gaze distant, as though she could feel something none of them could.
"Lady Shar..." Shadowheart whispered, her voice reverent, almost in awe. "I can feel her all around us. This is her domain... This is the Shadowfell."
The weight of her words settled heavily on them all. Wyll cleared his throat, trying to find his voice, trying to summon the resolve he knew he had within him. "Let's go," he said, his tone determined, but the undercurrent of uncertainty was there.
Astarion’s eyes scanned the floating fragments below, his sharp gaze fixating on the lowest piece of land. “I think we need to reach down there.” His finger pointed to the distant platform, hovering hundreds of meters below. The abyss between them and their destination yawned wide, filled with a swirling purple haze. “But how do we do it? We’ll die if we jump from this height.”
Before anyone could respond, Lae'zel marched past them, her usual fierce determination etched into her every movement. Without hesitation, she leaped off their platform and dropped onto a floating piece of stone a dozen meters below. They watched in stunned silence as she landed, unharmed.
Karlach followed her with a wide, almost reckless grin. Her fiery nature matched her actions as she hurled herself into the air, landing solidly on the stone below, the ground hissing beneath her fiery skin.
One by one, they began their descent, leaping from fragment to fragment, each fall feeling like a gamble with death. The only sound was their breathing and the faint murmuring of Shadowheart, whose quiet prayers to Shar accompanied their journey downwards.
As they descended, armor-clad figures materialized from the void in puffs of smoke. Animated by dark magic, the armors spoke to them, their voices hollow and filled with unearthly echoes. “Listen... follow... come under Shar’s embrace.” The words slithered through the air, insidious and beckoning, but there were other voices, too, darker still. "Kill her... end her..." The whispers turned to pleas, begging them to perform a sinister act.
When they reached the lowest platform, it became clear whom the voices were referring to.
At the center of the floating island knelt a woman, her form both graceful and tragic. Her build was similar to Karlach’s, tall and imposing, but instead of flame, her body radiated a cold, silvery light. She wore nothing but rags, barely covering her porcelain skin, which gleamed with an otherworldly glow, fissured with golden cracks like shattered glass. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, and her piercing, silvery-blue eyes locked onto them with an intensity that made Wyll’s breath catch in his throat. She stared at them, not as strangers, but as though peering into their very souls.
This was the Nightsong.
As they drew closer, the woman strained against the ethereal hands wrapped around her, spectral chains binding her to the ritual circle she stood in. She fought against the invisible restraints, every movement deliberate and full of barely contained fury.
Her voice, like a bell tolling in the quiet void, rang out, her words laced with cold defiance. “I invite you... heap more sins upon your head. My retribution will be all the sweeter for it.” Her gaze fell upon Shadowheart, searing into her. “You, who have come to seek the praise of your wicked goddess... You, who have come to drive a dagger through my heart.”
She stepped forward, straining against the binding hands that tightened around her limbs, preventing her from closing the distance. The force of her anger was palpable, yet Shadowheart remained unmoved, stepping forward with quiet resolve.
"Not a dagger—a spear. Lady Shar's spear." Shadowheart’s voice was low, venomous. “Your fate is mine to seal.”
The Nightsong smiled, though it was filled with pity. “The fate you seal is your own. To become a Dark Justiciar is to turn your heart from everything but loss. You will know no love, no joy—only servitude.” Her voice softened. "Until, of course, your mistress discards you, as she does all her tools. And there is much she does not tell you—a terrible blood price that may extend far beyond my death.”
Gale, standing to the side, couldn't contain himself any longer. "Is this truly what you want?" His voice was filled with concern, a mix of emotions swirling behind his eyes—fear, sorrow, and hope. "Is this the life you’ve been fighting for?"
Shadowheart paused, her voice trembling as she spoke. “I... I think so. My whole life has been leading to this. There's no turning back now.” But even as she said the words, her voice wavered, and doubt flickered in her eyes.
The Nightsong’s gaze never left her. “Do you know what I am, little assassin? For I know you. I see a lost child, frightened by wolves in the dark.”
The words struck like a hammer, and Shadowheart’s eyes widened, the venom in her voice evaporating into shock. “What did you say?”
“Much has been promised to you, hasn't it?” The Nightsong’s voice was soft but unyielding. "But what has been taken from you? What do you know of your own heart—of your own life? I sense more in you than you even know yourself.”
Shadowheart stiffened. “Whatever you think you know of me won’t matter once I become what I’m meant to be.” Her hands trembled as a dark spear, engraved with the symbol of Shar’s crescent moon, appeared in her grasp. She stared at it for a long moment, the weapon heavy with the weight of her decision.
Her eyes closed for a heartbeat, and in that moment, memories flashed through her mind—memories of the battles, the friendships she’d forged, the moments of trust given to her freely, despite her secrets. She remembered the times they had accepted her, knowing nothing of her past, and how they had stood by her, even when she hadn’t stood by herself. She remembered Zeus—how he had shattered her devotion to Shar when he appeared as her father, awakening something deep within her. And she remembered rebuilding that devotion, clinging to it because she believed she had nothing else.
But now she realized she was wrong. She was not the broken thing she had been told she was. She had a past, and a future, too. She was strong. She was whole.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Shadowheart opened her eyes, her resolve firm. She took one more glance at her friends and without another word, she tossed the spear into the void, watching it disappear into the endless dark below.
“What will happen to me?” she whispered, her gaze following the path of the spear, fear and uncertainty creeping into her voice.
The Nightsong smiled gently, her expression softening. “Not what will happen, but what will you do. Your past is not yet lost. Your future is not yet fixed.” She knelt before Shadowheart, her head bowed in a gesture of peace and humility. “Lay a hand on me in friendship, not-quite-Sharran, and I will fight the battle that has waited a century for me. Then—oh, then—we will have much to discuss.”
The void fell silent. Shadowheart stood before her, trembling but unbroken, on the edge of a new path.