As Karlach approached, her brow furrowed in concern, her powerful frame still tense from battle, she asked bluntly, “Did you kill Ketheric?”
Aylin glanced at Alex before turning to Karlach. “We were about to, but…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes narrowing as the memory of their near victory returned. “The Elder Brain intervened. It saved him, dragged him down into this wretched place.” Her words carried a sharp edge of frustration, but there was also determination in her tone.
Isobel, standing nearby, watched Aylin with a mixture of relief and worry. Silently, she moved closer, inspecting Aylin as though to ensure that the winged warrior had not been gravely wounded in the chaos. Aylin noticed the concern and, in a display of tenderness, leaned down to plant a soft kiss on Isobel’s forehead. The simple gesture caused the Selunite cleric’s cheeks to flush, a brief moment of peace amidst the madness.
Meanwhile, Alex’s gaze shifted to the far side of the chamber. His eyes locked on a familiar group approaching: Glut, Lump, Shadow, and Bullet. The sight of his monstrous companions brought a flicker of calm, though he immediately noticed the signs of battle on them. Light scratch marks marred Glut’s tough armor, and Bullet’s metallic surface bore fresh gouges. Lump, true to his nature, was nonchalantly munching on the remains of a slain uchuulon, utterly unfazed by the gruesome surroundings.
'Took you long enough,' Glut’s voice echoed in Alex’s mind, the mental connection tinged with the familiar dry humor. The others remained silent, but Alex could feel Bullet’s happiness radiating through their bond, like an excited pet who had finally found its way back to its owner.
Before anyone could speak, Alex took a deep breath and turned to face his companions. “I know where Ketheric is hiding,” he began, his voice steady but carrying the weight of what he was about to say. “We’ll head there soon... but before we do, I have some news.”
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes scanning the group, lingering on Alfira. She was standing near the back, her lute resting gently in her hands, the faint magical hum of her music still lingering in the air. Alex could see the light in her eyes flicker as she sensed the gravity of his next words.
“Tav is here. Somewhere in this place,” he said, his voice quieter now but filled with significance.
A heavy silence descended upon the group. The Harpers exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of shock and uncertainty. For a moment, it seemed as if the weight of that name had struck them all like a blow. Tav—the one who had been there from the beginning, whose presence had been lost in the chaos of their journey, was still alive. Somewhere, trapped in the horrors of this place.
“This person, Tav,” came the deep, feminine voice of the owlbear as she stepped forward, her feathers ruffling in curiosity. “Is this your friend?”
Gale, who had been silent, his mind lingering on past mistakes, spoke up. “Was. At some point,” he murmured, recalling the night when everything had changed, the night he fled after killing Alfira. His guilt hung heavy in the air, though he masked it with his usual stoicism.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Karlach’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, her fiery determination igniting once again. She slammed her fist into her palm. “That lizard bastard has some questions to answer.”
Alex nodded but raised a hand. “Give me a moment,” he said softly.
Without another word, he walked over to the fallen brainstealer dragon, its twisted, grotesque form now lifeless on the chamber floor. Kneeling beside it, Alex placed his hand on the creature's cold, scaly hide. Tendrils of flesh sprouted from his arm, slithering over the dragon's carcass and burrowing into its remains. The dark, viscous tendrils took hold, pulling a chunk of flesh into Alex's body, the genetic material of the beast now his to control.
He stood . “Let’s go,” he said, his voice firm, unshakable.
Karlach cast one final, lingering glance back, her nostrils flaring as a low growl escaped her lips.
Wyll, always observant, noticed immediately. “Something wrong?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.
“Just smelled something... off,” she muttered, her teeth clenched. There was an intensity in her eyes, but she shook it off, resuming her pace with the rest of the group.
Without further hesitation, Alex led them onward, his mind focused on the task ahead—finding Tav and confronting the horrors Ketheric had unleashed. Their march through the tunnels was unrelenting, each footstep squelching on the grotesque organic ground beneath them. They encountered more uchuulons, intellect devourers, and even some mozbrikens lurking in the shadows. But with Alex’s heightened senses and Shadow’s hunting instincts, the ambushers stood no chance. They were dispatched swiftly, their twisted forms cut down before they could react.
As they continued deeper into the colony, Gale’s gaze was caught by something—a rune-inscribed slate sitting atop a pulsating organic crate. He paused, curiosity piqued, and tried to decipher the markings. But as his eyes scanned the runes, a sharp headache pulsed through his temples. A sigh escaped his lips as he pocketed the slate, frustrated by its inscrutable nature. Moments later, he spotted another one nearby and slipped it into his satchel as well. 'Maybe later I’ll find a way to decipher these,' he thought, already plotting ways to unlock their secrets.
Soon, they arrived before a gruesome flesh door, its surface veined with sickly colors. Symbols of Myrkul were painted ominously on the exposed stone to the left and right. The door peeled open with a grotesque squelch, revealing a chamber similar to the one they had seen earlier. But this one had something more sinister—organic pods lined the walls, pulsing faintly with life.
“A tadpole nursery,” Lae'zel hissed, her hand tightening around her blade. Her eyes gleamed with the zeal of a Githyanki warrior. “Like the one on the nautiloid. We must not leave it intact.”
Wyll, ever the voice of caution, interjected. “We should check who’s inside first.”
The group fanned out, inspecting the pods. As they drew closer, one of the Harpers gasped. “These are Flaming Fists,” he murmured, his voice filled with horror.
Wyll’s heart raced as he approached one of the pods. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the familiar face inside. “Counsellor Florrick!” he shouted, his eyes darting around the chamber, desperate to find a way to release her.
Alex moved swiftly to an organic control panel near the pods, a fleshy device that pulsed with grotesque life. Using the memories he had absorbed from the mind witness, Alex’s fingers danced across the controls. The pods hissed and released their seals, the transparent lids sliding open. The prisoners inside spilled onto the fleshy floor, their bodies coated in a slick layer of slime. Weak and disoriented, they tried to rise.
Wyll rushed to Florrick’s side, helping her to her feet. Her face was pale, her strength barely enough to hold herself up.
“Wyll…” she whispered, her voice fragile, trembling.
“What happened?” His heart ached seeing her like this.
“We were... ambushed,” Florrick choked out, her voice strained as though every word cost her immense effort. “A group of cultists... they dragged us here... to turn us into mind flayers.” Each sentence sounded like a monumental struggle, as if she were fighting to hold onto her humanity.
Suddenly, a horrifying scream erupted from every Flaming Fist that had been released from their pods. They clutched their heads, convulsing in agony. Their bodies began to spasm uncontrollably, blood pouring from their eyes, ears, noses, and mouths.
“They’re transforming!” Lae'zel shouted, her voice sharp with urgency. Without hesitation, she cleaved her sword through one of the Flaming Fists before the transformation could be completed.
The others sprang into action, knowing that once the process began, there was no saving them. One by one, they cut down the victims, their blades flashing in the dim light. But each kill felt like a tragedy, a grim necessity.
Karlach’s voice, thick with emotion, rang out. “Wyll! Do it before—”
But her words were cut short by a sickening explosion of blood and gore. Florrick’s body detonated in a grotesque display, her flesh torn apart, and in her place stood a newly born mind flayer. Its bulbous head glistened with slime, its long tentacles writhing hungrily in the air.
“No!” Wyll’s cry tore through the chamber, filled with raw, uncontainable anguish. He stared at the abomination that had once been Florrick, the horror of what had happened settling into his bones. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, couldn’t look away as a dark spike shot up from the ground, impaling the mind flayer and ending its life.
As Wyll knelt on the ground, fists clenched and bloodied from pounding the floor, his mind was flooded with memories of Florrick—memories that now felt like cruel ghosts haunting him.
He remembered the first time he’d met her, back when he was just a boy. Florrick had been a young, sharp-eyed woman then, already earning her place in the government. She had smiled at him, a rare, warm smile that had made him feel like he mattered, even as a child in the shadow of Ulder Ravengard.
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"One day, you’ll be a leader," she had told him, her voice steady and kind. "Baldur’s Gate will need men like you—men with fire in their hearts."
He had never forgotten those words.
Years later, when Wyll had grown into the Blade of Frontiers, Florrick had been there, too. Her professionalism was unwavering, but beneath that steel-like exterior, Wyll had seen her compassion. They had worked side by side , her calm decisiveness guiding the Flaming Fist . She never stayed behind a desk; she was always on the streets, making sure justice was served, people were safe.
He remembered how she once told him, after a long night of fighting in the Lower City, "You care, Wyll. That’s your strength."
He had laughed, shaking his head, but her words had stayed with him. She had believed in him, even when he doubted himself.
Now, that same woman, the one who had guided him through the political maze, who had fought beside him for Baldur’s Gate—she was gone.
Her death had been horrific, the explosion of blood and flesh, her transformation into a mind flayer, and then, before he could even grasp it, the dark spike that had ended her twisted life.
The memories—the warm smiles, the shared battles, the quiet encouragement—shattered like glass in his mind. He felt sick, gutted, as if the part of him that had believed in something greater had been ripped away. All that was left was a hollow, gnawing rage and grief.
"Fuck!" Wyll screamed again, his voice breaking. The woman who had once told him Baldur’s Gate needed men like him was now dead because he hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been strong enough to save her.
And there was no bringing her back.
Wyll’s chest heaved with anger, his eyes blazing as he glared at Alex. Every muscle in his body tightened, his hand trembling as it gripped the hilt of his rapier. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, edged with fury.
“You knew that would happen!” Wyll shouted, stepping closer to Alex, each word a hammer of accusation. "Why did you release them?! Why?!"
Alex met Wyll’s gaze, unflinching, but not without understanding. His voice, however, remained steady, devoid of the heat that burned within Wyll. “They were already dead,” he said, his eyes darkening with the harsh truth. “Their brains had been damaged beyond repair. Their minds scrambled, already lost to the brink of ceremorphosis.”
Wyll's breathing grew ragged as his eyes darted from Alex to the remains of the Flaming Fist soldiers, his heart squeezing in his chest. His clenched fists shook violently at his sides, teeth grinding so hard he could feel them crack under the pressure.
“Then why did you release them?!” he demanded through gritted teeth, his voice a tortured growl, desperate for some reason, some meaning behind the brutality he had just witnessed.
Wyll felt a strange pressure in his mind, and suddenly he was connected to Alex. An image flashed in his head—a vision of a vast, invisible dome, its purple hue glowing faintly, encompassing them all. The dome kept them safe, protected them from the relentless influence of the elder brain. And then, Alex's thoughts whispered into his consciousness, not cruelly, but with a somber finality. ‘They deserved to die as themselves, not as puppets of the elder brain.’
The weight of those words struck Wyll like a physical blow. He looked back at Florrick’s lifeless body, the last shreds of hope slipping away from him. The woman who had been like family, a guide and mentor, reduced to nothing but a shell—and worse, a monster. His heart sank, the rage within him twisting into a deeper sorrow. His grip loosened, and his hand fell from his rapier as he took one last, long glance at her.
Without another word, Wyll turned away. The fire that had raged inside him flickered, dimming into a cold, hollow ache. He walked slowly back to the others, his legs feeling heavy, each step burdened by grief.
Karlach moved toward him, her strong arms wrapping around him in a gentle, but firm embrace. Her warmth, usually comforting, only reminded him of the emptiness in his chest. “I’m sorry for your loss, Wyll,” she whispered, her voice soft and sincere, though the words barely registered through the storm in his mind.
Gale approached, placing a hand on Wyll’s shoulder, the weight of the gesture grounding him momentarily. “We’re with you,” Gale said, his voice steady but tinged with empathy. Shadowheart stood beside them, her expression inscrutable, but the touch of her hand was a quiet promise of support.
The group gathered the bodies of the fallen , moving them gently, reverently, as if to preserve the last moments of dignity they could offer. Isobel knelt by their side, whispering a silent prayer, her voice a soft murmur against the stillness of the chamber.
Alex stepped forward, his palm glowing with flame. The fire floated above the bodies, flickering softly before spreading like a wave, engulfing the remains. Slowly, the flames consumed everything, leaving nothing but ashes in their wake. As the final embers flickered out, Wyll remained rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the spot where Florrick’s body had been. He didn’t move, not even when there was nothing left to see.
‘I will avenge you,’ he thought fiercely, the words searing into his soul like a brand. ‘I promise.’
But even as the vow took shape in his mind, Wyll felt the weight of everything pressing down on him—Florrick’s death, Mizora’s pact, the looming battle ahead. His heart ached with the burden of it all, but there was no time to mourn. Not properly.
Alex turned, leading them deeper into the grotesque tunnels.
Wyll's eyes burned with fury as he stared at the pool of liquid in the center of the room. Every part of him ached—his heart still raw from the loss of Florrick, his muscles tight with anger at the devil trapped before him, Mizora, the one who had stolen his life, twisted his fate.
Alex, dipped his fingers into the pool, the liquid glistening faintly on his fingertips. 'Cerebrospinal fluid,' Alex thought, as he studied the liquid.
"Mizora," Wyll snarled, his voice strained and tight as his gaze landed on the pod imprisoning the infernal devil. His eyes were filled with a deep, seething hatred. Every second that passed, the weight of the pact, of the sacrifices he'd made, pressed harder against his soul.
The devil’s smirk was unmistakable, even through the translucent walls of the pod. Her voice cut through the air with casual cruelty.
"My dumb little stinker," Mizora mocked, her tone dripping with condescension, her smile sharp and wicked. "Took you long enough." She paused, her eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "Now, by Graz’zt’s cock, get me out of this thing."
Wyll’s chest tightened at her words, the storm inside him threatening to spill over. He walked slowly toward the panel by her pod, his every step measured, his breath heavy as he fought to control the fire in his blood. His fingers hovered over the controls for a brief moment, trembling with the weight of everything—Florrick, his father, the price of his own soul. He closed his eyes and exhaled, one last deep breath to steady himself.
‘Do it,’ he told himself, and with a sharp crack, he smashed the panel.
The pod hissed as it opened, and Mizora flowed out with an unnatural grace. She stretched lazily, as if waking from a pleasant nap, her eyes locking onto Wyll almost immediately. Despite her casual demeanor, there was something predatory in her gaze.
The Harpers behind him were already on edge, their weapons drawn, ready for anything—but Mizora barely acknowledged them. Her eyes flicked briefly to Alex, who stood silent and cold, observing everything. She smirked, but the smirk faltered for the briefest moment as her gaze lingered on him.
"You did all right, Wyll," she said with a sly grin, her voice dripping with mock praise. “I’d give your belly a good rub, but—gods, I never could stand the smell.”
Wyll barely managed to hold his composure, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He forced himself to stay calm, to keep his emotions under control, but inside, he was a cauldron of rage, grief, and desperation.
“You’re free,” Wyll spat, his voice barely above a growl. “I held up my end. Now hold up yours. Sever the pact.”
Mizora sighed theatrically, as though this entire ordeal had been a minor inconvenience to her. She cleared her throat, her tone suddenly formal, almost mocking.
"Clause Z, Section Thirteen," she recited. "‘If the soul-binder consents to separation, she will release the soul-bearer from all obligation—within six months.’"
“Six months?!” Wyll’s anger erupted, his voice rising, fury blazing in his eyes. “Gods damn you!”
Mizora only chuckled, her delight at his frustration evident in every curve of her smirk. "Ignorant thing," she said, almost playfully. "It's always the terms and conditions that get you." Her laugh was light, mocking, a sound that grated against Wyll's very soul.
Wyll could feel his blood boiling, the raw, searing anger threatening to consume him. Six more months. Six long, excruciating months before he could be free of this nightmare, free of her. And even then, would she keep her word? Could she be trusted?
Mizora’s eyes flicked toward Alex as he stepped forward, his presence calm, but his cold gaze bore into her. For a moment, the smirk on Mizora’s face faltered again, replaced by something far more wary.
"You’ve changed your style," Mizora remarked casually, but there was a faint edge to her voice. “I liked more the one before.”
“Too much white,” Astarion chimed in from the side, his voice light but cutting. Mizora shot him a glance, but it was Alex’s presence that unsettled her most.
"Wyll deserves a reward for all his trouble," Alex said, his voice low, cold, and unwavering.
Mizora's smirk returned, but this time, it was forced, a shadow of the confidence she usually carried. There was fear behind her eyes, even if it was faint. “Well,” she said, her voice still cheerful but now tinged with tension, “after jumping through all the hoops, a little treat wouldn’t hurt.”
She snapped her fingers.
A circle of fire erupted at Wyll’s feet, lifting him several centimeters off the ground. The flames danced around him, wrapping his body in their searing embrace, yet he felt no pain. Instead, the fire coursed through him, filling him with a strange, powerful energy. The flames whispered promises—power, vengeance, strength. He descended slowly back to the ground, his feet barely touching the cold stone floor.
When the flames died, Wyll glanced down, his breath catching in his throat as a sinister rapier materialized in his hand. The blade gleamed darkly, intertwined with pulsating, crimson energy that twisted and coiled around it like a living thing. The hilt, shaped like demonic claws, gripped the base of the blade with a fierce, arcane menace. The weapon radiated malevolence, an unholy power thrumming through it, matching the anger that still simmered in Wyll’s heart.
Mizora smiled, though there was a dangerous glint in her eyes. "All that power," she mused, her voice low and teasing, "and to think you want to throw it away."
Her grin widened, dark amusement playing on her lips. “Now you’ve got business to take care of, don’t you? Don’t fret, my little stinkbug. I’ll find you soon enough. You’re going to need me. Count on it.”
She lingered for just a moment longer, her eyes gleaming as she added, "Oh, and be sure to tell your chums how we met. It's a real cracker of a tale. Ta-ta!"
With that, Mizora vanished in a cloud of smoke and flame, leaving nothing but the faint smell of brimstone behind.
All eyes turned to Wyll. The weight of their stares was heavy, the questions they didn’t ask hanging in the air like thick fog. He could feel their concern, their curiosity, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.
“After we kill Ketheric Thorm,” Wyll said, his voice firm but weary, “I will tell you everything you want to know.”
For now, that was all he could offer. His mind was too burdened, too shattered. He glanced once more at the rapier in his hand, its dark energy pulsing, a reminder of the path he had chosen—the path he was bound to until it was done.