Tav’s eyes snapped open with a sharp inhale, as if he had been pulled from the depths of drowning. His chest heaved, breath ragged, his vision slowly coming into focus. The chamber was silent, yet tense—every eye in the room was on him. The Harpers and tieflings had their weapons drawn, trained on him, ready for even the slightest sign of danger.

Glut and Lump, stood silently. At the doors, Shadow and Bullet, stood guard, muscles tensed as though they were prepared to pounce at a moment’s notice.

On the far side of the room, stood huddled together—Lae'zel, Astarion, Wyll, Gale, Karlach, and Shadowheart—all watching him, their expressions a mix of caution, anger, and concern. Each one bore the weight of what had just transpired. Alfira, who had fainted earlier, was now awake, her gaze locked on Tav. She stood between Lakkrisa and Ellyka, who held her trembling hands.

But despite the overwhelming presence of everyone around him, Tav’s focus was singular, drawn to the figure standing directly before him. The man in the dark hooded cloak, with a black leather vest and a loose-fitting white shirt beneath. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing strong, gloved forearms . His face was partly hidden, but the piercing blue eyes beneath the hood were unmistakable.

"A... A... Alex," Tav stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

Alex stepped forward, his hand extended towards Tav, palm open. The silence in the room was deafening, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. Everyone held their breath, weapons still raised, watching for any sign of Tav slipping back into the madness they had just witnessed.

Tav’s gaze fell on Alex’s hand for a long moment, as if the simple gesture of trust was too much for him to process. His own hand, still smeared with blood—his blood, Alfira's blood—shook as he looked down at it. He glanced around the room, seeing the wary eyes of the Harpers and his companions alike. The weight of what he had done began to press down on him, crushing him from the inside.

"Just grab my hand," Alex said, his voice gentle, yet firm. "I’ve got you."

Tav hesitated. His mind raced, torn by guilt and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, he could prove that he was a good man. His bloodied hand trembled, hovering just above Alex’s. Then, slowly, as if every ounce of his strength was focused on this single act, Tav placed his hand in Alex’s. The warmth of Alex’s grip grounded him, pulling him back from the abyss.

Alex helped Tav to his feet. The room remained deathly silent, every weapon still poised, every gaze still fixed on them.

"How are you feeling?" Alex asked, his voice calm, though beneath it was the unspoken weight of everything that had just transpired.

Tav stood there, unsteady, his breath shallow. He could feel it—the Urge, the dark, chaotic force that had driven him to the brink. But this time, it was different. It was distant, locked away, trapped by the power Alex had given him. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Tav’s mind was clear.

"Sane," Tav whispered, almost in disbelief. It was a simple word, but to him, it was everything.

"Good," Alex replied, his voice soft with relief. But the moment was shattered by Karlach’s growl from the side.

"You’ve got some questions to answer," she snapped, her fiery gaze locked on Tav. The imposing figure of Karlach, now covered in shimmering red scales, looked even more formidable than Tav remembered. Her powerful presence filled the room, and her anger was palpable.

"Karlach... is that you?" Tav asked, his eyes wide as he took her in. She was different—stronger, more commanding—but unmistakably her.

"Yes, it’s me," Karlach shot back, crossing her arms, her tail flicking with agitation. "And don’t think for a second you’re getting out of this."

Tav’s gaze drifted from her to the others—Lae’zel, standing tall and proud but with a wary hand on her sword; Astarion, his expression unreadable but his eyes cold; Wyll, fists clenched as though holding himself back; Gale, his brow furrowed with concern; and Shadowheart, who watched him with an intensity that was both fierce and filled with an understanding that only she could offer.

But it was Alfira who drew Tav’s gaze next. The tiefling bard stood with her alabaster skin glowing faintly in the dim light, her eyes locked on him. Her face was firm, but Tav could see it—the slight tremor in her hands, the way Lakkrisa and Ellyka held her, as if to give her strength. His heart twisted painfully in his chest.

'Alfira is here,' Tav thought, his mind racing. How? How could she be alive after everything? After what he had done to her? The sight of her standing there, watching him, was too much. His vision blurred, and the weight of his actions crashed down on him like a tidal wave.

Guilt. Shame. Regret. They surged through him, overwhelming his senses. His legs gave way, and before he could say another word, Tav collapsed.

Alex was there in an instant, catching him before he hit the ground. The room erupted into movement—Jaheira stepping forward, her sharp gaze assessing Tav's state. "Is he all right?" she asked, her voice filled with concern, though her eyes remained guarded. This was the same Tav who had tried killed them all moments ago.

"He’ll need rest," Alex said, his tone firm, but there was a gentleness in the way he cradled Tav’s unconscious form. "But he’ll be fine."

'Lump, come here and take him,' Alex sent the mental command to the ogre. Without hesitation, Lump moved forward, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he scooped Tav into his arms.

The ogre hesitated for a moment, looking nervously at the unconscious half-dragon. 'What if he attacks me?' Lump asked, his mental voice trembling with anxiety.

Alex glanced at him, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. 'He won’t. Probably.'

Lump swallowed hard, his nerves evident, but he held Tav carefully, casting a wary glance toward the others . He then turn around and left , Bullet right behind him .

_________

As Alex’s flesh rippled and morphed into gleaming white armor, he took on the imposing figure of a knight—radiant, steadfast, and unyielding. The smooth white plates of his armor shimmered with an ethereal light, a beacon of hope amidst the dark and grotesque surroundings . His transformation complete, he turned toward the altar dedicated to Myrkul, the God of Death, his gaze fixed on the massive skull embedded in the fleshy, pulsing wall. The eerie light that emanated from the tendrils of flesh gave the room a nightmarish glow.

A tendril snaked from Alex’s armored arm, twisting with serpentine grace, and latched onto the skull. It coiled around the bone like a hungry beast, consuming a part of it—its DNA—adding it into Alex's collection.

With that task done, Alex turned away from the altar

Every step he took was a declaration of resolve as he led the group forward, guiding them to the final confrontation.

The fleshy door at the chamber’s exit parted like the mouth of some monstrous beast, revealing an open chamber beyond. Teeth lined the doorway, sharp and gleaming in the dim light.

Gale broke the uneasy silence with a frown. "Why did they make the door with teeth? It serves no purpose," he muttered, shaking his head as he crossed the threshold with the others. His attempt at humor felt hollow, but the weight of what lay ahead was undeniable.

As they moved inside, the room opened up into a vast chamber. At the far end, a platform rose, adorned with strange, neural apparatus—twisting cords and glowing tendrils that seemed to pulse in time with the grotesque heartbeat of the flesh-covered walls.

Alex’s eyes narrowed as he gazed down into the shadowed chamber below, hundreds of meters below. There, bathed in the sickly green and black glow of necrotic energy, Ketheric Thorm knelt .From this vantage point, Alex couldn’t see exactly what Ketheric was doing; the man's broad back, cloaked in dark, decayed armor, obscured any view of his hands. But he could feel the oppressive weight of strong necrotic magic from where he stood .

___________________________

The group gathered at the base of the platform, standing together, but each one carried a heavy burden. Alex looked at them—Lae'zel and Aylin, fierce and ready for battle, their grip tightening on their blades. Karlach, her fiery red scales shimmering as her anger simmered just beneath the surface. Gale who's eyes were close in deep concentration . Astarion, with his perpetual smirk, though his eyes glinted with nervous energy. Wyll, his expression dark with grief for the recent lost. Shadowheart, stoic yet vulnerable, standing with quiet resolve.

Alex then looked at the Harpers and the tieflings . He could see it in their faces—the fear of what they were about to face, the anger for the losses they had suffered, and the courage that kept them moving forward despite it all.

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the faint hum of the chamber itself. Then Alex stepped forward, his armor gleaming like the first light of dawn breaking through the darkness. He turned to face them, standing on the threshold of their greatest challenge, his voice calm but filled with a gravity that none could ignore.

"We’ve all lost something in this fight," Alex began, his voice echoing softly against the stone walls. "We've faced horrors that would break lesser souls, seen our own darkness mirrored in the eyes of our enemies. Each of us carries scars—some visible, others hidden deep within. But it’s those scars that make us strong."

He paused, looking at each of them in turn, his gaze steady. "We didn’t come this far just to lose now. Ketheric waits for us, and he’s more than a man—he’s an abomination, a puppet for forces beyond our understanding. But that doesn’t make him invincible. It makes him desperate."

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The words hung in the air, heavy with truth. Alex's voice lowered, becoming almost intimate. "Look at each other. We are not alone in this. You stand here, now, because you've fought together. Bled together. Survived together. That bond, that strength, is what will carry us through. Ketheric may have the power of gods at his back, but we have something greater—we have our will. Our hearts."

Karlach’s hands clenching into fists as flames licked along her forearms. Lae'zel’s nostrils flared, her grip tightening on her sword. The others stood taller, their determination visible.

Alex took a deep breath, then continued. "I know you’re scared. But fear doesn’t control us—we control it. "

He took another step forward, his blue eyes shining beneath the visor of his helm. "This is our moment. Ketheric thinks he can break us—he’s wrong. He thinks we’re weak, that we’ll falter—but he doesn’t know us. He doesn’t know the fire that burns in each of our hearts. We will defeat him. Not for glory, not for vengeance—but because we must. Because the world needs us to. "

Alex’s hand clenched into a fist, the white armor glowing brighter as if responding to his resolve. "This is it. Our final stand. No more running, no more hiding. Whatever happens next, we face it together. We finish this. For our friends. For the future. For ourselves."

There was a silence in the chamber after Alex finished speaking, but it was no longer a silence filled with fear. It was the silence of resolve, of hearts and minds focused on the task ahead. A final moment of calm before the storm.

Lae'zel gave a fierce nod, her warrior’s heart ready for battle. Karlach smirked, her rage tempered by purpose. Gale let out a slow breath, his magic already swirling in the air around him. Astarion’s smirk became a full smile, the thrill of the fight sparking in his eyes. Wyll straightened, the Blade of Frontiers once again standing tall and unshakable. Shadowheart’s eyes glistened with determination, her fingers brushing the hilt of her weapon.

They were ready. Ready to face whatever Ketheric Thorm would throw at them. Ready to fight, to bleed, to win. Together.

With a final nod, Alex turned back toward the platform, leading the way forward.

"Let’s end this."

_____________

As they stepped off the platform, the oppressive atmosphere of the chamber struck them immediately. The smell of decay and rot was overwhelming—Karlach, despite her usual iron constitution, winced and pinched her nose as the putrid scent assaulted her heightened senses.

"I swear, the platform buckled where you stood," Astarion said, his voice dry as ever, though even his usual sarcastic tone seemed muted by the weight of the necrotic energy swirling around them.

Karlach let out a soft chuckle at the jab, but it quickly died on her lips as the stench hit her harder. "This smell… it’s like my nose is being peeled off," she muttered, grimacing. "And my nose is on par with a dragon, mind you."

On the opposite side, Shadow, with an eerie calm, inhaled the thick, foul miasma as if it were a refreshing breeze. The dark energy of the place seemed to sink into him, feeding his connection to the shadows and death itself. His eyes glowed faintly with dark power, relishing the necrotic presence that pervaded the room.

Gale, gazed intently at the glowing green gases and pulsating walls. His expression was one of both disgust and fascination. "This necrotic energy… It’s pure death, condensed into the air itself. I’ve never seen anything like this."

Aylin’s silver blade ignited with holy fire, cutting through the miasma with a radiant glow. She stood beside Isobel, the two of them casting bright light in stark contrast to the darkness around them. Aylin turned to Alex, her eyes burning with divine fury. "Alex, are you ready?" she asked, her voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of anticipation.

Alex raised his hand, and immediately, a surge of divine energy flooded the place where they stood. A warm, silvery-gold light enveloped the group, lifting the weight of dread from their shoulders. They could feel its invigorating power, as if the gods themselves were watching over them, their blessing woven into the light. Their weapons began to glow with radiant energy, strengthening their resolve.

____________

They approached the massive door of flesh, towering over them like the entrance to a living tomb. The surface was covered in veins and pulsating tissue, with rows of teeth lining the edges like the maw of some monstrous creature. Without hesitation, Alex raised his sword, the divine light radiating from it in a brilliant arc. With a single, swift stroke, he cut through the grotesque door, splitting it open as if it were nothing but paper.

Beyond the door lay Ketheric Thorm, standing on a round platform of bone shaped like a ring. The flickering green light cast long, twisted shadows behind him, giving his figure an even more sinister air. His back was turned as they entered, but he straightened and slowly turned to face them, his eyes locking onto Alex with chilling certainty.

"There you are," Ketheric said, his voice deep and resonant, filled with the hollow echoes of the dead. "As predicted." His gaze, sharp and unsettling, settled on Alex, as if he had been expecting this exact moment. "What is it, I wonder, that draws one toward death like a moth to the light?"

Aylin scoffed at his words, her grip tightening on her silver blade. She could barely contain her fury. If not for Alex, she would have charged forward and plunged her burning sword into Ketheric’s heart without a second thought. The memories of her imprisonment and the endless torment she had suffered at his hands still haunted her, fueling her anger with every passing second.

Isobel stood by Aylin’s side, her face a mask of determination, but her clenched fists betrayed the deep, internal struggle she was enduring. Her eyes, locked on her father, burned with the conflicting emotions of love, loss, and sorrow. The man who stood before them was no longer the father she once knew, but some part of her, the child who still remembered the warmth of his embrace, couldn’t help but hope that maybe—just maybe—there was something left of him inside.

Ketheric’s gaze drifted to Isobel for a moment and then back to Alex. "You could have run away," he mused, his voice soft yet dripping with contempt. "But the lure of one’s destiny is irresistible, isn’t it? Perhaps you hope to learn your place in history before you are erased from it—a bright flash of clarity before the snuffing out."

Alex’s voice was steady and filled with conviction. "Melodia wanted more of you than this, Ketheric. Stop this now." His words hung heavy in the air, and for the first time, Ketheric’s expression shifted, a flicker of sadness passing over his face.

Isobel’s breath caught as Alex mentioned her mother’s name. Her heart ached, remembering the woman who had been their guiding light, the one who had kept their family whole.

A sad, bitter smile crept onto Ketheric’s lips. "Can’t you see?" he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of grief. "It is too late. If Melodia could see all I’ve done, she would know… she’d know her husband died long ago, with Isobel. Unlike Isobel, he could not be brought back."

Isobel’s heart shattered at his words. She stepped forward, her voice trembling but resolute. "Mother is waiting for you in the afterlife. Return to Selûne, and your souls could be reunited," she pleaded, her eyes desperate, searching for any trace of her father in the monster before them.

Ketheric’s gaze softened, his voice barely a whisper. "My daughter…" He looked at her with a fleeting expression of sorrow. "I wish it could be so. I do. But the Moonmaiden did not intervene when our lives were dismantled piece by piece. And when I tried to buy it back, it cost me everything—everything."

He sighed deeply, the weight of his sins pulling him down like an anchor. "We are copper pieces in their belts," he said, looking at Alex again. "Tokens to be traded for scraps. You have beaten me, but the gods beat me first."

Aylin’s patience snapped, her voice exploding with fury. "You dog!" she shouted, her wings flaring in righteous anger. "And that’s why you killed thousands upon thousands? That’s why you tortured me for a hundred years?!" Her voice echoed through the chamber, filled with the raw pain of her centuries-long imprisonment.

Her voice echoed through the chamber like a crack of thunder, raw and filled with the unhealed wounds of her century-long imprisonment. But Ketheric didn’t respond. He simply stood there, silent and unflinching, the weight of his actions already etched into his soul.

"My Lord Myrkul gave me the one thing I desired," Ketheric continued after a long, heavy pause. "The one thing no other god could grant me—my daughter’s life, returned." His voice, though still cold, carried a strange, warped sense of devotion. "For that, I would condemn all of Faerûn to death. For that, I became his champion, and I would see the Absolute rise. You stand between me and my destiny, but now, with the Prism here…" His voice lowered into a dark, sinister tone. "He will kill you. And He will raise you as His servants."

The tension in the room thickened as Ketheric’s final words lingered in the air. Isobel’s breath hitched, her face paling as the reality of her father’s twisted fate set in. She reached out, her voice trembling with one last plea. "Father, no…"

But Ketheric didn’t look at her. His eyes, filled with a strange mixture of relief and finality, turned toward the opening beneath him. He took a step back, his expression softening for the first time in what felt like centuries. "Goodbye, daughter," he whispered, and before anyone could react, Ketheric let himself fall backward into the brine pool below.

The sound of his body plunging into the brine pool was followed by an earth-shattering tremor that shook the entire chamber. The ground quaked beneath their feet, and the bone platform cracked, sending sharp echoes reverberating through the cavern. Dust and debris rained from above .

Isobel’s knees buckled as she watched her father disappear into the darkness. Her heart ached, torn between the love for the man he once was and the horror of what he had become. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "Father…" she whispered, her voice breaking.

The air grew thick with dread, the necrotic energy swirling faster, more violently.

"You dare end one who belongs to me?" A deep, bone-chilling voice reverberated from the abyss that Ketheric had torn open. The air itself seemed to tremble in response, thick with dread and malice.

From the darkness, spirits began to swirl violently, wailing as they spiraled upward, their hollow eyes fixed on the living. They wept and screeched, lamenting the loss of life, their incorporeal forms tethered to the void. The temperature plummeted, breath condensing into mist as the dead gathered.

"I am the smile of the worm-cleansed skull," the voice rumbled like the earth splitting apart. "I am the regret of those who remain, and the restlessness of those who are gone. I am the haunt of mausoleums, the god of graves and age, of dust and dusk."

A massive, skeletal hand emerged from the blackness, fingers long and gnarled, gripping the edge of the platform with enough force that the bone groaned under its grasp. A second bone arm followed, clawing into the bone. The sprits whispered his name.

"Myrkul, Lord of Bone."

With one terrible, fluid motion, the rest of the god's form pulled free from the void. His form towered above them, an enormous, skeleton. It had no legs, but hovered above the briny pool from which it had emerged, dripping dark ichor like the very essence of decay. His skull, veiled by long, frayed black cloth, was framed by a golden triangular headdress, its once-gleaming surface tarnished with age and rot. On his massive shoulders sat two smaller skeletons, their empty eye sockets glowing with ghostly light, each swinging burning censers from their brittle fingers, filling the air with the cloying stench of decay and incense. Black banners hung like wings from his back, flapping in the invisible breeze of death that followed him.

"And you have slain my chosen. But it is no matter."

A thick, palpable darkness began to spread across the platform, creeping like fog, snuffing out the light. Myrkul loomed over them, a towering shadow of skeletal death, his presence suffocating, immense. For a moment, it felt as if the weight of the world itself pressed down on them, despair thickening the very air.

"For I am Death. And I am not the end—I am a beginning."

Myrkul raised one massive, clawed hand. From the pool of brine, a twisted, wicked-looking scythe shot upward, forged from bones, its jagged edges lined with broken teeth. The weapon flared to life, igniting with green, necrotic flames that danced in the suffocating gloom.

“Shit…” Shadowheart whispered, her voice trembling, the word barely escaping her lips as her eyes widened in horror.

The scythe hovered in the air for a moment, humming with power, before flying straight to Myrkul's hand. He grasped it, flames licking up the length of the weapon.

Myrkul's hollow gaze fixed on them, a promise of inevitable doom.